adapted from a journal entry by the author
Sunday, November 3rd, 2024
Today was field hockey championship day. Before this season, I never really cared about the sport or any other. I went to a few games because I was obligated to as a stepsister and friend, and followed the action for about five minutes.
Then, the second time our field hockey team played South Kingstown (which cool people call SK), I sat on the sidelines of the field surrounded by moms in customized glittery sweatshirts. They joked about who the refs would kick out first, and their passion was palpable. I was hooked.
Today, I made posters for my friends on the team, greeted the girls off the bus, tailgated, decorated the bleachers, and cheered my throat sore. We were against Cumberland, our biggest rivals. The team brought their game and the crowd brought their spirit.
No one scored until the third quarter, despite two Lincoln goals that the refs apparently didn’t count. I was already lightheaded from cheering, but that was nothing compared to how I felt after Cumberland scored. I wondered if I was going to pass out, but looking back, I enjoyed every minute of it.
I don’t remember when we finally scored, but when it happened, I was thrilled, and it was 1-1 until overtime.
The girls ran off the field to prepare. Charlotte Labossiere’s sister, Alexa, stood on the bleachers to explain the rules of “sudden death” to the crowd as her mom, Kelly, just said, “That’s my kid. My other kid.”
I had come to know Kelly and the other moms at a handful of games and over text when I interviewed them for my October story about the team’s success. A few family members have asked me why I don’t play, and I just don’t. Most are just happy to temporarily tattoo the Lincoln Lion on my face, chat in line for the bathroom, and let my cheers blend in with theirs.
Then overtime began. Who knows what happened? I don’t, because I am still learning these rules. Cumberland lined up for a penalty . . . kick? No, shot, and goalie Audrey and our defense team kept it out.
Minutes later, if I had time to process that Faith stole the ball, I would have enjoyed a peaceful second sure we were about to win. But I did not, because Faith did not give anyone time to process. Certainly not the Cumberland goalie.
Instead, all of a sudden, we won.
Instant sobbing, screaming, running onto the field.
Little brothers with flowers and posters making players cry.
Clapping politely for Cumberland and absolutely losing it for our girls.
The team running to the bleachers and my best friend, Molly, finding me first and jumping to high five my gloved hands.
Moms literally pulling daughters over the bleachers.
Coco kissing her daughter Dounya’s cheek.
“We did it!”
“They did it!”
“We did it!”
“Who’s gonna have two rings at graduation?”
I write about it in fragments like this because I can’t describe it any other way. I get it now. The appeal of sports and the feeling of winning.
I may have just learned to write a sports article last month, and I may never ever play, but oh, now I know what I was missing every time I rolled my eyes at the roll of a ball, swing of a stick, score of a goal.
In between all the photos and hugs, someone called the police to parade the bus back to the school, and someone else decided the celebration would continue at Chili’s, as every Lincoln celebration does.
This community of girls, moms, coaches, and sisters is equally revolutionary, timeless, sacred, and silly. (Just ask one of the moms about Papi.)
I am so grateful to sit on the sidelines of it.
