Playing on a varsity team in high school is every kid’s dream, at least for me it was. I would imagine over and over again the sensation of being extremely sore after an impossible workout, scoring the winning goal or hitting a home run. The tired crowd would rise up and go wild, screaming my name, chanting my name; just imagine what it would feel like. My parents would be so proud of their daughter, since they had always encouraged me to play a sport.
Dad would tell me it’s a great way to bond with people and make new friends. Mom said it was a great way to you busy and out of trouble. However, he never mentioned the fact that my so called “teammates” could be so crass and judgmental. Mom didn’t warn me about the stress and sleepless nights that came with the package of playing a sport. Dad never mentioned the looks of disappointment and hate mixed with sweat and blood I would receive from everyone, including my coaches. Even the cruel creatures of this sport, my so called “teammates” would laugh, tease, and torment me. How their harsh voices haunted me night after night. They all made me hate myself. Every single one of them made me believe that I wasn’t good enough for them; that I wasn’t the best of the best. Slowly, I started believing them, that I wasn’t good enough.