While interning at the Dallas Morning News sports desk this summer, I was surprised when I was assigned to drive over an hour outside of the city to Celina, Texas, to speak with Celina High School’s football coach, Bill Elliott … for a total of three minutes.
Why couldn’t I send him a Zoom link?
In a post-COVID world, “face-to-face” gatherings became Zoom squares and even FaceTiming your mother from upstairs. Now, “in-person” is a social arrangement never assumed or prioritized. It must be explicitly requested, marking an event that cannot possibly be conducted virtually.
As a Gen Z journalist, I was used to and comfortable with the virtual space, unaware of all that can be lost in it.
I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to make it to Celina’s 6 a.m. start time, the team’s first practice of the fall season.
I headed north on US-75 before finding myself on some unmarked, unlit, and barely paved back road. At every winding turn, I was certain cattle would stampede out of the darkness or that I might lose my way.
After 20 minutes of gravel, potholes, and prayers, I saw the light — literally.
The stadium lights of Celina’s football field emerged unexpectedly, radiating the early morning sky. It was the only visible sight for miles around.
It took just that image to recognize Bobcat Stadium as the beating heart of Celina’s small town.
The stadium, rivaling the size of some college facilities, can hold 10,000 fans, one-fifth of Celina’s population.
Bobcat Stadium, built with $24.5 million of the city’s money in 2019, also features an indoor practice facility, weight room, film room, locker room and an $800,000 scoreboard.
The town spared no expense for its high school football players, with school board members unanimously approving the upgrades, and apparently ignoring any needed expense for roads.
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Upon arrival, I wandered the facilities, questioning incessantly why I lack these amenities as a college athlete.
Elliott, in his 13th season at Celina’s helm, ran a tight ship. At any given moment, his voice could be heard on the turf, shouting orders and demanding more effort.
Before the sun came up, nearly 100 players, comprising three of Celina’s five squads (yes, five football squads from one high school), sprinted across the field while Elliott’s assistants shouted, “Set the standard!”
The eight-time state champions were not even allowed to walk while transitioning between drills.
“If you want to walk, join the other team,” I overheard Elliott say.
I stopped a woman wearing a Celina quarter-zip who was walking her Pomeranian around the track. I needed to know more about being a Bobcat.
The woman, mother to the senior running back, expressed the town’s love for Celina football. She told me the stands fill with locals for the team’s “first fully-padded practice,” an event two weeks into the season. Afterward, the players grill hot dogs for their fans, a treasured Celina tradition.
I grew up in St. Petersburg, Florida, where football was certainly cherished. I spent most Friday nights cheering on St. Pete High’s Green Devils.
But that day, I learned Texas high school football is unlike any other. It is not cherished, but worshiped.
What could have been a three-minute Zoom meeting turned into one of the most pivotal experiences of my internship.
It taught me the power of entering a community, asking questions, and observing every detail around me — journalistic values certainly understated since the pandemic.
I felt connected to Celina in a way that would have been impossible behind a screen.
After practice ended, I waited for my three minutes with Elliott while he high-fived each player as they entered the locker room.
Although Elliott’s voice demanded better during practice, his body language conveyed nothing but appreciation. As I watched him look each player in the eyes and pat them on the back, the flood of love he felt for his team could not have been more apparent.
My experience on the sidelines proved more valuable than anything he would say to me.
He told me he was grateful I drove all the way to Celina, and I certainly was too.
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