Where anything is possible, for a night

We are at a high school football field on a chilly Friday evening. Kickoff 7:30.

“Think they have any schnapps?” wonders someone in line at the snack bar.

“Burger and a dog,” I say when I finally reach the counter.

It’s hard to get a drink here at the snack bar, or even the occasional flirty glance so endemic to an L.A. suburb. But you can get a good burger and a pile of nachos, with cheese ladled from a crockpot someone brought from home.

Like at a lot of fine restaurants, the food is produced with military precision. It is served by booster parents, smiley mothers mostly, far prettier than the ones you ever see on TV sitcoms. These moms have laugh lines and children, which are two things good men still find attractive.

“Burger and a dog?” the mom at the snack bar asks.

“Yep.”

“Five dollars,” she says.

There are few things more American than a high school football game. A Mark Twain essay, perhaps. Or a Fourth of July parade. Other than those two things, nothing springs to mind.

So on cool November nights, we head to the home team’s bleachers on the far side of the field, where we are warmed by the breath of 100 lawyers, all clumped in the middle of the stands, contemplating some great class-action. Meanwhile, the cheerleaders wiggle down below, shiny and untouched as new pennies. Ah, football. Sport of young kings.

“Hopkins carries up the middle,” the public-address announcer says.

“I scored on that very same play 30 years ago,” says my buddy Fred.

“You’d think they’d adjust by now,” I say.

“That very same play ... “ he says wistfully.

High school football has changed only slightly since the ‘70s. The crowds are a little thinner, and the players a little bigger. But the cheerleaders still wear saddle shoes and smiles wide as Montana. Is there a hickey or two hiding under those sweater necks? Probably not.

“We are dynamite,

Don’t mess with dynamite,

‘Cuz when you mess with dynamite,

It goes tick-tick-tick-tick-tick,

BOOM, dynamite, BOOM-BOOM, dynamite ... “

“Thank you, cheerleaders,” the public-address announcer says when they’re done, “for that important reminder not to play with dynamite.”

At a high school football game, no good deed goes unnoticed. The water polo team’s success is mentioned over the P.A. The marching band, meanwhile, is headed to a major competition on Saturday. George Bailey, please report to the snack bar. Someone found your life.

“I’m playing Spyglass on Sunday,” my friend Brian says of the Pebble Beach course. “Then we come back Monday, just in time for Monday night football.”

Football is still the best of our sports, the one most likely to survive into the 25th century. It rewards poise, ruggedness, strength and assorted psychoses. Can you even imagine an American autumn without football? What would we do with all those silly plaid blankets?

“Go Spartans!” a parent screams.

“DEEEE-fense!” yells his wife.

We are in the playoffs now, playing towns we’ve seldom seen. In the playoffs, do other teams always seem bigger and faster? The opponents show up with 1,000 fans and linemen whose bellies flop over their belts, full of half-chewed meals. A snarly, dyspeptic bunch.

“Nice tackle,” I say when we stop a drive.

“He goes out with Megan,” the proud father next to me says.

“Who?”

“The guy who made that tackle,” he says.

“Oh.”

“Nice kid. Really nice kid.”

In the second quarter, the college kids filter into the stands, back for the long holiday weekend. Is there a more casual creature in all the world than a college student in flip-flops and jeans -- possibly the same pair of Levi’s they were wearing when they left in August?

This little town has probably never seemed smaller to them. But they are back from Boulder and Dallas, Boston and New York. They’ve come back, that’s the important thing. Maybe mom’s cooking wasn’t so bad after all.

On my lap, the baby. Nice kid. Really nice kid. He bounces on my appendix every time there’s a big play. On touchdowns, he kick-starts my spleen.

“Michael passes up the middle,” the P.A. announcer says.

“Great catch, Pat!” someone yells.

It’s the fourth quarter and the local boys are rallying. The air is half hazy and the moon is full. On a Friday night in fall, anything is possible. Take a snapshot, boys. Life won’t get much better.

“Go Spartans!”

Between plays, the baby points at the moon, the stars, the cheerleader who once held him while baby-sitting. When I lift him high to see a play, he feels like a piece of church-supper chicken, all bone and sinew.

I feed him a snack bar hot dog, which will nearly double his body weight. At this rate, he’ll be ready to play middle linebacker in about 99 years.

But that’s not so long, really. When they run it up the middle, he’ll be waiting. Keep a jersey handy, coach. Help is on the way.