Story #4: Sacrifice

senior year :)

junior year

sophomore year

freshman year (although you could've guessed as much from this terrible picture)

Sacrifice

            “Alright, starting lineup: Heidi, Veronica, Clara. Midfield: Kuhn, Mindy, Bri. Defense: Kelsey, El, Megan, with Anna in goal.” I tug on the hem of my new Gordon College uniform. Wait. Did he just say my name? I rub my sweaty palm on my jersey and try not to look completely shocked. But I’m a freshman! Are the sophomores who used to be starters mad? I’m one of the two freshmen that are starting. The sophomore that I’m specifically scared of nudges me in the back and I turn around to see her smile. A junior on her left gives me the thumbs up. I give a small grin and turn back around, palms sweating more than ever. All twenty of us circle up in the locker room to sing: Father, we adore you, and we lay our lives before you, how we love you. The other freshman and I mouth the words and try to lightly clap at the right parts, careful not to mess up the rhythm.

***

Sixty minutes on the bench. Sixty. Minutes. I glance across the field and search for my family in the stands. Mom, Dad, Emily, Grammy, and Papa – they drove two hours this morning to watch me sit on the bench at the biggest game of the year: homecoming. My new transfer friend, Kelly, makes a great play and my teammates jump and cheer. Isn’t Kelly the best? Wow, it’s a good thing we have her on defense! Tears well up as I smile and cheer along, cheering for the girl who replaced me after I played for a mere ten minutes. My new, talented friend. I sniffle some more and hope that the other subs don’t notice. They don’t care about being on the bench. But I’m a starter. I’m supposed to be out there, not with this crew on the sidelines. My coach walks by and gives me a one-armed hug (he always knows), spurring on more tears. Confusion. Why do I even play this sport? I could be making money. I could hang out with those friends who actually have free time in the afternoons. I wouldn’t have knee problems. I could sign up for the classes I want. My list of complaints continues on and I laugh at my freshman year self: playing in every single game with the upperclassmen, naive to the fact that there were ten people on the bench at every game.

***

Kelly and I sit in our apartment, making gift bags for the seven seniors. We’re swimming in tissue paper, candy, and mini Gatorades. We don’t get paid enough for this work. Really, we don’t get paid anything – we’re just living the junior dream.

“Where is everyone? Also, we might need some more markers for the posters.” Senior Day is like Christmas if you’re one of the lucky seniors. For us, it’s the most stressful day of the field hockey season. We serve as tax collectors (because we can’t fund the gifts on our own), elves that make the gift baskets, and Santa Claus himself as we get to the field early the next morning, running around to spray paint the seniors’ numbers in the grass, and hang up their posters on the fence.

“Do you think she’ll like this?”

“Ah, I’m not sure. You know she’s picky.”  We love them. We love all of them. But… this senior class is definitely opinionated. If they’re unimpressed with Senior Day, they’ll say it. Kelly and I work through the night on the scrapbooks; we blow up balloons, and disperse everyone’s individual candy favorites into their gift bags. We dream of the day when the blessing and curse of “seniority” will be gifted to us.

***

Thirty seconds left on the clock. We’re up 3-1 and suddenly it hits me that we are about to win the championship. Kelly looks at me: “Megan. Megan. Megan.” I’m grinning back at her with my huge pink mouthguard. Anna yells, “Not yet! Not yet. We’re still playing!” We look back to the midfielders as they have the final play. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Jumping, yelling, hugging, shouting. Tears. Joy. Prayer. I can’t stop grinning as tears stream down my face when I realize that those were my last few moments of college hockey but we just won the championship! We grab our champion t-shirts then Kelly, Karli, and I retrieve the trophy, taking a thousand pictures with the plaque as if it’s a newborn baby. We grab each other’s arms as if pinching the other – this is REAL! All those practices in the heat of August preseason, the November practices with earmuffs and mittens. We walk off the field for the last time as teammates, muscles sore from play and cheeks sore from smiles. I look up to the stands and quickly find them walking out to greet me on the turf: Mom, Dad, Emily, Grammy, and Papa. They take turns and hug me tight, saying, we’re so proud of you.