Road Rash

As a child, I loved playing soccer. I spent one season playing on an all-girls team but graduated quickly to playing Co-ed. This was better because Co-ed teams translated into more sports, less crying, and definitely less pink.

I was something of a tomboy in those days; I loved playing with boys and competing against other boys. I liked beating them. I liked running past them and scoring. I liked being hardcore while smugly knowing they couldn’t do much to me because...well, I was a girl. And as true as that was, I just wanted to play soccer like everyone else on the team.

One evening at practice, I was helping to shag balls behind the goal. Running quickly after a ball, my cleats caught in a loose pile of gravel, my feet flew out from under me and I fell. To be more precise, my feet flew out from under me and I slid across the road until I stopped. In that moment, my tough-guy act was forgotten and I became simply A Girl. And I cried.

I cried because it hurt. Really hurt! Road rash—if only across my knees and hands—but OUCH! I had gravel stuck inside my skin. Inside!! That was not natural and it hurt and so—I cried. I’m sure my dad told me to walk it off. I’m sure my mom prescribed Neosporin and Bandaids when I got home. That part I don’t really remember. What I clearly remember is crying at soccer practice—in front of the boys.

Rest assured I was back to my tomboy, “take no prisoners”-self by gameday. And I’m sure I kicked the ball into some guy’s stomach very soon thereafter.