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 last week in The Athletic, and will be sent out in this newsletter over the next three weekends.
This is the first 🤍
Dear Little Christen, (The Beginning)
I love you now.
Nobody ever asked you if you wanted to play. At three, the gift of soccer was laid at your feet. At four, talent became a responsibility you carried, and scoring the way you made others proud. Especially your parents.
From their spots on the sidelines, they jumped for joy and cheered until their lungs ached, all because you put the ball in the back of the net. Not because you dribbled without tripping on your too-big jersey or because you’d picked enough daisies for a flower crown. Because you scored. While your little teammates celebrated together, you were stuck watching them watch you. You were stuck on their joy. Their pride. You were stuck on the lesson you learned: if scoring made them happy, you’d keep scoring. In fact, you’d never stop.
At five, you learned to smile, to lace your cleats, to keep going—because you could. You could do what no one else around you could. So how could you stop? How could you let it go when everyone watched you with awe and expectation? For all those years when nobody thought to ask what you wanted, you did play beautifully. And though it was hard, and though it came at a cost, I am proud of you.
Only in the twilight of my career did I realize you’d been with me all along—the little Girl in the Backseat, riding to training every day. I learned to glance in the rearview mirror and do the one thing nobody had done for us: ask. “Do you want to play today?” And every time, your eyes lit up. Yes, you wanted to play. But even more, you wanted to be asked. That “yes” was yours. It was ours. And that’s the joy we finally found together.
Now I have something new to ask. And despite the weight that this question carries, I feel prepared, supportive, and nurturing when I do. “Are you ready to say goodbye?” Not to the joy, or the game, or the play… but to the life we built around it. To the early morning drives. To the hairspray and sunscreen we wear like armor. To the laughter born of botched languages in foreign locker rooms. To the barefoot walks after training. To the weight of the crest pressed against our chest. To the pre-match texts from Dad. To the sound of the whistle that always felt like it was asking, “Are we really doing this again?” To looking up after games into a sea of 23s. To the ache of loss and the wild joy of a win—reminding us that we’re alive, living the full human condition. To the little girl in the stands who reminds me of you. To the post-match hug from our dear one, always proud that we tried.
Are you ready to move on? Will we ever be?