I've been LOVING it.
It's challenging. It's sweaty. It's hilarious fun.
It makes me feel alive, really. It's spontaneous and clever.
This week was our last practice and scrimmage before our big game next weekend.
This was the week for me to shine, to show that I'm a rookie with potential, to show that I have heart and grit and that I lay it all out there on the field. It was my week to prove that I brought value to this seasoned team. And that there would be absolutely no reason to cut me.
I showed up with confidence and gut-wrenching nervous nausea too.
The very first play: I took a ball to the face. Like really hard to the face. Bloody nose. Fat lip. Pride destroyed.
I tried to shake it off.
But the downward spiral had begun.
4 hours after that first play, I'd manage to fumble three times, fall on a defensive play that was all mine, snap the ball poorly twice, skin my knees, and pretty much play the most horrific game of footy ever.
And I knew it.
To top it all off, another girl who's never played football before, showed up, made two great catches, one touch down, and ran probably 100 yards all game. She was incredible. And I was fumbling...
As someone who grew up with athletically inclined brothers, I loathe playing sports poorly. It makes me feel "like a girl". That same wimpy girl on the sidelines when I was a kid. It gets under my skin. I want to be better, faster, more aggressive than every other person on that field. I never am... I'm a fairly mediocre athlete all around, but when I give it my all I can usually hold my own.
Today, I was hands down the worst player on the field.
I was epically terrible.
And it hurt.
"Want to run a few more drills?" my friend and last year's MVP asked after our scrimmage?
"I think I'm done." I said, defeated.
"Come one..."
"No, I'm done."
I felt like I needed either a good cry or a wall to punch.
My attitude stunk.
I was so mad at myself.
Disappointed.
Sure I was going to be cut or demoted to B league.
When I got home, I grabbed my snowshoes and Harley hastily. And decided to head up the mountain to do something I'm good at – snowshoeing – and to burn off my disappointment.
The day was the kind of Vancouver day you only see in postcards.
I'd forgotten, on the field, how truly beautiful it was. The first real taste of a West Coast spring.
I wrestled with the morning's events as Harley and I trudged through heaps of melting snow. It was warm enough to just wear a vest and toque. Harley played like a puppy in the snow banks. And I started to warm up to the idea that coaches don't always pick the team based on one day, but on potential. And, man alive, I really feel like I've got potential!
An hour in and the mountain air had worked its magic. I was at peace with what happened on the field. I resolved to forgive myself and come back next week guns a'blazing! (If the coach calls me back - gulp!) And I gave myself permission to laugh a little at my tragic performance. In hindsight, it was a performance worthy of slapstick comedy gold.
When Harley and I reached the top, i took off my vest, used it as a cushion, and we sat for an hour on the peak and watched the sun set over Pacific and the snow capped mountains morph from white to blue to pink. It was silent. And breezy. And it I took a moment to just breathe.
Sometimes, I forget that falling is part of the journey. And that every fall I have ever experienced has, in some way, has made me into the person I am today.
So I'll embrace this misstep today.
And I'll probably have another tomorrow.
But in the end, things are going to be alright.
And I'm going to have fun no matter what.
