Sitting in the stands of Providence Park on an unusually warm Portland summer evening, I began to feel something I haven’t felt in almost a decade. The feeling was stronger than the sweat dripping from my armpits and the stickiness of the stadium seat against my thighs. I’ve had this feeling before...many times before. It was kick-off time and the Portland Thorns women sprinted to their respective positions, finishing off their final pre-game rituals with either a knee to chest jump or a slapping of the thighs.
I felt alive. Yes, I remembered. I remembered what it feels like to wear socks that go up to your knees and jerseys that hang on your shoulders. I remember what it feels like when your feet and blisters burn because the turf is so hot. I remember the physicality of holding your ground with your shoulder digging into your opponent. I remember what it feels like right before the whistle blows; that moment when I become more than just a soccer player, I become a warrior.
Playing soccer wasn’t just a hobby or an athletic extracurricular; being a soccer player was a part of my identity. I looked forward to Tuesday and Thursday evening practices and weekend tournaments. If I wasn’t competing or at team practice, I was attending clinics, summer camps, or personal training sessions. There were of course challenging times: missing a key defensive tackle, struggling to complete a pass, or sitting on the bench for an entire tournament with zero explanation. As Duckworth writes, “grit is about working on something you care about so much that you’re willing to stay loyal to it...it’s doing what you love, but not just falling in love--staying in love” (54). Even after a decade of playing competitively, the day I decided to stop playing soccer, I had not stopped loving the sport. Winning a national title, scoring a half-field game winning goal, and regional awards were special. But, it wasn’t just these moments of glory that I loved about the game. I also lived for the ugly moments. I lived for getting thrown to the ground by a forward 50 pounds heavier than me and getting back up. I lived for sprinting up and down the field with salt seeping into my eyes after 90 minutes of play in 100 degree Sacramento heat. The bruises, the abusive coaches, and the horrible tan lines could not and would not deter my love for the game.
Even more specific than being a soccer player, I was a defender. I rarely made any headlines and never received the “most goals scored” award. But I wanted to be the best defender not just on my team, but in the region. There were always opportunities for me to be better, including ball control, agility, or first touch on the ball. I had coaches to evaluate my weaknesses, but I was and continue to be, my harshest critic. In Grit, Duckworth describes a person of grit as “satisfied with being unsatisfied...chasing something of unparalleled interest and importance, and it was the chase--as much as the capture--that was gratifying” (8). I don’t think there is a perfect defender. As someone who strives for perfection, this might sound like a recipe for disappointment. However, I felt fulfilled from not just competing with others, but with competing with myself. I wanted to identify my weaknesses and I wanted to be better.
So, here I am today, no longer kicking around a soccer ball (competitively, that is) and instead pursuing a running dream, career, and heck, adulthood. Yet, the defender is still within me. Thank you, soccer.
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