Slowly Going Bald

• I have no idea what people who aren't from Texas think or feel when they watch "Friday Night Lights." Do they understand how real it all is? And I don't just mean the small town whose existence seems to revolve around high school football every fall, because people from towns all across the country think they know what that's about. I mean the run-down middle-class feel of it all. I mean the prayer in school. I mean the Dairy Queens and old cars and yards that have never quite recovered from garage sales in years past. The show is shot in Austin, and watching it felt like being home.

• But the series amps up the football melodrama to a certain degree; it's not just Texas, but the kind of heightened state of being Texans wish upon themselves. And that also works in the show's favor. In mixing real-life drama with (only slightly) exaggerated storylines, the show mirrors the state's actual football-based insanity with the voluntary pigskin fever people invite because they think it's their duty as Texans to have.

• Let's get the obvious out of the way: The extremely shaky handheld shooting style often detracts from the emotional power of some scenes. It's a rookie mistake to confuse shaky camera work with reality and immediacy, but the fault can be traced back to Peter Berg, whose directorial style (cf. Friday Night Lights, The Kingdom) places a premium on cinematography so jittery you'd think the d.p. had some kind of terrible palsy. There were so many times when I ached for a decent two shot instead of the extreme close-ups that drive the show; when Tami and Eric talk on the balcony of their hotel room after the State game, we see only fragments of their faces, sliding in and out of frame, and that's a moment I wanted to really see them, to get a sense of their bodies as they talked through Tami's news. (I'm going through all kinds of linguistic hell here to avoid too many spoilers; you're welcome.) Reducing the actors to close-ups too often does a disservice to those performers skilled enough to use their bodies to send the kind of messages dialogue will never adequately express. When two people are having a DTR, for instance, I want to be able to see (again, for instance) him move toward her and her flinch away, or her shoulders soften as she scoots just a little closer. And I feel like I missed some of those moments.

• Plus, there are almost no establishing shots. None. You get used to it after a while, in a kind of "Hey, I guess the action has shifted to the school again suddenly" kind of way.

• But those legitimate technical quibbles still can't dilute the series' awesome first season, which is about life and love and growing up, as cliched as that all sounds. And over the course of the first season, the show makes clear that the only way to grow up is to give up on your parents. It's no accident that, aside from the coach and his wife, every other set of parents is deeply flawed in some way, guilty of the neartsightedness or inflexibility that are the hallmarks of being a teen. This is an ingenious way to amplify the kids' struggles: They are faced with the choice of committing the sins of their fathers (or mothers) or choosing to move on. Tyra's mother is codependent and weak-willed; Lyla's father is unfaithful; Jason's parents attempt to control him; Tim's absentee father is an abusive drunk; etc., etc. For the young men and women of Dillon, Texas, growing up means letting go of your parents' failures and rescuing them from self-destruction, and then picking yourself up and moving on down the road.

• This is why the coach's decision to transfer to TMU has such resonance when it's unveiled before the State game. Throughout the entire season, the coach has acted as a loving parent to Julie and a willing mentor to his players, but the season finale and biggest game of the year is the chance for the team to finally realize that no adult, no grown-up, will ever stay with them all the way. In a rare moment of clarity, Smash says to his teammates, "It's up to us now." This is the boys' ultimate test: To go it alone.

• Additionally, the series has helped me understand just why exactly I don't care about college or pro sports at all, and the reason is so simple I'm amazed I haven't been able to articulate it until now. It's not that I categorically hate anything to do with sports; I like a good sports movie (Hoosiers, Bull Durham, Rudy) as much as the next guy. But "Friday Night Lights" works for me because it's not just about the game, but about the people playing it. I'm not just marveling at the grace of a fourth-quarter Hail Mary pass to win the game; I'm rooting for sophomore Matt Saracen to step it up and become a leader. I can't just watch a game for the athletic skill of it. I have to, on some level, be involved emotionally with the characters, which is why I get chills every time Jimmy Chitwood says, "I'll make it," but can't remember NFL standings week to week beyond what I overhear at the office. And the reason so many people do care about sports is that they believe themselves to be a part of that story; they've bought into the package being spoonfed to them on SportsCenter and are convinced that they know the players and are witnesses to a great human drama. This is all completely untrue, since no one really knows what's happening in these men's lives beyond what makes it to the police blotter, but it also helps you understand why hardcore fans speak of their teams victories in the first-person plural, e.g., "We totally came back there at the end for the win, and we deserved it."

• The point is that I don't care about sports; I care about the story, and whether it's a good one. And "Friday Night Lights" is a great one. It's warm, and challenging, and realistic, and knows that there is no reason to watch a game unless you've given your heart to the players on the field. It's stirring and inspiring in the truest sense in that it engages the viewer on a visceral, emotional level and also pushes them to do or be something better. It's in the way Coach Taylor looked at a bed-ridden, paralyzed Jason Street and says, "You're a good man. You're what makes guys like me want to coach." It's in the way Matt drops everything to help out his aging grandmother. And it's in the electric moment when Smash and the coach stare each other down in the pourding rain in the "Wind Sprints" episode. Coach has already broken the team's ego, but it's up to Smash to swallow his pride and begin to forge the scattered parts into a powerful whole. He grits his teeth and shouts, "Clear eyes, full hearts ... clear eyes, FULL HEARTS," as his teammates echo his cheer and they turn, suddenly energized, to attack the hill once more. It's impossible not to run with them.