I’m a tennis fan who used to be an avid football fan. I’ve criticized football plenty since I stopped following it. But there’s nothing I can criticize about Friday Night Lights. I mean, what a movie. In a West Texan town where football is everything, the Permian Panthers, a competitive high school football team, don’t just play for fun. Every time they step onto the clean-cut grass of a field they wear the label of their hometown. The whole school knows each and every player. It’s a ghost town whenever there’s a game – local businesses close as everyone heads to the bleachers. College recruiters and cameramen left and right. All eyes on the Permian Panthers. All the time. But it doesn’t take long to realize that the pressure gets to each and every one of the players. This is clear in just about every scene involving Mike Winchell, the 17-year-old quarterback. From his ill mother to a past state champion and alumnus asking for a photo with his baby daughter, Mike battles with expectations and with his own self-belief. Other players, such as Boobie Miles, relish in the spotlight, fame, and potential, but Mike is different. No matter how well his team is doing on the field, he holds onto a pessimistic belief that somehow he is bound to fail. Fail them, fail his coach, fail his mom, fail himself. Gaines, the coach, eventually notices what’s going on inside of Mike. There’s a scene where Gaines urges Mike to let go of his doubts, and throughout the conversation Mike fiddles with a toy car. What I love about this scene is that the way film portrays it, it’s as if Mike and that toy car are one in the same. A toy car is a symbol of both innocence and immaturity. All of Odessa depends on Mike and his team to win the state championship as if life would end otherwise. But in reality Mike and his team are just a bunch of toy cars. They’re young. They still have years to learn, grow, and succeed. A toy car is also a symbol of enjoyment. They just want to play football under lights on a Friday night. Sure, their futures and careers may depend on the team’s results. But not at the expense of the joy they’ve had since they first picked up a football. By the time the state championship comes, the team is no longer there for the hedonistic pleasure of winning a game. They’re there to put their hearts into one final game regardless of what happens. So when they lose the closest game they’d ever played, they don’t pout. They don’t throw their helmets at the ground. They don’t talk smack about the other team. They smile, embrace each other, and acknowledge that they got to play the game they love under bright lights on a Friday night. And that’s all that matters.