Inhale.
There’s a tension in the changing of the seasons. A cool edge to the breeze on an otherwise balmy summer day, or a noticeable gap in the pattern of afternoon thunder storms so standard to the rhythm of life in the south. It’s something I’ve always adored; never one to wish time away, certainly, but always looking with glee toward the change that is coming, every time it comes.
Exhale.
There is tension in the surface of the water. I’ve spent many a summer day on a beach somewhere east of where I am
currently, sitting in the sand and watching that tension build in each subsequent wave, straining until there is no other option but to crash. I’ve written lots, here and elsewhere, about the beauty of the ocean and the ache that replaces it when I’m forced to return to the real world. Few things are as paradoxically constant and endlessly new as the sea, a tension reflected in the surface of the water right before the wave breaks.
Inhale.
There is tension in the world. It’s difficult to keep from drifting away, swept up in the latest tragedy and pulled out into the deep dark. Sometimes, it feels like there is no space for enjoying the small things, that by finding joy in our day-to-day lives we are betraying something that we can’t even really put into words. It’s ongoing work, at least for me, to quiet that roaring in my head when I dwell too long in the foggy low-lying areas of my mind, to permit myself to be present in joyful moments even while the world strives to wrest them away.
Exhale.
There is tension in the beginning. There is a point, in any beginning, at which what-could-be dies and is replaced with what-is. A dissonant chord resolving to harmony, reality crashes into place like a wave into the sand and erases all other possibilities. There is a peace in the certainty, then, even if the path to that certainty can be dischordant and disorienting.
Inhale.
There is tension on a football field. In between every play, between the tackles, between each breath, there is a push and a pull. The half-moment before the ball is snapped, a lightning-quick calm preceding the devastating storm. The hours before a game, spent in final walkthroughs and team meals and locker rooms full of nervous energy. The days before the beginning of a season, where what-could-be still lives because the future has not yet crested — although that wave is rushing inevitably toward the shore. There is tension between the sport we grew up loving and the way the game is played today, but the game is still played.
Exhale.
The game is still played, heralding the joyous changing of the seasons even amidst all of the world’s darkness. For a few hours on a few days over a handful of weeks, we get to focus on this brightly-lit thing, this frustrating and ecstatic blur of barely-controlled violence and noise. It goes by all-too-quickly, but for the next few months it is here, and it is ours.
Inhale.
There is a release in the first hit of the game. The tension, barely noticed, that has been building through offseason workouts and practices and scrimmages all gathers in the pit of your stomach just before the ball is kicked. That first impact on a block or a tackle used to feel almost like coming home; an undeniable physical marker of something real, something tangible, after a long summer spent drifting around in hypothetical. After that first hit, you can settle in, and the tension slowly fades into the rhythm of another football game.
Exhale.
There is a release in knowing. This past offseason has been clouded by more questions than answers, and I’ve carried that not-knowing somewhere between my shoulder blades for months. In a few short days we will have answers to at least some of the questions we’ve carried, both spoken and unspoken, since the end of the Mack Brown 2.0 era at Carolina.
Inhale.
I’ve been waiting months for Monday night. Take the tension, the worry, the stress; let it all wash over you, then prepare to let it all go. It’s football season again in Chapel Hill, and that’s something to celebrate.
Exhale.
