THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE APRIL 17, 2019 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.
As I write this, I am sitting on a school bus traveling to a soccer game. It is one of at least 10 bus rides this season. Hopefully 12, but I won’t get ahead of myself. It is also one of tens of thousands of hours I’ve spent going to or coming from this game I love.
I was reminiscing about bus rides to my co-worker and fondly recalled the long rides I clocked in college with my teammates. I remember talking—so much talking. If you’ve ever been around females in larger numbers, on a bus, everyone has so much to say—all the time.
I remember helping my best friend study for her nursing exams on a long bus trip to North Dakota in fall. The flat landscape hit its aesthetic peak, golden stretches with bursts of green and orange. Sunny hours on the road flew by, especially now in retrospect.
The same sun at a different angle hits my shoulders now, warm and filled with just as much anticipation. I’ve learned to love the spring in a new way these last 3 years. Like any transition in Wisconsin, some days I GET to be outside, some days I HAVE to be.
I was just telling some of the girls on the team about how much I’ve learned as an assistant varsity coach in 3 years—just in bus rides. My first year, I jumped on a bus bound for Hudson with no more than a naive attitude and the layers I had thrown on as I changed my reporter hat for my coaching hat. The forecast called for rain. And rain responded. Then rain. And more rain.
When it rains it pours, they say. We lost to Hudson 10-0, but they took their sweet time about it. We kept the players somewhat covered under the plexiglass shelter. Coach Shomion and I stood in the elements, watching the battering and taking one ourselves. It was the first big loss of my coaching career, and I found the rain to be a poetic backdrop to the day.
What I failed to understand at the time was that just because you get back to a dry bus, it doesn’t mean you’ll dry off at all, even in the 2 and 1/2 hours it takes to get home. The heat was off. I huddled in the fetal position of my school bus seat. With every jostle and bump, I thought bitterly, this is not what I signed up for.
Oh, but it was. For every minute of misery associated with this sport, I have 10,000 of pure joy. Playing soccer, and now coaching it, is my happy place. I read a quote recently that said, “What you are passionate about isn’t random. It’s your calling.”
I whole-heartedly believe that. I think about how at age 10, I was the worst player on my team. I hid in my closet crying about how worthless I was. Time for practice, my dad rolled back the closet door and physically had to drag me down the hallway. The lesson: We always keep a commitment. I had to see the season out. Our team went to a coveted final tournament that year and won it on penalty kicks. I turned into a college scholarship soccer player.
Playing soccer taught me integrity, not perfectly, but in a way that makes me want to pass it on. Coaching soccer gives me the chance to do just that.
The April sun has finally shown up for business, much like the Rice Lake girls soccer team has shown up for serious work this season. They are determined, serious about what they do and have each other’s backs, always.
As we head home on a warm night in April, I sit smiling in the dark as dozens of girls sing at the top of their lungs, riding the high of another win. And I’m so happy to know they are making a memory. Because only a handful of them will remember the score, but most will remember how it felt to be on this team.
Gently Rise, Softly Call 