I think I must’ve practiced for hours that day, grinning each time I sprinted toward the lemon-hued, grapefruit-sized soccer ball. We were preparing for my first true soccer season, my brother and I. 

Me, tirelessly taking shot after shot in the direction of our makeshift goal. 

Him, standing dutifully in the opening between our living area and dining room, saving some shots, but letting more roll by. 

Almost a decade and a half later, my life revolves around the same activity; I spend hours each week behind the wheel en route to practices humming along to songs of every genre; I’ve slept in innumerable hotels and vans and airport shuttles traveling the country with my parents; I’ve grown to expect a giggle-induced stomachache from my teammates’ absurd stories, regaled while we go through the familiar ritual of knotting our laces and securing our shin guards. 

The feeling of the ball at my feet and the grass below my cleats is familiar in the way writing my name is, the way pulling into my driveway is, the way brushing my teeth is.

But making such a significant investment – what occasionally feels like my life’s savings – in just one thing is to give it a great power: the power to break my heart. 

On the worst days, when my feet don’t feel so fast and my judgment isn’t so sure, I feel adrift, like the rope holding me to such a huge wedge of my identity has come untethered. 

My sport has granted me a childhood full of camaraderie and life lessons, but has taken the role of the more traditional teen hardships my peers have faced. Instead of dramatic, seesawing friendships or theatrical first breakups, I’ve lamented bad passes and lost tournament finals. I’ve bawled over ruthless coaching feedback and the overwhelming weight of college recruitment. 

The game taught me that love comes with pitfalls and obstacles, but when that love is built on solid footing and sits atop a heap of cheerful memories, it triumphs.