Is High School Football Losing the Very Thing That Makes It Special?

Detroit Lions coach Dan Campbell was asked about high school football last week, and what followed sounded less like an NFL coach answering a question and more like somebody remembering exactly what it felt like to be 17 on a Friday night.

Campbell talked about the freshly cut grass, the lights, the seniors playing their final games and the bonds that come from spending years beside the same people. His larger point was simple — enjoy this while you can, because you don't get many chances in life to play with the people you grew up with.

It was a beautiful sentiment. It also raises a slightly uncomfortable question.

Is that still what high school football is?

Two Versions, Same Friday Night

That's the version I remember, and to some extent, it still exists. Every Friday night, kids still play for their hometowns, their schools, their families, and teammates they've known since childhood. There are still terrible bus rides, out-of-tune marching bands, concession stands that run out of your favorite carbs in the third quarter and seniors realizing, all at once, that this part of their lives is almost over.

But another version exists now.

The best players are ranked nationally before they are old enough to drive. Their games are streamed and televised. Some may never know what it means to play for one hometown because they've changed schools in search of better programs, coaching, exposure or opportunity. Their transfer decisions get covered like NFL roster moves — trust me, I know.

At the highest level, high school football increasingly looks like the front porch of college football. And now I'm going to tell you something you probably already know about college football fans: They track the choices of 16- and 17-year-olds with the emotional restraint usually reserved for a delayed flight.

A kid can spend Friday afternoon taking a chemistry test and Friday night playing in front of coaches whose evaluation could materially change his entire life. That's a strange amount of weight to hand somebody who still needs a hall pass to use the restroom.

At times, we're no longer simply watching high school football players. We're watching future college football players who happen to still be in high school.

Being Present Is the Hard Part

Campbell's message is really about something the machine behind the sport can make harder — being present.

Don't worry about who's watching, where you're going next, or what the game does for your ranking. Look at the people beside you and understand that there's a decent chance you'll never experience this exact moment in life again.

There's something appealing about that. It's very Varsity Blues. There's also danger in romanticizing it too much.

Nostalgia With a Business Model

"Pure" is one of those sports words we reach for when what we actually mean is "the way I remember it."

High school football has never existed outside the influence of money, ambition and adult interference. Coaches have recruited. Boosters have shaped programs. Star quarterbacks were local celebrities long before anybody had an Instagram account or five stars attached to his name.

The idea that previous generations played purely for the love of the game while this generation invented ambition is giving the past a very generous runway. There's also nothing inherently wrong with young athletes having more control over their careers. If a player believes another school offers better coaching, academics or exposure, it's hard to argue he should stay put because adults prefer the aesthetics of loyalty.

The same goes for NIL. We should be careful about defining purity as a system in which adults and organizations surrounding talented teenagers can profit from their ability — but the teenagers themselves cannot.

That's not purity. That's a branded version of nostalgia with a business engine.

Belonging Before Business

Still, Campbell is getting at something real.

High school football has never been insulated from money, ambition or outside influence. Yet at its best, it can still offer something those forces cannot recreate — belonging before business.

College football can give you 100,000 people in a stadium. The NFL can give you money, fame and a career almost nobody gets to have. Neither can recreate what it means to line up beside somebody you've known since elementary school, then look into the stands and recognize half the people there.

So maybe "pure" isn't the right word.

Can Friday Night Still Just Be Friday Night?

Nothing around high school sports seems to be getting smaller. As the sport moves forward, there will be more money, more exposure, more sophisticated recruiting and more attention on younger players. The better question is whether it can keep getting bigger without convincing teenagers that every moment has to be leveraged into the next one.

Can a five-star recruit still just be somebody's teammate? Can a national powerhouse still feel like somebody's local school? Can Friday night still matter simply because it's Friday night?

I think it can.

Maybe this isn't the last pure era of high school football, because there was never really a pure era to begin with. Maybe the challenge now is making sure that as the game gets bigger, it doesn't lose the parts that made people fall in love with it when it was smaller.

The lights still come on. The stands still fill up. Somebody is playing the last game they'll ever play, somebody else has no idea how quickly theirs is coming, and while all of this is happening, the band still isn't that great.

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