Lacrosse Sticks & Riding Crops

Lyrics

Seven forty-five on a Friday night.
You can feel the lights hummin'.
This is the only church that matters tonight.

The grass is cut sharp, smells like October.
Concession stand's slingin' dogs.
Four thousand people in the home-side bleachers, spillin' over.
It's Alpharetta versus Milton, the old grudge.
Every kid in a letterman jacket is a judge.
Every dad who played here in '98 is standing on the fence line,
Giving the ref a piece of his mind.
This ain't just a game, it's the county line.

Yeah, we raise 'em on lacrosse sticks and riding crops.
From the first whistle blow 'til the last pin drops.
This is the rhythm of the cul-de-sacs, the pulse of the town.
We build our kids up so they don't get knocked down.
Friday night lights and a Sunday morning ride.
This is where we live. This is our pride.

Then the spring comes, and the game gets faster.
It's a different kind of war.
Roswell, Milton, Alpharetta High... ask 'em.
They'll show you the championship banners on the gymnasium door.
2015, 2016, 2017... hell, we lost count.
It's a dynasty built on 6 a.m. winter workouts.
A blur of white mesh and a titanium shaft.
The rest of the state is just playin' the second half.

Yeah, we raise 'em on lacrosse sticks and riding crops.
From the first whistle blow 'til the last pin drops.
This is the rhythm of the cul-de-sacs, the pulse of the town.
We build our kids up so they don't get knocked down.
Friday night lights and a Sunday morning ride.
This is where we live. This is our pride.

Then you get a Sunday morning. Quiet.
Dew on the grass at Wills Park.
You hear the hooves on the packed dirt, the gentle riot
of a warm-up ring before the first mark.
A daughter, nine years old, serious as a surgeon.
Her mom holding a thermos, watchin' the surgin'
over the old Roswell stable standards, painted hunter green.
Same focus, same fire. A different kind of scene.
But the same damn heart. You know what I mean.

Yeah, we raise 'em on lacrosse sticks and riding crops!
From the first whistle blow 'til the last pin drops!
This is the rhythm of the cul-de-sacs, the pulse of the town!
We build our kids up so they don't get knocked down!
Friday night lights and a Sunday morning ride!
This is where we live. THIS IS OUR PRIDE.

Yeah.
From the gridiron to the show ring.
That's just how we do it.