Just after noon on Homecoming day, my tears soaked into my grandmother’s chest. The scoreboard mirrored my emotions. We had lost to Latin on my senior homecoming, the last chance for a win against them in my high school career. For half an hour I mourned that score, feeling as if all the brutal three-week preseason, grueling two-hour practices, relentless shooting drills, and early morning runs had led only to defeat. Every ounce of effort, every sacrifice I made seemed to vanish in that final score, making the loss feel like a betrayal of all the hard work I had put in.
But as the minutes passed, I realized it wasn’t the final outcome that truly mattered—it was the experiences, the bonds, and the moments shared that defined my journey. The score was just a number. The memories went far beyond it.
I looked toward my teammates—the seniors, my anchors. The seven of us have been side by side since I first held a field hockey stick. Sixth grade, 6:45 a.m. practices, with donut holes after every session. It’s surreal knowing that after this season, none of us will ever share this turf again.
The juniors, our successors. I’ve seen them grow from timid newcomers to confident players, sharpening their stick skills and finding their voices on the team. I know the legacy they’ll carry forward will be even stronger than when they first stepped onto the field. I will miss them all dearly and hope that the bonds we’ve built this season won’t be reduced to brief waves in the hallway.
The underclassmen, still finding their rhythm, but bursting with promise, remind me of where I started. They’ve soaked in every lesson, and while they’re still learning, I can already see the spark that will drive them to greater heights. It’s their enthusiasm and potential that will breathe new life into this team after we’re gone.
Our coaches, with their unwavering belief and constant corrections, pushed us past our limits, ensuring we gave everything. The bench, somewhat filled with cheers (I can hear you, Mom), frustration, and anticipation, became a space of learning just as much as the field itself. Even our opponents, especially the fiercest ones, were part of what made the competition meaningful. Each game wasn’t just a competition, but a test of growth, grit, and spirit. Every whistle, sprint, and strategy shaped us into who we are beyond the game.
After this season, I know this won’t be the last time I tighten my cleats and tuck in my shin-guards. As I write my college supplementals, I find myself scanning school websites, excitedly searching for club and intramural field hockey teams. There’s something special about this strange sport with a ball and a stick—something that soccer, despite all its appeal, could never match. Field hockey has become more than just a game to me. It’s an indescribable bond, a connection to a community that has shaped who I am.
I can’t imagine the start of school without a game against New Trier or after-school runs along the lakefront. September means juggling two bags and a stick as I walk from my car parked three blocks away, feeling the weight of the season in every step. Fall isn’t just a time of year—it’s synonymous with field hockey. It’s the rhythm of practices, the camaraderie of teammates, and the unspoken energy that defines these months. Field hockey is more than a sport. It’s the pulse of my autumn and the tradition I’ll carry with me long after the final whistle blows.
