The Final Moments

No one prepares you for the moment when the sport that helped

shape your childhood ends. For me, it was soccer. I always remembered

something about soccer growing up: the people who gave me a love for

the sport, the ones who made me hate it, and the ones whose support

carried me through, giving me every reason to continue playing.

In my final memory of soccer, a cold wind blew across the field, but

the sun peeked out through the clouds, and would later shine on us

during the game. We had gathered at school at nine in the morning,

before the day even started, and had a two-and-a-half-hour bus ride

ahead of us. The ride was a mix of silence, blasting music, sleeping,

and filming videos. At our destination, we stepped off the bus ready to

tackle all of the challenges ahead and do whatever it would take to win.

We had a long game ahead of us, but we stayed focused and locked in.

Our warm-up was flawless—every touch, every shot, and every save; we

knew what we were doing. We did our pre-game team huddle, got a pep

talk from our coaches, and headed out onto the field to get ready for the

game to start.

The whistle blew, and, five minutes after kick-off, a through ball

followed by a cross put us ahead. Watching from the goal, I was

confident. We all were. This was our game. Five minutes before the end

of the first half, however, the other team tied it up when they got a fast break down the field, past the defenders, and chipped the ball right into

the top corner of the goal.

The second half was evenly matched throughout. I couldn’t stop

checking the scoreboard. The defenses shut each other down, the ball

was switching sides every minute, and the clock was running down.

Then the whistle blew, and we went into overtime. We wanted it more

than ever; we were ready for the semi-finals. Fifteen minutes went by,

and there was still no change in the score. The clock was going down

fast. Five minutes left, and still nothing. Four minutes, three minutes,

two minutes. A game had never looked so close to penalties for us.

Then it happened. A through ball and a breakaway, and it was me

versus the striker. I locked eyes with my center backs, then my outside

backs. At that moment, it felt like the whole game was being put into

my hands. I knew that if I didn’t save this ball, that would be it, and the

season would be over for good.

The ball left the ground, arching like a rainbow. I jumped up and

back with my hand stretched in the air. Everything felt like it went into

slow motion. I saw it, then felt my finger graze it like a gust of wind

blowing right by me. I felt relieved because I thought I had been able to

just push it over the net, but then, at my back, I heard a swish followed

by the loud cheers of the other team. It hadn’t been enough. The game

was over.

I looked back, and there it was, lying in the bottom left corner of

the net. I was face down on the ground, exactly where I had been after

the dive. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it. All I could do was bury

my head in my arms and cry. It didn’t feel real, and the tears wouldn’t

stop because I couldn’t bring myself to prepare for what would come:

the last bus ride as a team, never receiving another text from the group

chat, and the fact that I would never step back on a soccer field again.

That would be it.

Normally, the first thing I do after a game is take off my cleats

because after eighty minutes of running in them, I want them off. But

this time I couldn’t. I sat down next to my open bag and just stared at

my cleats while my mind replayed the moment we lost over and over

again. The tears kept falling, and it felt as though time had stopped,

and I couldn’t move. The task of taking my cleats off felt impossible

because, once they were off, they would never be put back on again, and

eventually, they would just end up in the garbage, becoming nothing

but a memory.

Soccer has always been a significant part of my life. I remember my

first soccer game like it was yesterday. I was in my red jersey, my hair in

high pig tails, my red socks up to my knees, covering my black leggings,

and a new pair of bright pink cleats on my feet. I remember feeling

on top of the world when I scored my first goal. Everything was so seamless, and I loved the game more than anything. Looking back after

my last game, I thought of little me in my pig tails and pink cleats, and

I realized how far I had come. Since I had decided to pursue a different

sport in college, I knew soccer would be over after that high school

season, but it was still hard to let go because it had felt like there was

still so much time left. When the last whistle blew, I knew there was no

going back.

It was at that moment that I realized this was never just a sport to

me; it was a part of me. Soccer shaped me; it gave me the talent and

work ethic I have today. It’s what made it so easy to get out of bed on

Sunday, the reason I wore my hair the way I did, and what made me

pick out the outfits I wore. It was why I loved fall so much more than

any other season. So, as I sat on the cold turf, the harsh wind blowing in

my face, the tears continued to fall. I untied the right cleat, then the left,

and fell straight into my friend’s arms. I watched myself put them into a

bag and zip it up. My soccer career was over just like that.