When the clock runs out...

It's cold. The kind of cold only post season brings. The air is so frigid you can see steam rising off of the bodies on the field. Gone are the days of 115 degree 3-a-days. Gone are the days of pre-season shenanigans. Dumping water onto our mattresses to cool ourselves against dorm rooms without air conditioning. We've made it. Against all odds, we've made it. Game after game. Win after win. Surprising everyone, especially the competition. They never saw us coming. Teamwork. Unselfishness. Guts. Heart. Glory. I'm nervous. I never get nervous before regular season games. This is it. Last season, EVER. There just aren't a lot of opportunities for women in sports after college. I look around the locker room during pre game and wonder, "am I the only one?"

We're about to play a post-season game that our school has never made it to before. We're a proud bunch. Some of us louder about it than others. I'm a leader. I fall easily into the role. I'm comfortable being uncomfortable and drag everyone along with me. Comfort doesn't win games. I hurt. I'm coming off injuries that have haunted me for some time. A torn ACL sidelined me during a freshman season at another school that I cared little about. A lateral release while coaching a season I should have cared more about. Another torn ACL during this season, a season I cared a great deal about. A dirty play should have sidelined me forever. It's hard to lead from the bench. Half a season from the bench. Your team won't follow you from the bench. Stubbornness will take you far. The willingness to swallow pain will take you far. Pain is subjective, right? It doesn't hurt that bad, right? Your team is watching. They will follow. If you can keep going so can they. You can lead again.

After 14 years, they still fit perfectly. 

I do. I lead. I lace them up. My best friends, my Copas, have become a part of me. They've formed to my feet, and no one else's. The scuffs, the holes, the dirt, tell a story. I drag my toes when I slow a run. The cleats on the outside of my right foot are shorter from years of limping strong to that side. The hole through the left insole show countless digs onto that foot from defensive hip-checking. The aggressive move served two purposes, knock the opponent off the ball and show that your knee brace doesn't equal weakness. The leather of the shoes are perfect molds of my feet. There is still red clay from a heartbreaking game in Oklahoma staining the outsole. A reminder to hold my position strong.

I take the field. I look at the outside hinge of my knee brace covered in grass left over from the last slide tackle on our home field. I loved the way the grass sounded as it tore up from the soil. The sound the ball made as it hit my foot. A blocked shot. The frigid cold numbs my legs and I run like I did before the injuries. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can still feel the turf and ice break beneath my cleats. I can still smell the cold, wet air. I can still hear my teammates cheer, and yell, and cry out in frustration as we battled.

I can help. I can help. I can help.

It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt.

Only it does. It hurts. Hours in the ice baths add up. Fake "I promise I'm better" smiles to the trainers. Bonds with other injured athletes. I convince myself I'm better. I convince myself I'm stronger. I'm a leader. If I'm strong, my team is strong. Eventually, we lose, and it's over. Sudden and final. My heart hurts worse than my knees ever will. Did I lead them the best way I could? Was I strong enough? What could I have done differently? Where do we go from here? I've collapsed to my knees at the top of the 18. I've given everything in me to this game. It's over. A few teammates walk over. One extends a hand, and the look in her eyes mirror mine. She helps me up, and I let her. I finally accept help for the first time in months. We walk together without speaking.

An athlete's heart doesn't graduate. After competing at that level, finding some way to fulfill that void is challenging. The scenery changes, but the injuries don't. The heart doesn't change. New challenges, new teammates, new opportunities, new ways to feel powerful and strong come along. You lead again. You try again. You succeed again. You inspire again. The injuries and surgeries continue. Six major knee surgeries in all, with number 7 on the horizon. You smile, you shrug, you ice. Pain. You read the quotes, you live the quotes, you live the lies.

My husband and I's first GORUCK Challenge.

"Pain is temporary. Pride is forever."

"Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever."

You don't quit. You have pride. You have pain. It isn't temporary. You wonder to yourself, which is worse? What kind of pain are they talking about? The emotional pain of admitting you are human or the physical, daily pain? Both interfere with life.

An athlete has a hard time distinguishing between "stop" and "quit". We don't process the difference. We find something else to replace our love with. A different position, a different sport, a different challenge to convince ourselves that we are improving and evolving. We're still leaders! We're still physically strong! We don't know how to "take it easy". We weren't made that way. We take it as an insult, on the highest level, when those closest to us say "just quit" and scoff, because "it's a simple choice". They don't understand they are telling you to give up a piece of yourself. It ISN'T that easy. Logically, you know they are right, but you don't listen. We will slow down on our terms, when WE are ready.

Our last race. 

Other athletes just give you the nod when they ask about your limp. "Yeah, it hurts pretty good today." They know for you to actually admit any pain means that it must be almost unbearable if you can't hide it. Want to go for a run? Want to play a pick up game? Want to do another GORUCK? YES! YES! YES! But you don't. You turn down more and more of the activities that made you happy, that made you feel whole, that made you feel like a powerful athlete again.

Soon, the physical pain finally becomes enough to convince our brains to say "Stop, please stop. It's not quitting to just stop". The pain in our hearts is far greater. We have a moment that hits like a ton of bricks. We admit we aren't invincible. Not to anyone else, just to ourselves. It still hurts. Our hearts are heavy. We share our experiences. We teach leadership. We teach teamwork. We hope our children love their sport, whatever that may be, as much as we loved ours. We hope they never live through the physical pain, but experience just enough emotional pain that they too, are leaders. Leaders don't come easy. We stop thinking about the past glory, and pass along smiles, and nods, and pride. We reflect. We want the opportunity to bow out quietly, gracefully.

We grieve, just the way we played. We grieve, just the way we led. We grieve hard. It was worth it.