Dear found family, 

As the whistle blows repeatedly and salt slowly accumulates on our bodies, I think about how we have grown up together. As the sting of the cold echoes through our hands while we hit the ball back and forth, as we jump around in the falling rain, I think about how you have raised me. I think back to when we first met — I had no idea you were about to change my life. I was different than I am now: I didn’t speak unless spoken to; I disappeared into crowds; I watched as the world went on without me. That was, until you pulled me out. 

In moments both quiet and loud, you taught me a compassion I had never known before. You held my hand as I entered a new world of test scores and driver’s licenses. You taught me how to adjust my grip and that I might need more than one hair tie on game days. But more than that, you built my character. You taught me how to be a good teammate, and along with that, a citizen of the world. In doing so, you gave me a new name, or really, you repurposed an old one. A few decades ago, the front of my dad’s jersey read the same as the front of mine did just a few weeks ago. My teammates (and his) referred to us using the name that belongs on the back of both our jerseys. 

When the rest of my world was an ocean, tossing me left and right and up and down, you tossed me a buoy; you kept me afloat and gave me an affection I had never known before. I was in charge of the ball bag and putting the goal cages on; you were in charge of leading warm-up, of the skills and the drills, of team dinners. We worked well that way. Together, we were unstoppable. At least, until we started getting older. 

In the blink of an eye, the laces that my role models — my captains — used to tie into bows before games were the very ones that weaved their way through the holes on my orange (and then pink, and then green) turf shoes. Suddenly, our roles had reversed. Now I was more like you, and you were more like me. Now, I was in charge of leading warm-ups, of the skills and drills, of planning team dinners while you dragged the ball bucket onto the turf and adjusted the goal to fit the line just right. 

And even though our relationship was different, I loved you just the same as before. I gave you nicknames just like you gave me mine; I taught you dance moves and we sang horribly. When you hit the ball across the line, my arms found their way around your shoulders. You came to me for advice and we sat together and talked it out. I held your hand through first dates and heartbreaks, all within the confines of a ball, a stick and our turf field. 

From the outside, our little field isn’t much to look at: a fenced-in rough rectangle of rubber pellets and fake grass squished between two roads. On one side stands a small concrete shed. Inside, we discuss the good, the bad and the ugly. Inside, we don our shin guards, our mouthguards, our gloves. We laugh together as we prepare for practice, and subsequently, for the game, the season and the rest of our lives ahead. 

Thank you for being my lifeline; I can only hope that I have given you a fraction of what you’ve given me. And I know that I can confidently say that there is no other jersey I would rather have worn. Thank you for all I’ve just said, and of course, for every moment in between — the chaos, the excitement, the disappointment, the mundane. Thank you for every last moment. 

All my love, 

Clara Freeth