Wrapped in a blanket, I watched the boy I fancied dominate the soccer field. Even through inexperienced eyes, I could tell he was highly excelled. My teenage mind wandered, thinking that perhaps he would notice me more if I were to show an interest in soccer also. I did love to run, and I had no spring sport. Inwardly, I cast an indifferent shrug, and later my Sophomore year, I joined the Amery High School Girls’ Soccer Team. What initially began as a hormone-induced interest has morphed into the very reason I wake up each morning.

Nervously, I looked at our band director/soccer coach-- he always had frightened me with his booming voice and intimidating stare. It was the first day of practice, and unless you counted mobs of five year olds chasing a ball like a swarm of bees, it was also my first day of soccer. I had no clue what to expect, so I followed his shouted instructions and watched the other girls for an idea of how to complete his orders. We ran, handled the ball, and did grueling drills. He, unlike anyone before, helped me to surpass every physical limit I thought I had, learning that my preconceived limitations no longer applied. I have never been pushed so hard in my life, yet I have never felt so fit or fulfilled either.

That season I watched every game religiously from the bench, totaling less than five minutes of play on Varsity. I marveled at their skill, wishing I could be out there and playing so productively. Instead, I substituted for Junior Varsity. When tournament came around, we exceeded the team member limit by one person. The single worst player was not allowed to suit up; I ended up being the one watching as a fan instead of as part of the team. Yet somehow, despite my tendency to quit anything I do not excel at, I stuck with soccer.

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