my fate was sealed at an early age. because i was an ackie — i fit that definition to a fucking t; i had a humongous backpack, i taped my schedule and a map to the inside of my assignment notebook because i never knew where the fuck i was going, i was not cool, i was awkward as fuck, everyone made fun of me, non-ackies didn’t want to be friends with me (read: no one wanted to be friends with me) — i was identified as an ackie forever. it didn’t matter that i would go on to jock the hell out and play on the basketball team and run cross, or that i helped start the coffeeshop (the name of our monthly open mic), or that it turned out that i was actually dumb as hell and not at all nerdy — everyone only knew me as an ackie.
i don’t know what it was — maybe it was because i was friends with the soccer team moms or maybe it was because i avoided acne during my awkward developmental years (instead, it saved itself for my awkward adult years! #notblessed) or maybe it was because after five years i finally got my braces off — but by the time senior year rolled around, i was actually kind of “cool”. i started getting invited to the popular kid parties and people knew about shit in my life (like who i was dating or whatever dumb shit we cared about in high school) and people actually knew my name and acknowledged me.
it was exciting, to the point of sometimes being disorienting. going to school was no longer torturous. i felt a little more sure of myself, but even so, i always knew that deep down i was just an ackie. that i was a passing folly for them, but they wouldn’t ride or die for me. that at the end of the day, the “popular kids” would always be the “popular kids” and i would still just be an ackie. i never forgot that.
in a lot of ways, i’m still that person. i’ll always be that loser with the chip on her shoulder.
so imagine my surprise when i made heist. imagine my utter elation, my complete, thorough, and unbridled joy. things were finally lining up for old liz lemon!
you know when you’re a little kid and you do some terrible shit like track dirt on the carpet or break some shit? but nobody is around to see it, so when your mom gets home and tries to whoop your ass for it, you tell her that your sister did it and your mom believes you? that’s what it felt like to make heist. like i had gotten away with something. like this wasn’t supposed to be happening to me — there’s nothing to explain why things should have gone your way — but they just did and you’re just beside yourself in bewilderment and disbelief.
at first, everything was a source of anxiety. you know those stories/wild corny sports movies where the dinosaur comes out for one last go at glory? that’s how i felt. i was a rookie on an elite club team with a number of players who were just hitting puberty when i was learning how to play. for christ’s sake, i was ten years older than one of our practice players, and this was only my first go around the big girl block. it was hard not to act new because i was, well, brand new. i was pretty confident i’d be the first one to kill my puppy, but only because i’d hold it so hard and so close to me that it’d suffocate, futilely pawing away while i held on, knuckles white, without blinking, holding my breath, afraid to wake up.
i’m generally a pretty organized, well-prepared person in other facets of my life, mindful of taking care of myself and ensuring that i’m prepared for all situations, but this season i took it to a different level. i changed the way i ate, i was way better about hydrating, and i even lost some weight. i was way more disciplined and focused, if boring.
i saw and did everything with a fresh sense of enthusiasm, even things that should have felt like old hat. my stomach was in knots for a full week leading up to chesapeake. i was nervous as fuck. i was so excited i hulked out of my shorts the first time i put them on (that is, i ripped a hole in the crotch a mere hours into ownership *foghorn*). i got to play in the finals of chc, which was almost sweet enough to help me forget when i lost that pop game for us last year at the same tournament.
everything was new and different and had higher stakes, and for me, nationals has always represented the pinnacle. a tournament unlike any other i’d played before. a tournament where anything could happen, and every game was a battle. but most of all, it was a tournament where the best players in the world played. it was where you got to play against the best and measure yourself against the best.
i never thought i’d ever get there.
and now, only one other first loomed: playing in a regional final — i don’t think i’ve ever done that on the club level — was something i don’t think i’ll ever forget, not even gonna go into winning it. i know that probably sounds really stupid to a lot of people, especially at “this level”, but it’s something i’ll remember forever. i won’t get into the dirty details, but god, it was special. i’ll remember standing on the line before the first pull went up, a thousand thoughts running through my head. i’ll remember love stealthily being all over the place. i’ll remember robyn to lo, and all of their monster d’s. i’ll remember liza skying the SHIT out of thirty seven different people. i’ll remember being on the far sideline and the feeling of complete and utter disbelief when kayla had a layout score to clinch the win and the ticket to nationals. (is it weird that i only remember bonnie moments?)
to this point in my life, i’ve never been happier to get sprayed in the face with champagne (which, i’ll admit, i misspelled “champaign”).
this photo is hanging up in my cubicle, and it makes me so fucking happy. i keep trying and trying, but i just don’t have the words for it. that’s a real, genuine smile there, folks! not sure how that jersey is keeping all my insides inside!
i think i can count on one hand the number of tournaments i’ve won in both college and club up until that point, never mind a regional final. i didn’t have a clue what came next, or how to prepare for it.
again, i won’t go into every dirty detail of nationals, but i’ll never forget it. everything. every part, good and bad. every emotion and every ache. every first, every triumph, every fall. every encouragement, every high five, and every look around the spirit circle. every laugh and every time i felt like the luckiest human being alive. i get to keep it all safe inside my ribcage, to keep me warm for the rest of my life.
but i lose myself in all that exposition; here’s my point: once i got to this proverbial there, i realized that the only thing that matters for me is the journey. it’s not so much about being the regional champion or the national champion, so much as it is about working towards it, about fighting for it and earning it. i wish i could remember what game it was, but georgia said something that will resonate with me for a long time: “love the battle.”
that’s it. that’s it for me.
club nationals always seemed out of reach because i wasn’t good enough (or tall enough, or fast enough, or athletic enough, or skilled enough, or…). and you know what? maybe i’m still not good enough to be here. maybe i’ll spend the rest of my “career” fighting to prove that maybe i could be good enough to be here, and maybe i won’t ever be good enough. but all i need is the chance to work to earn it. i wouldn’t have it any other way.
i mean… nationals. i got to play at club nationals.
no matter how many times i say that, it doesn’t get old. seriously! it’s probably annoying for everyone, but god, it still just sounds so unreal. i will never take that for granted. because of the person and the player i had been, because of the journey i took to get there, because of the licks i took and the lessons i learned the hard way, nationals will always mean that much more to me.
nationals will mean that much more to me because of the people and the experiences that helped me get here — because of the battle. i did it for july 4, 2008. i did it for #5. i did it for paid administrative leave and seven years maximum with a chance for early parole. i did it for playing with shoes under the kitchen table, pretending they were cars and trucks. i did it for all those times i watched my aunt spontaneously collapse into a fit of tears. i did it for all those years when we ate hot dogs with every meal because it was cheap meat and we were hungry and growing. i did it for my mom and dad, who continually teach me the true meaning of sacrifice, hard work, and utter selflessness. i did it for my sister, who will never hate a day in her life, but has experienced (inexplicable, nonsensical) hate almost everywhere we’ve gone.
i did it for illinois. i did it for all the tears in 2007 and 2008, and how i failed my team in 2010. i did it for spicy tuna, and all the growing pains. i did it for all those times we lost to dish, and for those times not even regionals was guaranteed. i did it for robyn and rose and the team giving me a chance when they didn’t have to. i did it for all those times i fucking hated clyde. i did it for each and every one of my teammates, coaches, teachers, and mentors.
that’s what the battle is about for me. it’s about all the shitty times and all the shitty obstacles and all your shit luck, but also about all the people and things who inspire — and oftentimes, who help — you to want to push through and be better. it’s not about winning, it’s about doing whatever it takes to win. it’s not about the highlight reel or the glory, it’s about the dirty work, and doing every little thing the right way. it’s about not being afraid to get dirty, or get down in the trenches to dig in and fight. it’s about playing through the pain/fatigue (physical, mental, or otherwise) and the heat/cold/precipitation and the doubt/hype. it’s about pushing on and lifting up those around you, it’s about the people who helped you get there. it’s about finding that you have nothing left to give, and pushing to give more anyway. it’s about the gut check, and finding out about the kind of person that you are when you’re at your worst.
i love the battle. the battle is who i am.
when we lost to nightlock, i cried. that’s not even really that accurate. i just fuckin’ lost it. body-heaving sobs. an ugly cry to top all other sports-related ugly cries i’ve had. i could feel the tears welling themselves behind my eyeballs even as we were in the spirit huddle. a few might have betrayed me then, actually. as soon as the game was over, i felt the heaves coming. i looked for a safe place to let it all out. i cried because i could have been better. i cried because i’m not proud of how i performed in the time i was given — i would give anything to have that game back. i would give anything to just be better, to work a little harder, to be a little more disciplined. i cried because of how helpless i felt. i cried because i didn’t feel proud of my effort — it’s the only thing i really want out of any game i play, whether it’s league or practice or a regional final. i felt flat and useless and generally incompetent and dispassionate. i didn’t play like i had nothing to lose, i didn’t play like i loved the battle. i’m not proud, and i don’t want to be any of those things (although sometimes we can’t help the first one *HEYO* *foghorn*).
but i’m grateful that i’ll always have that feeling. i’m grateful that i’ll always have that taste in my mouth.
i am grateful that i get to think about getting layout d-ed by claire sharman in the nightlock game. i am grateful that i get to think about how i threw away an easy, easy dump pass when i finally did manage to get my fat paws on a disc. i am grateful that i get to think about how i didn’t close my left hand on that disc from robyn against showdown. i am grateful that i get to think about a. getting layout d-ed by bailey zahniser against riot, and then b. getting outworked by her. i am grateful that i get to think about showdown, capitals, and nightlock. i am grateful that i get to think about that sad, sad, ugly loser crying by the garbage can. i am grateful that i get to think about how hard it was to find more, to give more. i am grateful that i get to think about how hot it was, and how tired i felt.
i am grateful for the battle. the battle is what i’ll have to get me through this winter and this off-season, to keep me on my toes and to get me ready for tryouts come spring. the battle is what i’ll remember the next time i’m on the field for a marathon point against riot, lungs on fire, legs screaming. the battle is what i’ll remember the next time we’re fighting for our tournament lives in an elimination round, in the heat, on turf. the battle is what i’ll remember the next time i’m running those god awful sprint workouts, sweat stinging my eyes and body aching. the battle is what i’ll remember.
club nationals. club. nationals. man, you’ll never take that away from me.
i am grateful that no matter what happens, i was never supposed to be here.
“it’s a long climb to the penthouse, and a short fall to the outhouse.”