Most days, they’re simply the Star Valley Braves, teenagers from a valley of snow and tress, the sons and daughters of ranchers, shopkeepers, teachers, and oil workers.
They’re students who cram for tests in the library, race through hallways to dodge tardy slips, and sneak snacks from lockers between classes. They wear hoodies, ripped jeans, and cleats on Fridays, and they joke about calculus and cafeteria pizza with equal intensity.
They like barbecue and soda and Friday night lights. They run drills in the bitter wind, throw spirals into the cold, and lift weights in a gym that smells like sweat and rubber. They say “let’s go, boys” with a fierceness that echoes off the mountains.
They idolize NFL stars and dream of playing under bright stadium lights, but also dream of keeping their friendships intact, of finishing the season undefeated, of making their town proud.
They are sometimes reckless, sometimes loud, sometimes ridiculously stubborn. That’s who they are. Most days.

But then there are those precious hours on the field, when helmets clang and hearts pound and the stands roar like thunder rolling off the Tetons. They activate a different mode where winning is everything and losing isn’t an option. 

Under friday night lights, they will dodge, tackle, and sprint until lungs burn and muscles scream. One touchdown will spark another; one mistake might haunt them for a lifetime.

By the final quarter, sweat-soaked and mud-stained, they will have left everything behind on the turf: fear, doubt, exhaustion. They will celebrate under the bright lights if victorious, to keep adding to the undefeated record they will do anything. 

After the game is over they will go back to being ordinary teenaged boys, they’re simply the Braves, but it’s not so simple to become one. This is where tradition stays.