Time to Play

Wake up, stretch enough to feel the pops up the spine, in the shoulders, and through both legs. Take extra care of the knee, massage and ice it if it’s tight. Breakfast: eggs and toast and a smoothie, just like always. Plenty of protein and carbs, plenty of energy until lunch. An apple while she’s gathering her gear to put in her bag and while she’s scrolling social media until she leaves for the field. 

The headlines of almost all of the pages she follows: How will the rookies fare today? or Interviews with the Rookies: Mari Hill and more following today’s game against Canada. 

She hated that nickname. She was Goldie, and had been since her first games in the Pre-K leagues. She didn’t even know where the nickname had come from. Sav and Emma had sent her the links to the articles within half-an-hour of each other, which was a little more than comical, as was the phone call she had had with Zach after the game that night. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” he had rushed to say instead of a greeting, “I don’t know where the nickname came from, my boss started on it and everyone else picked it up.”

She had laughed and asked if he had enough sway to change it back to Goldie and he said that he would try but assumed that it probably wouldn’t take until she made the National team and there were gold medal or giant trophy predictions. 

Well, she had made it. For the moment, she was still Mari, but hopefully it would change the closer the day of the first National game came. 

Or maybe she would just have a big mouth in her interview later. She could be funny like that.

Mobility work with extra focus on her knee. There would be more at the stadium, but it was always good to get loose at home. She could probably work with one of the trainers, but that would take time away from the rest of her routine. She’d have them wrap it, probably, but that would be it.

Lunch: grilled chicken, sweet potato, and a granola bar. The chicken’s a little dry, but it’s not the worst she’s ever had. Her phone goes off in the next room, no doubt the other three of the Four and Zach’s messages for her pre-game. It was a tradition of theirs, to send messages back and forth when Big Things were happening (and every day in between as well) as a way of encouragement and reassurance. 

Load the bags into the car, connect the phone to BlueTooth, listen to the Snapchat videos Sav, Emma, Carine, and Zach had sent her. She grinned when the girls promised to be there, right near the midfield line so they could see the entirety of the game. And she grinned wider when Zach told her that he would be the one interviewing her.

Easy drive, easy entrance through the players’ door. Avoid the fan that somehow made his way back near the locker rooms, greet the other players, spend some time in the weight room doing some more mobility and warm up before the field. Earbuds in, nothing too loud, nothing too crash-y, focus on the stretch.

The trainer she sees wraps her knee and wishes her well. They make her swear to come back post game to get it checked out (they’ve seen her limping before) and she agrees.

Shin guards, socks, cleats. Tie them, double knot. Check hair, check jersey. Good. Pull on warm-up, follow the team out. Ignore the stands, ignore the announcers, ignore the other team. Deep breath, then let everything in bit by bit. 

The girls on the other team are laughing and shouting and warming up, just like her own team was on the way to. The announcers, however faint, could be heard announcing prices for the snack bar and the real bar and asking if the owner of the yellow Honda Odyssey could move their car please. And the stands were full to bursting, a mix of white jerseys and blue and red jerseys throughout the seats. And there, near the midfield line, she could see Sav and Emma and Carine screaming and waving their fool heads off. Goldie grinned and waved back and then got in line for warm up drills. 

Ball between her feet. Dribble, dribble, pass. Same thing, over and over and over. Remember the feeling, get used to the rhythm. Smile at the other nervous rookies, take a deep breath, pass again. Again and again and again. Tune it all out again until pre-game announcements and introductions. Adjust the end of her braid (never the same as how Carine used to do it, but sufficient enough to get through the game). Pass again. Circle up when the clock hits 10 minutes to go over plays before lining up for announcements. 

Slowly let it all in again: the shouts, the screaming, the voices over the sound system and she focused hard enough to hear Zach’s voice announcing every other name. 

“Number 10, playing striker, Marigold Hill.” 

She put on her biggest smile when she heard the cheers echoing throughout the stadium and waved like the rest of the team had. She saw Sav, Emma, and Carine holding giant pictures of her face up on huge popsicle sticks and she fought off a laugh when she stepped back in line. 

“First game before we get on the plane, are you girls ready?” Their captain had gathered them in a huddle before releasing them to their positions and Goldie slowly let the stands and announcers and lights and any other distractions fade to the background as the rest of the team whooped and cheered and shot dirty looks at the Canadians. Goldie was a quiet player, anyone who knew her name knew that about her, and opposing players never failed to try to get a reaction out of her. It never worked, needless to say, but it was always funny watching her team get angry on her behalf. 

“Alright Goldie, nothin’ different today,” the other striker, a tall, dark-skinned, absolute ball of energy and terror on the field, said, “We’re just playing against some French-speakin’ chicks.”

“Good passes, right?” Goldie held out a fist bump, which was quickly returned.

“Always, kid.”

Deep breath. Roll out the shoulders once more. Reach down, stretch out the knee, envision the ball going into the net. Envision the celebratory meal afterwards with her tiny, chaotic group of people she was able to call her family. Her first game as a National team player, just like any other game.

The whistle.

Time to play.