Step behind: Part 2

Whenever I talk about my experience with MetroLacrosse, I always seem to talk about the youth I work with. I talk about their potential and their hardships. I talk about how I have learned from them and with them in different capacities. I tell everyone about the influence that MetroLacrosse has on young people's lives because I have seen it, and I have lived it. But for some reason, living it is only a distant memory. I played with Metro from 2002, the second year it existed, to 2005, the year they helped me get into boarding school.

It came at the perfect time; when I needed that outlet of exploding, loving, and excelling at what I was doing. We were a brand new team: Chelsea Charge Silver. None of us had heard of lacrosse until they brought sticks to gym class that fall.

Sometimes, I would attack and other times fall away from that consuming feeling in my chest that I, years later, recognized as the panic attacks my mom always gets. It paused the words, drown out the screams, and gave me control over what beatings I was willing to take. Bring it. It was not the wolves from my dreams chasing me; I simply fought for each ball, each hit, each fall that I got right up from and continued on. Stuck in memories I cannot escape to this day, my only out was to play so I got lost in it.

Everyone always tells me that the only group they would never work with is middle schoolers. The attitude, no respect or concept of rules is not what they'd choose to get themselves into. I'm not sure if I even formed many memories of spring seasons. In a state where I was too weak from not eating, the experience itself was a blur. Only minor details and feelings have stayed with me.

It came naturally, my body flowing to the beat like my words when I'm rapping on the bus to and from games. I never sat in middle space, headed to the back to rap or the front searching for something to cut with. Dis fights over nothing, only ending in love.

“You ready J-No,” I'd taunt from the restraining line before the draw.

“Bring it!” She'd bang her stick against the poles of the net.

At first, the ball was my goal. Get the ball, take a shot. Everyone on the field was simply an obstacle until I could learn to find faith in others.

I could fight and take my stance in the midst of teammates becoming opponents. I learned to work with everyone as I went from spring season to summer camps. Every goal became a victory because whether it was our team who scored or we got scored on, we saw each other grow and improve. We pushed each other farther.

“No!!!”

I remember inching closer to the goal. Open shot. Just me and her.

“No! Vic!”

I shot at Jen's feet as she jumped into the air. Score.

“You scared of me?” I'd run over and tap her helmet before heading back to the restraining line. “You got this shit. Get ready. I'm comin for you again.”

We left together. The three of us headed to boarding school two hours away, but Adriana and I came back every summer. I can still hear her laugh; the sarcastic little snicker that interrupts your conversations and the motion of her eyebrows when she got serious.

Four years later, I sat among familiar faces. My generation, our mentors, and the youth we now coached. The cool wood and stone of the church set the tone as the slideshow played. I couldn't stay, siting and watching the pictures appear and fade with the people going up to the casket. We left, trying to find something to eat. “I saw her you know,” Sadiki said in the booth of a run down sub shop in Chelsea Square. “I called her an asshole, said see you later, and its done. That's all I need.” His words resonate in me.

I never realized it more than I did that night getting a slice of pizza with a boy that I hardly ever talked to before. We are a part of this, all of us, as AD was before Ortho Evra produced the blood clot that took her life. There was passion in every word she said and she brought it into every moment that she worked with those kids. She loved life. It emanated from her; her presence addictive whether it was positive that day, that moment, or she was pissed. She was never afraid, never backed down from a dis, never allowed anyone to lower her voice, her passion. She loved her team. This community, these people meant everything.

Step behind: Part 1

“Lets go,” Coach Brian yells. “Nice job out there.”

His face glows under the florescent lights illuminating the field. It is not quite dark yet. The sky continues to change from a brilliant collage of purples, pinks and reds to deep blue as the world beyond the field darkens.

“Vic.” Brian points my attention to the field. The ref is standing on the 44-yard line, feet together, waiting for me to throw him the game ball.

“Here.” I use all my might to toss it to him and pull my hands back into my sleeves as I watch my team come out of the huddle. Part of me wishes I was out there with them: the Chelsea Devils Pop Warner A-team, national champions in 2000, a team I was supposed to be on. Now, a year later, I am here on the sideline of our playoff game and things are not going so well for us. I look at the down markers. Third and five.

When I first got injured, holding the down markers was my job. With my left arm still in a sling, I would hold one end of the ten-yard chain, then graduated to the ball marker once it started to heal. Now, I am in charge of the game ball while the team is on defense. I've had it a lot this game.

“Let's go Devils!” I hear the crowd cheer. Carlos, the fullback, makes the first down. For the week or so that I played this year, they had me running the ball. I tug at my jersey, attempting to keep in more heat around my thighs. Number 42. A fullback's number. The number Coach Mike wore in high school. I need to be worthy of it, he told me when they gave me the position.

Be worthy.

It's my third year playing for the Devils, though I only actually played on C-team. Little boys, just hitting double-digits, packaged like miniature men. I was offensive tackle. Hit the player in front of you. That's the assignment. On the line. Protect the ball. Hit him.

Tweet!! The whistle blows, closing the half. I glance up at the scoreboard. 7-0. Them.

The team brings it in as I make my way to the ref. He tosses me the ball. I clasp onto it with both hands, cradling it to my body, right hand over left, as if receiving a handoff. “Hold onto it or you'll lose it.” Brian's voice echos in my head as I see his hand come down on the ball of each player. “Even standing off to the side, you hold the ball like your life depends on it." His face is red from the strain in his voice. "Keep a strong grip and protect it.”

The role comes naturally. Protecting. It is the first Thursday of the month which means my aunt will have visitation Saturday. It will be another normal first weekend of the month; wait in the shadows while Auntie Hannah goes to pick Leanna up, go out to eat, possibly go to the movies, eat, buy snacks on the way home, eat, and watch Bill Cosby, Coyote Ugly, and Big Mama's house while finishing a carton of ice cream each. Food intake does not matter for those two days, or at least it didn't before Jane began weighing her when she got home on Sunday. I pull the ball closer. Just two more days.

“Alright boys,” Brian yells getting the teams attention. “And ladies. This is what it comes down to.” His voice is strong. Deep. A working man with a worn face and calloused hands. I look around at the sea of 13-year old faces. I know none of them from anything but the context of football. I am the only person in my grade. Twelve years old in a sea of young men and only one other thirteen year old girl in a men's locker room. Bundled in my Chelsea Devil's jacket and loose fitting jeans, my long hair is all that gives away the fact that I am not supposed to be here.

In my pads, there is no difference between me and them. Not on the surface. My tied up hair, flattened female jockstrap, and c-cup that I tie down with sports bras and ace bandages are hidden beneath the same shoulder pads and helmet that they wear. I can even hide how my shoulder bones protrude now that I have lost enough weight to play on the team. Being two to three inches taller with an extra fifteen pounds on my chest, I can not make the male twelve year old's standard of 125 pounds. I have enough trouble meeting the 145 cut off for the A-team while staying strong enough to compete.

I always wonder if I would be different if I could take the weight from my chest and transplant it into the muscles in my arms. Strength is a skewed concept, portrayed as controlled and constant. In a world where consistency and safety are no guarantee; where the beatings can begin at any time; where every moment someone is gone you wonder if you will ever see them alive; where home is just as terrifying as the idea of not having a place to rest your head at night, strength is a process that has no logic, just a foundation to build off of.

My obsession with monitoring my food intake has solidified itself. Some would call that self-control, a means to a goal that I am working to achieve. But instead, I am a twelve year old with an injured arm, no chance of keeping up and an emptiness in more than her stomach who will never play football again.

“Lets go!” Brian is done talking and the team runs past me on their way out to the field. I cradle the ball in my right arm as I follow behind them, wondering briefly if this is the end of my time as a Chelsea Devil football player.

Two more days. My thoughts shift back. I need to be strong.