It took a long time for me to enjoy running, and still sometimes I wonder if it is any fun at all. Why would this mindless, pointless physical exertion be enjoyable? What is the point? Why do I love it so much now?
My first love was a game with a ball, played universally. There are 11 players on each side, you wear cleats and jerseys and try to get a ball into a net using any part of the body aside of the hands. There is a ref who strictly enforces the laws of the game. There is structure and meaning. It was the beautiful game! I started playing soccer when I was 5 years old—22 years ago.
Me and my boys
Initially, I wanted to play because my older brother played and I wanted to do everything that he was doing. I started playing with my best friend, Sean, and continued to play with him on a boys’ team (yeah I know the term is “coed” but when you are 1 of maybe 2 girls in a whole league, it’s not really “coed”). I played in a town league at first but quickly was recruited to play on a travel club. Our club did quite well (as well as a team of 10 year olds could do) and eventually I switched to a girls only league. Again, I played on a team considered to be one of the best in the state and on the east coast. I tried out for special “select” teams, designed to pick out the best of the best from the state and I was good enough for some of these. On those teams, we practiced and played with the best from the state and would travel all up and down the east coast and Canada on weekends to play.
Switching to a girls league, and wrecking shit up!
As I grew older, I dedicated myself to the game. I did sprints in my yard on days we weren’t practicing. I would spend hours a day with a ball in my driveway or yard juggling or practicing my turns and dribble. On rainy days I’d ask my parents to move the cars from the garage so I could practice in the garage. If they weren’t home to do that or if they were too busy, I’d practice in the rain. I’d hunt around my town for a good “wall” to pass at. I started running a mile or two before school when in middle school, trying to get into better shape to be a better soccer player.
Some Somerville HS photos, I know I look good 🙂
I used to watch soccer, mostly the US women’s national team. I was obsessed with the women’s world cup. I was enamored with Mia Hamm, with how she played and her aggression and drive and athleticism. I looked up to Julie Foudy, her poise and control of the game and decision-making anchored the back half of the field. I watched the fearless Michelle Akers leap and battle and throw elbows and never give up on any challenge in the midfield. The 1999 World Cup win was formative for me, as it must have been for every adult women’s soccer player in the world today—active and “retired” like myself.
I lived and breathed the game. Every week, I was practicing 3x a week with my teammates—my best friends, girls from around the state all with the same goal as me: to be the best. Weekends were dedicated to games, to travelling around the central coast to play 1 or 2 or 3 games a weekend. Some weekends we were off across the country to play in tournaments against the best from another part of the country. And we did well. We didn’t lose, we won often or placed.
When I got to high school, I made Varsity my freshman year. During the high school fall season, I still met my club on weekends to practice. I begged my mom to pay my coach for private sessions, to work on getting stronger or fixing weaknesses in my game. My high school team did well and I learned from senior players who were going to college to play. I made all division and all county as a freshman.
During games, I was ruthless. Don’t misinterpret that to mean a cheat or violent. I respected my opponents because I respected the game. When I knocked out a girl and took her legs, I helped her up. It is part of the game, but it was a part that I wasn’t backing down from. I did whatever it took to win the ball. I was composed and calculated, I was passionate when the game called for it. I denied injuries to stay on the pitch, sucked up a bloody nose, and hid a broken arm, many broken feet, bleeding legs, concussions.
Some photos from my club team. We were 1 time groupies for the boys team when we both were at Nationals.
My hyper competitive soccer playing ended my freshman year of college officially. By senior year of HS, I was burnt out. I stopped for a bit, during the height of recruitment season and decided playing in college wasn’t for me. I suddenly had all this free time, I didn’t know what to do with it! When I was a month away from starting school at Rutgers, I got a phone call from the head coach. The team had a number of injuries and they needed players. He knew I was enrolled but not playing and asked me to join during preseason. After a bit of that, I quit again. My instinct was right and I was done being that competitive. It wasn’t good for me.
After stopping playing at the highest possible level, I joined an intramural league. I will NEVER forget my first game. I couldn’t find the team I was asked to join, the other team played like garbage, the ref was terrible, and we lost 2-1. I was really angry and upset. Why had we lost? I tried to relax and I looked around and one of the captains just said “Okay, so let’s get pizza now?” and everyone perked up and we ate pizza and no one cared.
That was an entirely new experience and it was so nice not to put the type of “do or die” pressure on myself for a change. I went back to semi-competitive soccer here and there—playing in a semi-pro league during college and coaching competitive youth club teams and even coaching a D3 Community College women’s team. I wasn’t lost from the sport.
the Go Soccer FC women’s team
Since moving to Boston, I cut ties with playing and coaching soccer to focus on my PhD and to commit more weekend time to other activities. It’s been great to have the freedom that I didn’t have for many years, but something about playing and coaching against other skilled players and teams made me want to push myself in other aspects. Competitive in one domain bred competition in my entire life.
The transition to calling myself a “runner” and not a “soccer player” was strange. In soccer, I was one of the best. In running, I am not even close. The purpose of writing this post and re-visiting the most intense and driven part of my youth is to remind myself that I can have the self-discipline to work hard, I just need to remember that the end goals are of a different quality. Instead of sprinting up a hill at 5am 50 times in order to be ferocious and quick enough to back tackle a breakaway, I need to know that I’m doing it so that I can power up a mountain after 70 miles of running. It’s running (or hiking) for the sake of moving. In both scenarios, I am driving myself forward to push my limits. I need to keep my self-discipline in mind as I train for my upcoming 100 miler.
Now I suppose would be a great time to mention that I will not be running the Vermont 100 as I initially thought I might. I whimsically put my name in the Cascade Crest 100 lottery (yes, out in Washington state again), knowing there was such a little chance of being selected (about 1 in 5 get in). Well, lo and behold, I was selected and pending my qualifications and trail work, I will be one of 100 toeing the start line in the end of August.
This is my new championship game, this is the league cup, the NCAA tournament, the playoffs, the one v one, the futsol of my running and ultra career so far. I have to remember the drive that 15 year old Tess had to practice alone in the rain after school just to be the best, and take that with me into this new type of training.
Do I still love the game? Oh, fuck yes. But now I am far more interested in watching my favorite team and players (you’ll never walk alone!) and kicking it around on the beach or at a BBQ. I’ve gotten a few coaching offers since moving to Boston, but I can’t commit to that lifestyle anymore. My heart isn’t fully in it; I’ve moved on to love the feeling of spending a few hours alone in the woods on Saturday morning instead. Then, I can come back to civilization and watch the game! It’s not the same as getting one good hard sprint and slide tackle to win the ball, but it’ll do for my lifestyle and schedule!
Oh look! You made it to the end, so I’ll reward you with the best photo of them all.. one in which my asian heritage screams and I look like a little asian boy!
Enjoy!
48 peaks 