A memory: a summer in elementary school, racing my brother across the parking lot, the heat rising off of the asphalt, the wind doing what the wind does: both propelling me forward and pushing me back.
I do not remember who won or lost. What does it matter?
Never had I felt more free.
In fifth grade, we ran the mile. After walking from the gymnasium to the dirt track beside the school in Keds and Umbros, six minutes never seemed so slow, especially not after reading The Bridge to Terabithia and wanting to be the fastest girl in fifth grade.
These moments, these days of motion, came to define all of my athletic years that followed, but they are not without their disappointments, heartbreak, or failures.
Despite having played soccer and basketball since I was five, I did not make it onto either team.
I was too slow, too short, and not as good as some of the other girls. And so, I played field hockey like my cousins; how badly I wanted to be like them.
One season ended and before another began a petition was passed around to create a girl’s lacrosse team, the first for the school, the first for us. Title IX made it possible. We made it purposeful. I couldn’t not stop smiling, unable to shake the pride in knowing that we were continuing what women before us had started, we had taken up the charge and even so young, we were ready to lead the way.
That season we probably dropped more balls than we caught and learned the rules by breaking all of them, but from all of our mistakes came a love for this sport that has lasted a lifetime.
In high school, I rode the bench for almost my entire senior year, watching the games from the sidelines, wishing I would be put in just once. I cried when we won. I cried when we lost. I cried because I never knew if I would ever really play the sport that I loved more than anything else.
When this doubt and confusion became more than I could bear, I laced my sneakers up and went for runs in the rain, in the snow, and in the sun, hoping to outrun the feeling that I might never be good enough. I found a brick wall and took all my frustrations out on it. If life was going to hit me hard, I was going to teach myself to fight back.
And because of this, I never gave up. Not that I never wanted to. I wanted to give up every day, but something inside of me said no, not now, not yet.
It was then that I learned that playing a sport is not simply about showing up, or saying that you are good at something. It is a promise that every player makes to always put up a fight and not go down without one. No. Matter. What. In those formative years sports became a calm in the chaos, a refuge from the ruckus.
When college came, I couldn’t wait to go. But I failed my first semester, unable to find balance between sports, school, and my newfound freedom of being 400 miles away from home. I thought briefly about moving to Paris and then I remembered what happens in the spring when the fields thaw and the grass grows again. I remembered lacrosse. And so, I stayed, committing myself to another season.
That year, we finished in the top ten, winning more games that we lost, and when it was time to leave for the summer, I couldn’t wait to come back. I couldn’t wait to play again.
For the next three years, I played and I practiced, I practiced and I played; sacrificing my days and my nights, and sometimes even my sleep to the sport. That level of commitment is expected, and often required, from college athletes. Success is dependent upon sacrifice and the former cannot be achieved without the latter.
Awake, I wondered whether we might win or lose, if I was to beat my opponent, or be beaten by them, and if I was enough.
If anything would ever be enough.
Asleep, I dreamt about lacrosse.
But the doubt remained.
Even after I was selected as the player of the week, even after I became an All-American, even after we made it to the Final Four, even after having been nominated to the Hall of Fame, this doubt has stayed with me. It has never gone away.
For the heart of an athlete is always two things at once: fierce and fearful, timid and tenacious, strong and scared. It is what makes success all the sweeter. It is what makes defeat bittersweet.
These emotions of the heart are like the wind. They either force you forward or hold you back.
The good thing about being an athlete is choosing for yourself which way the wind blows.
But what happens when that choice is made for you? What happens when the playing field is made uneven just to satisfy a minority at the expense of a majority?
Female athletes should never be beholden to whichever way the political and social winds blow.
Our girls deserve more than that.