Cold Night, Loud Gym, A Dad’s Full Heart

It was a cold January Friday night in the Northeast—the kind where the air feels sharp and the lights inside a high school gym glow a little warmer than usual. Inter-Ac conference play was tipping off, and two longtime rivals were meeting once again.

The gym was packed.
The energy was electric.
The student section showed up in full force, dressed head-to-toe for toga night, loud and fearless in the way only teenagers can be.

From the opening tip, it was a back-and-forth battle. Momentum swung. Shots fell. By the fourth quarter, my son’s team was down—again—and then, suddenly, everything flipped. A run. A stop. A big shot. Another stop. And somehow, improbably, they completed a massive comeback to squeak out a win.

It was awesome.

I don’t think I could have had more fun—or experienced more joy—outside of the obvious milestones like births and weddings. And what struck me most wasn’t just the result, but the experience of it all.

There is something uniquely powerful about collectively riding the full emotional arc of a game with a gym full of people who all care deeply about the same thing. Watching a team struggle, find its footing, stumble again, and then finally prevail—together—is enthralling. Add in the fact that your own child is part of that story, and the emotional stakes rise quickly.

The pride.
The worry.
The bursts of hope and moments of doubt.

It’s genuinely heart-rate changing.

But man, did I feel alive.

All of my senses were firing. The noise, the movement, the shared reactions, the spontaneous high-fives with people I barely know. The sheer joy and elation were almost overwhelming in the best possible way. For two hours, I was fully present—part of something communal, healthy, and deeply human.

I’m old enough now to recognize these moments for what they are while they’re happening. I know how easy it is to let life’s “hurly-burly” pull us away, to rush to the next obligation or mentally fast-forward through experiences instead of savoring them. Friday night was a reminder to slow down and take it all in.

I want my son to know how happy that night made me—not because of the win alone, but because of everything wrapped around it: the effort, the adversity, the togetherness, the joy. I hope he holds that memory close. And someday, God willing, I hope he passes that feeling on to his own daughters and sons.

Because this—this—is why youth sports matter.

Not for rankings or records or recruiting profiles. But for cold Friday nights, packed gyms, shared emotion, and the rare, beautiful feeling of being fully alive in a moment that you know you’ll carry with you forever.

See more from toga night here.