There has always been music in football. Sometimes it comes from the marching band on Friday night. Sometimes it comes blasting through stadium speakers. And sometimes it comes from an old stereo in a quiet locker room where forty or fifty young men are sitting in the darkness, waiting for someone to turn on the lights and tell them it is time. For us, music was never just background noise. It was part of the experience.
Music has a remarkable ability to create emotion. A few notes can make you remember a person, a place, or a moment you haven’t thought about in years. Hear the right song today and suddenly you aren’t seventy years old anymore—you’re standing on the sideline on a cool Friday night, looking across the field at Artesia, Goddard or Hobbs, hearing the crowd and wondering what the next forty-eight minutes are going to bring. Music doesn’t simply remind us of memories. Sometimes it carries us right back inside them.
As coaches, we understood something else about music: emotion can become motivation. There were times when a song could say what a coach couldn’t. You could give a great pregame speech—and we certainly tried—but sometimes Phil Collins, the Eagles, Metallica, AC/DC or Steve Winwood could create a feeling that didn’t need explaining. The players knew. The coaches knew. Something was coming.
But motivation in football isn’t always about getting louder. Sometimes the most powerful emotion is quiet. There were nights when In the Air Tonight played while our players lay silently in the darkened locker room. There was no jumping around, no screaming, no helmets banging against lockers. Just music, darkness and anticipation. The emotion was building beneath the surface. When the lights finally came on, it was time.
Other songs meant something completely different. Back in the High Life Again became connected with making the playoffs. AC/DC could provide electricity and aggression. Metallica could make you feel almost invincible. And the Eagles could somehow take you beyond the game itself—to friendship, time, memories and eventually legacy. Different songs for different moments, because a football season contains almost every emotion imaginable: excitement, fear, confidence, disappointment, joy, exhaustion, brotherhood and, if you’re fortunate, triumph.
That’s what makes these songs worth revisiting. I’m not interested in making a list of the greatest rock songs ever recorded. I’m interested in the football hidden inside them. A line from a song can remind me of a player. Another can take me to a particular play. Another brings back a locker room, a bus ride, a playoff game or a championship night. And some remind me of lessons we didn’t completely understand at the time—lessons about trust, perseverance, TEAM and leaving something behind for the people who come after us.
So turn the music up.
There are some football stories hiding inside these songs.
And the Tale goes on.
SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN — POISON
Before the Season Begins
Before you can win, you have to believe.
That sounds simple, maybe even a little cliché, but anyone who has coached football knows how difficult it can be to create genuine belief. A coach can put goals on a board. He can talk about championships. He can tell players how good they can become. But until the players begin believing it themselves—and believing in each other—they are still just words.
That’s why Something to Believe In became meaningful to me.
For us, the title carried a message beyond the actual meaning of the song. At the beginning of a football season, we wanted to give our players something to believe in.
Believe in what we’re teaching.
Believe in the system.
Believe in the coaches.
Believe in the teammate standing beside you.
And, eventually, believe in yourself.
That belief doesn’t magically appear when the stadium lights come on Friday night. It begins much earlier. It begins during two-a-days when it’s hot and everybody is tired. It develops in the weight room. It grows while running one more sprint, correcting the same mistake for the third time, watching film and practicing a play over and over until eleven individuals begin functioning as one.
Coaches have to believe, too. Players can tell when you don’t. If we’re asking a seventeen-year-old kid to trust a defensive call on fourth-and-goal, then we had better believe in what we’ve taught him. If we’re asking an offensive lineman to make the same block he’s practiced hundreds of times, he needs to know his coach believes he can make it.
And belief becomes contagious.
One player believes. Then another. Eventually an entire locker room starts believing. And when that happens, something changes. Players stop wondering whether they can win and start preparing with the expectation that they will win—not because victory is guaranteed, but because they trust what they have built together.
Every season starts with questions. Who will become the leaders? How good can we be? Can we overcome injuries? Can we beat the teams we’re not supposed to beat? Can we handle adversity when it comes?
You don’t have those answers in August.
What you can have is something to believe in.
And sometimes that’s where a championship season begins.
In The Air Tonight-Phil Collins
There were nights when In the Air Tonight played while our players lay silently in the darkened locker room. There was no jumping around, no screaming, no helmets banging against lockers. Just music, darkness and anticipation. Phil Collins sang, “I can feel it coming in the air tonight,” and that was exactly what Friday night football felt like in Lovington.
Because it wasn’t just the players who could feel it. The whole town could feel it. The students felt it walking the halls on Friday morning. Teachers felt it. Parents felt it. Businesses around town felt it. By late afternoon, blue and white began appearing everywhere, cars started moving toward the stadium, and you could sense that something was coming. Friday night football wasn’t simply a game on the community calendar. For a few hours, it was something the community shared.
And then there were the drums.
Anyone who knows In the Air Tonight knows exactly what I’m talking about. You wait for them. You know they’re coming. And when that famous drum break finally hits, almost everybody who has ever listened to the song becomes a drummer—even if only for a few seconds.
I sometimes wonder how many thousands of times those drums have been played in the air by Lovington Wildcats over the years. Players did it. Coaches did it. Students did it. Fans did it. And I would bet they’re still doing it today. Pull up beside somebody at a stoplight in Lovington with In the Air Tonight playing and look over. If the driver suddenly starts pounding an imaginary drum set across the steering wheel—maybe even going cross-handed—you may very well be looking at a Lovington Wildcat.
That’s what music can do. A song played enough times becomes more than a song. It becomes connected to a place, a group of people and a time in their lives. And for generations of Wildcats, those drums don’t just belong to Phil Collins.
They sound like Friday night in Lovington.
HOTEL CALIFORNIA
The Hobbs–Lovington ivalry
“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair…”
And somewhere along that highway between Hobbs and Lovington, there is a feeling you can’t quite explain.
The little tension.
The little anticipation.
And one unmistakable smell of rivalry.
It began long before most of us can remember, but in 1995, when Hobbs came to Lovington, something was reignited.
The rivalry was alive again.
Two communities separated by a stretch of desert highway. Two proud football programs. Two sets of colors. And two teams that understood exactly what it meant to line up across from one another.
But there is another place where this rivalry comes alive.
Wildcat Stadium.
Maybe that’s our Hotel California.
You can drive into Wildcat Stadium.
You can walk through those gates.
You can hear the crowd.
You can feel the history.
And once you’re there, something happens.
The stadium gets inside you.
The memories stay with you.
The rivalry stays with you.
And just like the song says, there are moments when “they stab it with their steely knives.”
Hobbs can come to Lovington and land a few blows.
They can fight.
They can battle.
They can try to break through.
But there is one thing they cannot do.
They can’t kill the beast.
Because the beast is the Lovington Wildcat.
It represents every player who has worn the blue.
Every coach who has stood on that sideline.
Every family who has filled the stands.
Every generation that has grown up understanding that Hobbs–Lovington isn’t just another football game.
It is a tradition.
It is pride.
It is history.
And it is personal to two communities that have spent generations competing just miles apart.
The highway between Hobbs and Lovington may be familiar.
But on rivalry night, it feels different.
The lights come on.
The stands fill.
The colors come out.
And the beast wakes up.
Because Wildcat Stadium isn’t simply a place where football is played.
For one night, it becomes Hotel California.
Hobbs can walk through the gates.
They can bring their steely knives.
They can fight the beast.
But when the night is over, they leave knowing one thing:
You can stab the beast.
You can challenge the beast.
You can battle the beast.
But you just can’t kill the beast.
Because the beast isn’t one team.
The beast is the Wildcat tradition.
TAKE IT TO THE LIMIT — THE EAGLES
2001 — Artesia at Lovington
If there was ever a night when we had to take it to the limit, it was against Artesia in 2001.
The Bulldogs came to Wildcat Stadium, and by halftime we were in trouble. Artesia 28, Lovington 7. We had dug ourselves a deep hole against the one team you never wanted to give a three-touchdown advantage.
As we walked toward the locker room at halftime, I noticed something on the Artesia sideline. They were warming up their backup quarterback.
Maybe I read more into it than they intended. Maybe I didn’t.
But I took it personally.
To me, the message was clear: This game is over. Time to get the substitutes ready.
I carried that thought into the locker room. There wasn’t much need for a complicated halftime speech. Everybody in that room knew the situation. I told our players we had dug ourselves a deep hole, and there was only one way out.
We were going to have to take it to the limit.
That Eagles song had always carried a football message for me: “Take it to the limit one more time.” That was exactly what the second half required. There was nothing to save. No reason to worry about later. Give us one more block. One more tackle. One more possession. One more play.
We also made adjustments. One of the biggest involved Beau James covering Artesia’s inside receiver. Today people would recognize the concept immediately—a nickel-type defensive back matched against an inside receiver. But this was before the nickelback became as common in high school football terminology as it is today. We simply knew Artesia was hurting us there, and we had to find somebody who could stop it. Beau could.
Offensively, Caden Jameson ran the option, James Compton made some big plays, and little by little that 28-7 hole began getting smaller.
There was another song connected to that night—and really to almost every Lovington-Artesia game we played: War, from the Rocky IV soundtrack. That rivalry was football’s version of a heavyweight fight. Two proud programs. Two communities that expected championships. Two teams representing programs that have collected more state championships than any teams in New Mexico football history. When Lovington and Artesia met, nobody needed to manufacture emotion.
You knew there was going to be a fight.
And let’s give Artesia its due. Over the years, they came out on top more times than we would have liked.
But not that night.
Something changed after halftime. The defense shut them out. The offense kept coming. A game that appeared finished wasn’t finished at all.
Twenty-eight to seven became 28-14.
Then closer.
Then tied.
And finally:
Lovington 35. Artesia 28.
Think about that for a moment. Artesia scored 28 points in the first half.
They scored zero in the second.
Lovington walked into the locker room down three touchdowns and walked off the field having scored 28 unanswered points.
Maybe that’s what taking it to the limit really means. It doesn’t mean you aren’t tired. It doesn’t mean you haven’t made mistakes. It doesn’t even mean you haven’t dug yourself a hole so deep that the other team thinks the game is over.
It means that until that clock says 0:00, you keep climbing.
One more block.
One more tackle.
One more play.
Take it to the limit one more time.
THUNDERSTRUCK — AC/DC
Octavio Aranda — The Goal-Line Stand at Ruidoso
Sometimes when I hear AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, I don’t think about lightning.
I think about Octavio Aranda.
We were playing Ruidoso and holding a narrow lead—I believe it was about three points. Late in the game, Ruidoso drove the football down inside our three-yard line. They had a big, bruising fullback, the kind of back built for exactly this situation. Everybody in the stadium had a pretty good idea what was coming.
Ruidoso was going to give him the football and come right at us.
Our middle linebacker was Octavio Aranda, one of the best linebackers ever to wear a Lovington uniform. And Octavio wasn’t interested in guessing where the play was going.
He was inviting it.
I can still remember him yelling across the line:
“Run it at me! Run the ball here!”
They did.
Octavio met the fullback and stopped him.
Now it’s second down.
Surely Ruidoso would try something different.
Nope.
Here came the big fullback again.
And here came Octavio again.
Stopped.
Third down. Same challenge. Same determination. The Wildcats crowded that goal line, and once again Ruidoso tried to pound its way into the end zone.
Stopped again.
Now came fourth down. Three yards separated Ruidoso from the end zone. One play separated Lovington from one of those defensive stands players and coaches remember for the rest of their lives.
Everybody knew what was coming.
Ruidoso knew.
Lovington knew.
Octavio certainly knew.
Bring him one more time.
THUNDER.
Four downs inside the three-yard line.
Four attempts to break through the Wildcat defense.
Four times the Wildcats turned them away, with Octavio right in the middle of it, making tackle after tackle and the rest of that defense swarming to the football.
Goal-line stand. Lovington football.
There are defensive plays where scheme wins. There are plays where a coach makes the perfect call. There are plays where deception fools somebody.
And then there are moments when everybody knows exactly what is about to happen.
Your best against our best.
No tricks. No surprises. No place to hide.
Here’s the football.
Here’s the goal line.
Let’s find out who wants those three yards more.
That’s why Thunderstruck takes me back to Ruidoso. AC/DC supplied the thunder, but in my memory I can still see Octavio Aranda standing in the middle of that Wildcat defense, almost daring them to come his way.
They did.
Again and again.
And every time they brought the thunder…
Octavio brought it back.
BACK IN THE HIGH LIFE AGAIN — STEVE WINWOOD
The Playoffs
Some songs belonged to a particular game. Others belonged to a particular moment. But Back in the High Life Again belonged to something bigger in Lovington football.
It meant we had made the playoffs.
The song became one of the iconic pieces of music used in our Wildcat highlight videos. We didn’t waste it. We reserved it for the playoffs, usually bringing it out on the highlight video following that first playoff game of the season. When those opening sounds began, everybody watching knew what they meant before the highlights even rolled.
The Wildcats were back.
Back where we believed Lovington football belonged. Back playing meaningful football when the weather was getting colder and the season was getting shorter. Back among the teams still practicing while others had already turned in their equipment. Back with a chance to play for something bigger.
Steve Winwood gave us the perfect words: “We’ll be back in the high life again.”
For us, the “high life” wasn’t about fame or money. It was November football. It was another week of practice. It was coaches staying late preparing for another opponent. It was players walking through the halls knowing there was still a game to play Friday night. It was the community talking about playoff possibilities and Wildcat Stadium preparing for another postseason night.
And because making the playoffs happened so often during those years, the song became woven into the tradition itself. There was an expectation surrounding Lovington football: this is where we’re supposed to be. Making the playoffs didn’t mean the job was finished. Far from it. But it meant we had earned the opportunity to keep chasing the ultimate goal.
That’s the remarkable thing about music and memory. More than thirty years later, I can hear Back in the High Life Again and I’m not simply hearing Steve Winwood. I’m seeing those old highlight videos. I’m seeing players. I’m seeing playoff games. I’m remembering that feeling of knowing we had survived the regular season and earned another Friday night.
And I’m not the only one. Members of my family remember it. Former players remember it. Play that song today around enough people who were part of those Wildcat teams, and watch their faces. Somewhere during those first few notes, they’ll go back.
Back to the highlights.
Back to the playoffs.
Back in the high life again.
There are more songs. Many more. Each has its own special place and its own special meaning. That’s the wonderful thing about music—it takes us back. Back to a time we cherish. Back to a darkened locker room waiting for the lights to come on. Back onto the field after a great victory. Back to teammates celebrating together, lifting a trophy above their heads. And sometimes it takes us back to the other side of football—the tears after a heartbreaking loss, when young men who had given everything suddenly realized their season was over. Music remembers all of it. The victories, the defeats, the laughter, the tears—the emotion.
From 1986 through 2004, each of our teams had a highlight video. We thought we were capturing football plays, but looking back, I realize we were capturing much more than that. We were capturing moments in young men’s lives. The music became the soundtrack to those moments. That’s why decades later, a few notes can bring back a face, a play, a game, a team—and suddenly we’re there again. For a few minutes, we’re all young again, wearing blue and white, and Friday night is just a few hours away.
And the beautiful thing is, it’s still happening. Another generation of Wildcats is creating its own plays, its own memories and its own soundtrack. Somewhere a young Wildcat is experiencing a Friday night he will remember fifty years from now. The players change. The coaches change. The songs may even change. But that feeling—the anticipation, the emotion, the belief that something special is about to happen—remains. You can still feel it throughout the school and throughout the community. You can still feel it under the lights at Wildcat Stadium.
It’s Friday night in Lovington.
And you can feel it coming in the air tonight.
And the Tale goes on.