Lilly

I feel too young and too old at the same time. One moment I’m hitting the perfect pass to a teammate and the next I’m slipping on the too-soft artificial grass before I can receive the ball. When my team takes the field to start the game, I’m riding the bench. I flex my ankle and it twinges, right on the border between real and phantom pain, and I go hurtling back to the spring season, when I could barely take a step without wincing.

When I’m finally put on the field, it hurts. I can feel the concrete bones of the man-made field in every joint and ligament. For a few minutes I’m panicky and out of position, letting passes slip through our back line and almost conceding goals that we can’t afford to give.

But in the end, the turf is flat, the ball is round, and my mind responds to that no matter what state my body is in.

We lose the game. It’s our first of the season, we’ve barely been training together for a week, and our opponents are clearly in better form. But it’s close—the difference is only one goal. We have our chances. We’ll have more.

When I peel off my socks and shin guards my ankle is swollen, if only slightly, and twisting it sends little darts of pain up into my calf. I stick to what I know—ice, Ibuprofen, and ointment to bring the bruising down. I know my limits. Until someone tells me to stop playing, you can find me out there on the field. ♦