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As many of you know, I penned three letters to say my farewells: to Little Christen, to Football, and to you, The Fans. All three were published in The Athletic, and will be sent out in this newsletter over the next few weekends.
This is the second 🤍
Dear Football, (The Middle)
I love you now.
We’ve been together a long time, haven’t we? You’ve been my greatest teacher, my toughest critic, my longest love affair. You gave me family born from strangers—even rivals. You gave me scenes I could never have scripted, and a passport stamped with dreams. You also took things from me—sleep, knees, peace of mind on penalty kicks—but isn’t that the price of devotion?
I remember winning Regionals in Hawaii at 13, sprinting across the field with my teammates, leis swinging around our necks, certain nothing could ever top that joy. It hasn’t.
I remember dragging my family to the track on Christmas Eve, running from something scarier than Scrooge: the January camp beep test.
I remember scoring goals that felt like destiny, and missing ones that haunted me just as long. I remember the header when I swear my mom borrowed my body for a moment, guiding the ball home herself. (I hope she’ll come back for one more.)
I remember trying to ground myself on a frozen, muddy Manchester pitch, the sting of cold feet somehow settling, after hours of idly chasing perfection.
I remember subbing into the end of a match with nearly fifty thousand people roaring, and tears streaming down my outside back’s face. With one squeeze of her hand as I came on to the pitch, I told her: I’ve got you.
And, I remember meeting Tobin, who came from an opposite map of sports: she, pure love of the game; me, driven to be great, to make my family proud. We met in the middle and filled the spaces the other left open. From her, I learned that joy itself could be reason enough—that the game could be loved without needing to be justified. From me, she learned that our gifts could be carried for others—that the work we poured in could ripple far beyond ourselves. Together, we discovered that there is no single way to belong to this game. There are many paths to the same field, and walking them side by side made us braver, fuller, and truer.
People will say, this isn’t goodbye. But for me, it is. I need it to be—to explain the conflict and sadness and immensity that sit in the pit of my stomach. “See you around” doesn’t capture that. The lessons you taught me—how to run toward fear, how to lead and follow, how to lose and still be whole, how to see life through the eyes of a Rookie—those are forever.
I have a confession: I don’t think you were ever my Dharma, my destiny, or my purpose. You were, simply, my way. I believe I was given the gift of this game so I could be something else: a fighter for progress. For women, for queer folks, for people of color. For love and freedom and equality.
Somehow—despite never making a youth national team, despite lacking the will to tackle, head the ball, or run through walls—I became a mainstay on the best team in the world for over a decade. And I believe it was all so I could be there, behind the scenes, during our fight for Equal Pay. To learn how to organize, to unite, to lead in the name of justice.
So, Football, to you I say: thank you. Thank you for getting me into those rooms. And in return, I promise—I won’t leave.
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