LEWISTOWN — At 86, most men are content to sit in the stands, cheer for their grandkids, and recount old glories to anyone willing to listen. Bob Stewart still ties his black shoes tight, snaps his white hat in place and jogs to the hash marks on autumn Friday nights. This fall, Stewart, lean, silver-haired, and quick-footed for his age, starts his 60th year as a high school football official.

Sixty years is a long time to do anything, unless you’re Rip Van Winkle or a fruitcake in someone’s pantry. Sixty years in stripes? That’s not a career; that’s a sentence. Stewart, who turns 87 if the scoreboard operator doesn’t nod off, has been blowing whistles since helmets had one facebar, the Power Sweep was in vogue and linemen were made of meatloaf.

It’s a safe bet Stewart has seen more high school football games than Gatorade coolers and survived more Friday nights than the chicken fingers at the concession stand. He is the original Ironman–no CGI, just a whistle, a flag, and legs that somehow haven’t asked for a transfer yet.

“My very first game as an official, we were doing a ball game and a dog ran onto the field,” Stewart remembers. “Lenny Moore threw a flag and somebody tripped over the dog. He called the flag on Chief Logan. I remember that game.”

Most men start their officiating career by missing a holding call. Stewart started his with a canine interference penalty. Somewhere in the record books, that flag is still wagging.

Nervous?

“Oh, I was very nervous,” he said. “Yes, I was.”

You try making the right call while wrangling dogs, footballs and whatever else the sports gods throw your way. This was 1965, back when LBJ was running the country, and Stewart was running the field. Fifty-nine years later, he’s still running. Not bad for a guy who can remember when four officials worked a varsity game and two had to bring their own pants.

For local fans, Stewart is something like the field’s north star: always there, rain or shine, a steady presence on the sideline. He’s seen eras pass, stadiums built and rebuilt, coaches retire and return and the rules of the game inch closer and closer to their college cousins.

“We got more officials officiating varsity ball games, which is helpful, because at one time, when we were doing varsity games, we had four officials when I started. Now we have six, which is great,” he said.

Progress in football is measured in yards, downs and extra men with stripes.

The game is faster now. The players are faster. The only thing slower is the traffic on Route 322 after the game.

“The rules are getting tougher; they’re getting closer to college football, I mean, as far as the rules go, it’s tougher to call. You have to be on the ball,” he said.

Stewart has called games in every weather the Lord could invent–heat, sleet and those nights when the football is so slick you’re not sure if you’re watching a game or a greased pig contest.

So why keep coming back after six decades, a hundred weather fronts, and a thousand second-guessed calls? For Stewart, it’s simple: “I love the game. And I can still run; I can still run up and down the field at 86.” There’s pride in the way he says it–not boastful, but grateful. In an era where youth and speed are prized above all, Stewart outpaces most men his age, physically and otherwise.

What’s changed most since 1965? Stewart rattles off a list: more officials, faster play, closer scrutiny, better fields and fans who are as passionate (and unpredictable) as ever.

“We aren’t the most popular people around during a football game,” he said. “And I’ve had games where coming off the field, I was called a lot of names. When I first started, I did a lot of midget games, and they’re the worst.”

If you haven’t been called things you can’t say in church, you’re not wearing the stripes right.

Yet the worst moments–chased from fields, vans rocked by angry crowds, name-calling from the bleachers–never outweighed the good. For every wild night in Hollidaysburg or Halifax, there are dozens more spent with fellow officials, trading stories on the way to Portage or Forest Hills, frozen solid in the rain but somehow happier for it.

“Everybody froze because it was hard to put your hands up in the air to stop the clock…in the end zone, there was about half a foot of water in each end zone. I remember things like that.”

If you want stories, Stewart has a few to share. “I had a game down in East Juniata that ended up 2-0. That’s all the scoring we had.”

In the age of fantasy football, Stewart presided over a game where two points were enough to win a week.

“Another game down in Halifax ended up, I think the final score was 58-53. That one I remember because it was a high-scoring game.”

The man has whiplash from all the scoring, but the stories stick.

“We’ve had some games where we were chased out of the stadium. Up in Hollidaysburg, it was a playoff game. It came down to overtime. We got to our van, and the next thing I knew, they were rocking our van back and forth.”

Let’s be honest, nobody becomes an official for the job security or the post-game hugs. If you haven’t been chased out of at least one small-town stadium, you’re not trying hard enough.

Somewhere, someone is ready to tell you that football isn’t what it used to be, but Bob Stewart will be the last to agree. He’s seen it all. More officials. More rules. More parents trying to relive glory days from the stands, and more coaches arguing like the fate of Western Civilization depends on a third-and-six.

He still enjoys being with “the guys,” even as the gap between his age and theirs widens every year. “I enjoy being with the guys now that I’m an old guy. The guys I’m with are mostly young.” What does it feel like to walk onto the field each season, knowing he’s done this longer than most coaches have been alive? “I still get nervous,” he confesses. “But I enjoy football. I love the game.”

There’s no sense of bitterness about how the game has changed or how officials are treated. Stewart’s view is measured, grounded in six decades of watching rules, fields and fans evolve in waves. But for all the changes, the fundamentals stay the same: the whistle, the snap, the chance to get the call right in the middle of controlled chaos.

Asked what advice he’d give someone thinking about donning the stripes, Stewart said, “I would tell them to go for it. You feel good, you’re helping the sport, you’re out there in the field and trying to do your best. And you couldn’t do a ball game without officials. I really enjoy it 100% out there in the field. I don’t know the words to say, but I enjoy being on the field with the young kids.” There’s an optimism in his answer–an unspoken belief that the game is always worth it, even when it’s hard.

He’s not chasing glory. He’s chasing the perfect game, the one where no one notices the officials, where the only thing thrown is the ball and maybe the occasional dog.

Stewart doesn’t work as many varsity games these days. “I told them I don’t want to do any varsity games unless you need me,” he said. But give him a field, a crew, a fall night, and a reason to run, and he’ll lace up his shoes like always. “My wife loves to go to football games, and I take all the home games I can.” He’s become the field’s unofficial historian, one flag, one story at a time.

You can measure sixty years in many ways: miles jogged, flags thrown, names called, games called, jokes told, and friendships kept. For Stewart, it’s measured in the love of a game that never lets you retire.

Sixty seasons. One man. Still outrunning the clock, still making the calls, still finding new reasons to love the old game. If there’s a Hall of Fame for endurance and joy, save him a seat. Preferably somewhere the dog can’t get onto the field.

And when Bob Stewart finally hangs up his whistle, football will be a little less wise and a little less fun. But for now, Friday nights still belong to the man in stripes, who reminds us that, sometimes, the best part of the game is being in it.