In My Dreadnaught ERA

Being a Dreadnaught is special.

There are thousands of Tigers and Eagles and Bulldogs out there, but only two high schools in the entire country call themselves the Dreadnaughts.

Two.

It's one of those wonderfully quirky things that make Dexter, Dexter. You grow up here—or raise your kids here—and suddenly this strange old word becomes part of your family's vocabulary.

And somewhere along the way, being a Dreadnaught starts to mean something.

For me, some of my favorite Dreadnaught memories are from when my kids were still little.

Every fall, there was the Homecoming Parade.

Through all those elementary school years, we'd line the streets of downtown Dexter and watch the football players, cheerleaders, marching band, and floats go by. There was maroon and gold everywhere.

And every year, there was this little bit of hope hanging in the air:

Maybe tonight.

Maybe this would be the night the losing streak ended.

And then it wouldn't.

The Dreadnaughts would lose again.

But here's what I remember most:

It didn't really take anything away from the night.

We still went to the parade the next year.

The band still played. The cheerleaders still cheered. The kids still wore maroon and gold. The streets were still full of neighbors and friends. There was still a football game under the lights, and that wonderful feeling that something was happening in our town.

There was enthusiasm.

There was fun.

There was belonging.

And there was always another maybe tonight.

Eventually, one of those nights really was the night.

Dexter broke a losing streak that had stretched to 42 games.

And then something pretty remarkable happened.

They started winning.

There were playoff appearances and championships and seasons that would have seemed almost impossible during those Homecoming Parades when my kids were little.

My kids grew up right alongside that transformation.

And then they graduated.

Which is probably why what happened in November 2025 hit me as hard as it did.

The Dexter Dreadnaughts were headed to Ford Field to play for a state championship for the first time in school history.

So Dexter did what Dexter does.

We met at the gazebo.

I stood in Monument Park as our town gathered to send the team off, and I had chills.

My eyes welled up.

I didn't have a player on that bus. In fact, my kids weren't even Dexter students anymore.

But standing there, I could see all those other moments stacked on top of one another.

The Homecoming Parades.

The maroon and gold.

The Friday night lights.

All those hopes may be tonight's, ending in another loss.

And now this.

Ford Field.

I was so incredibly proud.

Proud of those kids. Proud of how far the program had come. Proud of this town that knew how to celebrate them when they were winning—but, maybe more importantly, knew how to show up when they weren't.

I think that's the part that stays with me.

It's easy to believe the magic came when Dexter started winning.

But it was there all along.

It was there on the sidewalks during those losing seasons.

It was in the marching band and the Homecoming floats and the kids wearing Dreadnaught sweatshirts.

It was in believing maybe tonight and coming back next year when it wasn't.

Because you don't have to play football to be part of Friday night football in a small town.

You don't even need a kid on the team.

Sometimes you just get lucky enough to raise your family in a place where its traditions become part of your family's story.

My kids are grown now, but come Homecoming, you can still find me somewhere along the parade route, surrounded by maroon and gold.

That's nostalgia.

That's belonging.

That's Small Town Magic.

And I think part of me will always be in My Dreadnaught Era.