Kendal
Lariviere
September
19, 2013
Plastic on Wood
I have no idea what I'm doing. I
feel like I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off. A chicken
holding a foreign object in her hand and attempting to hit a bright orange ball
with it. Why aren't we allowed to use the other side of the stick? It would be
much easier if we did. The ball doesn't move very well in the thick grass, and
its making me feel even clumsier than I already am. I am more than ready to be
done maneuvering myself around those stupid fluorescent cones when the whistle
finally blows. I stand up with relief, only to find a sharp twinge of pain in
my lower back. This certainly wasn't a sport meant for tall people. We gather
around coach and she starts calling names out and sending certain people to the
other side of the field. Suddenly, my name was called. I was one of those
people. As I take my position on the other side of the 50 yard line, I realize
that most of the players are around me are returners. I suddenly get a rush of
excitement. "Is this varsity?!" I exclaim. One of the older girls
tells me to shush because coach is still calling names, but she smiles at me.
That smile said it all.
I had woken up so much earlier than
I needed to. Why did I wake up so early? I had barely slept last night with my
stomach tying itself in knots, and now I'm exhausted. I eat my bagel with cream
cheese, not even bothering to toast it. I arrive at the field and recognize a
few faces, but most of these people are strangers. I hate going into a
situation and not knowing what is going to happen. I turn in my paperwork and
sit down on cold the pavement next to the dewy grass. "Alright ladies, put
your sneakers on. We're going to run the timed mile this morning." I
immediately regret that bagel; it was sitting like a rock in my stomach. Why
hadn't anyone told me about the timed mile? I have never run one before. I
watch the upperclassmen go first. It doesn't look easy. Oh God, it’s my turn. It’s
all a blur. I'm trying to ignore the weight of the bagel sloshing in my
stomach. I have the sudden urge to go to the bathroom. There's no way I can
hold it for two more laps! Ignore it. Fighting with myself, I finally cross the
finish line and hear "7:30!" I can live with that, as long as don't
have to do it again.
It’s so awkward standing in front of
all our parents listening politely as our coach talks about each of us. I'm
trying so hard not to squirm too much, or giggle at every comment my friends
are whispering. She begins talking about me, and I immediately feel heat
creeping up from my neck. I can't help it. It’s too awkward standing up here in
front of everyone. Of course I'm as red as a tomato. Coach finishes her spiel
with my accomplishment of the season: 17 total goals scored, the majority of my
team's goals that year. I'm not embarrassed anymore. I feel that rush, the same
one I felt every one of the 17 times I heard that sweet smack of plastic on
wood. I was hooked.
I hate this. Gasping, the cold fall
air burning my lungs. It doesn't matter that it’s one of the coldest days yet,
I'm dripping with sweat. Why these sprints are necessary I don't understand.
Maybe I do, but that doesn't make me hate them any less. This isn't what I
signed up for. I want glory. I want the rush of victory and the cheering of my
teammates. I want the ecstasy of running back to the center of the field after
succeeding against the defense, just to do it all over again. Not this burning
sensation in my lungs. Not the feeling of my quads tearing in half. And
certainly not the demonic shriek of my coach's voice. "Faster! Faster! Or
we'll do it again!" I can't do it again. I hate this.
I look at the bright red numbers and
hate what I see: 0-0. Like we haven't been working our asses off for thirty
minutes, but we've got nothing to show for it. I look at my teammates, my family.
They all look just like me. Bent over our sticks, our chests heaving, trying to
catch our breath. Sweat pours off our faces. Coach is spewing off something
about how important this game is, but I don't hear what she is saying. None of
us do. She doesn't have to tell us what this game means. Everything depends on
the next thirty minutes. The whistle sounds and we're back on the field, I'm
watching the defense drive the other team out of our circle. It’s a mess.
Suddenly, the ball shoots free to the midfield. I take off. Watching my
midfielder over my shoulder, I'm sprinting up the field. She's going to get
stuck. I'm screaming for the pass. Finally, it comes. I don't have much time. I
feel the pressure of the defenders running up behind me. A quick glance up
shows me that the goalie is charging towards me. It’s now or never. I throw my
stick back and slam it into the ball. Instantly, I collide with a mass of
goalie pads, and I'm on the ground. But I hear that sweet sound: plastic on
wood. The cheers from my teammates and the crowd deafen me. It is spectacular.
Heartbroken is the best word to
describe the way I feel right now. Tears stream down my face as I press my head
against the cool glass of the bus window. We're driving home, but I don't see
the road. All I see is hundreds of memories flashing through my brain. How
could it be over? I'm not ready to leave it all behind. This sport is my
passion; this team is my family. We've torn ourselves apart for one another,
only to end in devastating defeat. Our dream just died on that field. That
couldn't have been my last game. Not playing is going to leave a gaping hole in
my heart. Why hadn't I thought of this before? Losing a family of teammates
like this is going to kill me, but it would've eased the pain to join new
family that shared my same passion. Maybe it’s not too late.
These past four days have pushed me
far beyond anything I thought I was capable of, both mentally and physically.
I'm exhausted. Everything hurts. And I can't shake the feeling that I'm not
doing anything right. I'm so lost. I barely even know these girls. Hell, I
can't even remember their names. That last session wasn't so bad. But why were
we still sitting in the locker room? I just want to go back to my dorm and
savor the precious time I have before afternoon session. Plus, it’s about a
hundred degrees in here and the smell of sweat soaked shin guards and cleats is
making my eyes water. Coach walks in and eyes us all. I can only imagine what
we look like. She starts talking about this morning's practice and our
tournament this weekend. She knows how tired we all are. Maybe she'll give us
the afternoon off! That would be amazing. I'm so tired I can barely restrain
myself from yawning as she's talking to us. "Before you all go, I have one
last thing to tell you. I have finalized the roster. Congratulations, everyone
here has made it." Cheers erupt from every corner of the tightly packed
room. We exchange wide grins. Congratulations were echoed throughout the room
to all us newcomers. I had a new family.
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