Being Neurodivergent in Sports

I have played various different sports throughout the duration of my life, and only two ended up really ‘sticking.’ I tried soccer, but found that my spatial awareness was not good enough to navigate the field as a player. Next, I took a stab at ice hockey, and although I stuck with it for about five years, my skills did not end up advancing. I was uncoordinated, slow, and had an inaccurate shot: all things that would make somebody an absolutely atrocious member of a youth hockey team. I tried softball, swimming, martial arts, and even fencing, and found repeatedly that my deficits in motor control and spatial awareness were immense barriers for me.

I grew up believing that I would never be good at anything. My awkwardness in comparison to my peers meant I had few friends, and I seemed to embarrass myself everywhere I went. I had a lot of energy as a kid, and every adult in my life knew the only healthy way for me to expend this energy was through physical activity; the problem was, I was naturally bad at every single sport I tried. Silly mistakes gained me a plethora of injuries while playing sports, including a dislocated shoulder from slipping on a hockey puck, a concussion from tripping over my teammate’s stick, and a sprained wrist from falling onto my hand during a soccer game. I was truly horrible at everything, no matter how hard I tried.

When I was in fourth grade, my dad signed me up to play lacrosse. I was, as expected, absolutely horrendous. I could not throw the ball effectively, and I consistently bumped into other players or accidentally hit them with my stick. It was beyond frustrating, not only for myself, but also for my teammates and my dad. My dad loved watching me play sports, and knew I had the dedication and energy to be a good player as long as I found my niche. One blazing hot summer day, I decided to play goalie for my youth lacrosse team; I remember making five saves, all with my body, and being so proud of myself for finally succeeding in something that I ran off the field and hugged all my teammates once the game was over. The bruises did not seem to matter to me at all.

It was like a switch had flipped. I was finally good at something, and others noticed. For once, people were proud of me! I was told “Good job,” and “Wow! You’re so good!” for the very first time by anyone in my life after that game. Of course, I continued playing goalie for the rest of the season, and for the seasons to come. In goal, I did not have to worry about colliding with anyone, or tripping over my own feet, or having to throw the ball. I was on my own ‘goalie island,’ as my dad called it, where I could do whatever I wanted. In fifth grade, I had a game where I made 25 saves; I ended up keeping the game ball, and I still have it now. The bruises still did not matter. What mattered were the pats on the back, the stick-bumps, and the hugs.

Whenever I went in goal, I would trigger a phenomenon known as ‘hyperfocus’ without knowing it. Everything felt slower. My hands acted of their own volition. I barely had to think about anything at all. I thought this was a gift; little did I know, this was just part of a curse. As I got older, the shots started coming faster, and hyperfocus became useless. I continued to be socially inept, and my talent seemed to wane as I failed to lean on it in the cage.

I sustained a torn hamstring during a game with the select team, and after being out for an entire season, I nearly quit. Once again, I felt useless to everybody in my life. When I eventually returned to the game in 7th grade, I noticed immediately that I was no longer as good as I remembered. I was not alone in this thought; many of my teammates took note of the fact that I was not playing well. Beyond discouraged by my perceived failures, I decided that the season would be my last.

My dad, ever the dramatist, insisted that I continue playing. “You’re just going to throw away your gift like that?” he said to me at the dinner table. “Then everyone who doubts you will be right.”

Ever since then, I have played with a chip on my shoulder. Through 8th grade and into my freshman year, which was cut short by COVID, I have played not for myself, but for everyone who ever laughed when I fell flat on my face at soccer practice when I was a kid. Through the hardships of my sophomore year, when I came to tryouts after taking a year off for COVID, and after the most difficult summer season of my life, I pushed myself to the limit entirely out of spite.

After my sophomore season, I was diagnosed with two learning disabilities: ADHD and Nonverbal Learning Disability, or NLD. I process stimuli very quickly, and, under the right circumstances, can still trigger intense periods of hyperfocus. However, with my NLD, I have deficits in fine motor skills and spatial awareness. People with NLD are typically horrible athletes for this reason. After all, no one wants the kid who gets a red card for accidentally concussing someone because she skated into them at full speed. Speaking from experience here.

After gaining these diagnoses, my career as a lacrosse goalie was put in a new light. That spite was formed from the pressures I felt to succeed as a neurodivergent person who had never met anybody else like me in sports. I had a burning desire to prove that I was just as good as my neurotypical teammates, both on and off the field. I used my success in lacrosse as a way to compensate for my poor social skills. In short, being neurodivergent in sports is not always easy. I have to work twice as hard to get half as far as my neurotypical peers, whether it be in learning to engage socially with new teammates, or clearing the ball without causing a turnover.

Here I am, seven years after my first lacrosse game, and that chip on my shoulder is still there. I still play every lacrosse game like my character is being judged by how well I can stop a rubber ball. It has become harder and harder to lean on my success as a lacrosse goalie to compensate for my awkward demeanor. I am writing this now with a wrist injury I sustained from making a save last year during our game against Walpole--I remember feeling something in my hand pop, and it has not felt the same since. I do not know how long I will be out for, but I sometimes wonder if that chip on my shoulder will still be there by the time I return, or if I will have to find something else to fight for.

Before my condition declined due to my injury, I attended a two-day goalie clinic. The nine other girls that attended were all different shades of wonderful. Their idiosyncrasies reminded me of my own in a way that I had never seen before. Some of them were quiet and reserved, while others were boisterous and hyperactive. Although I do not think any of them had NLD, I knew that those girls were just like me. I felt safer than I ever had before while in that sports complex, training alongside the other nine girls in attendance. It sounds strange to say that I felt safe while accumulating countless bruises and having balls chucked at my head, but what can I say--goalies have a reputation for being strange, do they not? Maybe that was why I fit in at that clinic. Maybe in spaces where everyone is a little strange, I can thrive. Maybe that was why I became a goalie.