“It’s just a little rain, girls,” said our coach, “Just a little water. You take a shower with it everyday.” That was such an understatement- unless everyone takes showers with a temperature of about 35 degrees. I stared glumly at the water-bogged field. I attempted to pass the soccer ball to my teammate, and it rolled a grand total of three feet before it collided with a puddle and stopped, dead in its tracks. The wind had picked up, so the rain was being blown directly into our eyes, like water needles of death. “Oh dude,” said my friend, “This game is gonna suck so bad...”
We waited more than an hour in the rain and cold for the opposing team to leave the warm sanctity of their locker rooms, and they had the nerve to send two girls over to our side and ask us to forfeit, like we weren’t even worth playing. Last year, they beat us 8:0. They boasted the title of league champs in their league, which is in a higher division than ours. From our shoddy shelter under the old bleachers, we watched as they brought their extra tarp up into the stands and left it there- for their audience of zero.
Two minutes into the game, they scored. It was completely disheartening. Would they crush us again, like they did last year? No, we wouldn’t let that happen. There was no way we would just roll over like dogs and give them an easy win- not after what they did. We struck back with a goal as well.
The ball landed in the puddle with a giant splash. With no hesitation, I ran to get it. It didn’t matter that it was in a puddle- the whole field was a giant puddle. Rain fell steadily, obscuring my vision. A girl forcefully rammed into my side; I lost my balance and fell on top of her, with my elbow out on purpose. I watched as my teammate directed a sly, swift kick at another girl’s legs rather than the ball. It was raining too hard, and there was no way the referees could catch everything. It was an intense game, and if they were going to play dirty, then we would have to, too. With all the water, even a simple task, like running, was difficult without slipping. The ball was kicked to the other side of the field, and I bent down to tie my shoe- or try to, anyway. My hands were so numb that all I could do was fumble with the laces.
The ref’s whistle shrilled over the pounding of the rain- another yellow card. For who, I couldn’t even tell. A few minutes later, another whistle sounded- halftime. My shoes, filled with water, squelched as I made my way over to the sidelines. In a sad attempt to warm up my frozen hands with friction, I rapidly rubbed them together. It didn’t work. We huddled together under the bleachers- rain still dripped through the cracks and landed on our heads in giant drops. Sweaters lay abandoned- the only purpose they would serve in their drenched states would be to weigh us down. At least there was no mud on Astroturf.
We tied, 1:1. The other team may have outranked us in skill, but we outranked them in heart. If somebody had asked us how our game went, and we told them the score, it wouldn’t tell them the story. A score is just a number. It wouldn’t tell them how cold, wet, and miserable we were, and it wouldn’t tell them the intensity of the game. Sure, it was a tie. But for us, it was an overwhelming victory.
We don’t play for an adoring crowd, or to show off to our classmates. Most people don’t even know when we have games at all. We play for empty stands and for the two or three parents or friends that may have dropped by. Most of all, we play for ourselves, and we play for each other.
We play even when nobody’s watching.
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