Spite:Does it always end in tears?
I believe that even actions made out of spite can lead to positive outcomes. That sounds horrible out of context, so allow me to provide some: I played sports for most of my early life. Not just mandatory school sports, but independent leagues that ate up my free time like a cloud of locusts descending on a wheat field. I participated in several soccer leagues, basketball tournaments, and even in hellish swim club meets that dragged on for countless freezing hours -- all I have to show for it now are frayed blue ribbons and little gold trophies, some old team shirts. Playing sports had always been expected of me: my father's roots are deeply ingrained in basketball, and my mother is in love with swimming, doing so competitively, swimming in college, and casually sharing kickboards with Olympic athletes at practice. If you've ever been coached from the sidelines by one of your parents, let me assure you, it's even more frustrating when your parents are actually your coaches.
Because of their projection of their favored sports onto me, soccer was the only thing that was really mine, something my parents had ever touched. Something I wanted to do. But when I went into high school and had to try out for school teams, the number of girls who showed up for soccer was intimidating - throngs of athletic, fast, communicative girls. I'm strong, but not fast enough to stand out on the field. I knew I could never stand out in that environment, and when my parents started getting out my old shinguards, cleats, and pumping up the old soccer ball -- all before I informed them of which sport I was going to play -- I was livid. Soccer was supposed to be my choice; when had it become something that was expected of me?
In a fit of convoluted teenage rebellion, I tried out for field hockey instead. And don't let my opening statement fool you -- field hockey was horrible. Tryouts involved endless running, sprints, workouts, stick control, and my parents were sour about purchasing new equipment. But I remained resolute -- I wanted to play field hockey, this was mine; I could start from the beginning and build something for myself that they wouldn't control. When the coaches started asking around for a goalie, my hand shot up. I can still remember the moment when I realized that my passion for the sport had evolved past a rebellious act.
We met up on the grassy plateau back behind the school -- it was a home game, the junior goalie couldn't make it, so it was just myself and the senior goalie. The sky was dark and grey, the ground was soaked -- halfway through the A team game, the drizzle had already turned into light rain. The scarce home team spectators opened up umbrellas, I fixed my helmet over my head. The opposing school was intense, fast, frightening; they never seemed to need to talk and they darted around the field like pond-skaters over water. I wasn't afraid of them, though. My fear was focused on Jordan.
Jordan was a tall girl; recruited for her exceptional mind and outstanding athletic abilities. She had attended our school the year before, but transferred at the end of the year, landing on the opposing team. In the halls, she had been easygoing and friendly, but on the field, she was a force to be reckoned with: all lanky limbs and sprints, catlike reflexes and a fierceness in her unlike anyone I had ever seen. I was fiercely proud of my alma mater at the time, and I had something of a grudge against her: how dare she leave our school? How dare she return and challenge us? When she shot on me, I wasn't going to let her score. I wouldn't allow it.
Water droplets gathered on my glasses as we got in position for the B team game and the A team girls pulled out their umbrellas, lounging by the side of the field to watch with languid, silent gazes. The other team started off hard and fast -- I blocked most of the shots, but not all of them. Every time-out was spent furiously wiping the water from my glasses with my jersey. I couldn't see -- it was so wet and the rain just kept coming, it took everything I had not to slip on the slick soil beneath us. The ground in front of the goals had been trampled by cleats and hacked at by curved sticks; most of the grass had been outright destroyed. Nearly perfect circles of squishy, disgusting mud stretched out from the goals, and as the mud stuck between our cleats, we became more and more prone to slipping. Though we were holding our own, we were only one point ahead. The field players were equally matched, with Jordan sprinting in and out of my field of vision as she passed and peeled back off. I was so terrified that she would drive down the middle and shoot on me, that I would hear the deafening CRACK of enforced fiberglass against plastic as she nailed me in the stomach with the ball from 20 yards away.
I breathed. The sounds around me were fuzzy, sweltering heat and a pounding heartbeat in my head. The elastic back of my helmet was pushing down hard onto my ponytail holder, forcing a constant pressure onto the back of my skull. Everything ached. There was mumbling, talk of subs. We were sweaty and damp and our hair was matted and disgusting, our clothes were soaked; we were cold, muddy, miserable. Regardless, we all put our sticks in the center of the circle and shouted "TEAM!" before we raised them toward the churning clouds like Valkyrie warriors. We switched sides.
There was no time to relax as the other team started whaling on the goal: they took a shot, I slipped and slid through the mud trying to block it. Hands outreached, eyes clenched tight as I begged not to hear it -- a dull thud against the back of the goal. They scored on me. It took all of the strength in the world to force myself to get back up. After a few minutes of failure-induced nausea and hallucinations of predicted movement paths, someone managed to score back the point we lost with the hearty THUNK that comes when the goalie doesn't even come close to stopping the ball. Immediately, everything seemed clearer, even through my smudged, fogged up glasses. The rain came down harder than before, my hair was driving me nuts in tendrils against the hypersensitive skin at the back of my neck, humid and heating up between my scalp and helmet. I couldn't stand still, constantly shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I looked up at the scoreboard. 20 seconds left . I was in the clear.
Catastrophe struck. Jordan stole the ball and came barreling toward me. Nobody was on her -- nobody could keep up. She was looking right at me with those intense eyes, mouth warped into an intense scowl with the bulk of her mouthguard. My heart froze in my chest and I moved to stay angled between her and the net. My head pounded with my heart and I could see her bending over slightly even as she was running -- she was going to lift it. She was going to do something that I could never manage to block and I was going to fail and we were going to have to go into overtime and then we could lose and it was going to be all my fault.
She slid the flat of her stick under the ball, mud flicking up into the air as she forced it up. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion -- the muddied white ball headed straight for the top right corner of the goal, just out of reach.
I jumped - slid - sideways, stretching my arms out and hoping and praying, only to land square in the mud, sliding hard and fast. My helmet bashed against the goalpost and my ears rang, my head pounded. "This is how I die," I remember thinking to myself as the rain came down on my face. "I'm going to get a concussion and drown in the mud."
I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me, pulling me up, forcing my weight onto my side. My jersey was drenched, padded shorts caked in mud. I got to my feet to see some of my teammates, jabbering. I couldn't hear what they were saying, my head was spinning. I looked around for an explanation only to see a girl from the opposite team setting the ball up on the sideline with a referee.
The ball was out of bounds.
It had been about to go in, but I'd managed to knock it just off course with the edge of my stick -- I gathered from the chatter -- making it fall past the boundary line. I'd knocked it out. I'd prevented the goal. It was going to be a corner. I felt simultaneously sick and pleased with myself and terrified that, within the next ten seconds, I was going to fuck up exponentially and doom the team to overtime. I got into position between the two defenders and flier, watched dutifully as the ball was hit in-bounds, screaming for my teammates to GO as soon as it made it over the line. Defense got on their girls and the flier was fast as hell, but Jordan got the pass and stared up at me, easily dodging our field players. I couldn't see anything but her eyes, caged in by her visor and I could feel that desire to succeed. She was going to score, and she knew it.
But she had been confident last time, too, and she hadn't made it then, had she?
I steeled myself and prepared, she slammed the ball toward the goal -- toward me -- and instead of cowering I ran to meet it with an adrenaline-fueled kick, sending it halfway across the field. The opposing offense tore after it, but to no avail -- the buzzer sounded off to signal the end of the game and I slammed the flat end of my stick against my leg pads, sending a resounding BOOM sound across the field. My teammates accosted me, threw their gross, wet bodies at me and cheered. They were proud of me: for the first time ever, I was necessary. I cried. I'm not ashamed of that; I cried and I blushed and even as we went through the soulless, mandatory congratulatory high-five line with the other team, even as I looked up at Jordan, I was proud of myself. I had defended against a worthy opponent and not only survived, but succeeded.
No longer was field hockey some morbid form of masochistic rebellion against my parents. No, it had become a full-blown revival of my self-esteem, self-worth, and confidence. I was finally doing something for me - for my team - because I wanted to, and because I actually enjoyed it, and it felt damned good. What began as an act of spite evolved into a genuine passion; a love of the game, no matter how brutal, bloody, and godless it may be. I have to say, I rather like it that way.
Because of their projection of their favored sports onto me, soccer was the only thing that was really mine, something my parents had ever touched. Something I wanted to do. But when I went into high school and had to try out for school teams, the number of girls who showed up for soccer was intimidating - throngs of athletic, fast, communicative girls. I'm strong, but not fast enough to stand out on the field. I knew I could never stand out in that environment, and when my parents started getting out my old shinguards, cleats, and pumping up the old soccer ball -- all before I informed them of which sport I was going to play -- I was livid. Soccer was supposed to be my choice; when had it become something that was expected of me?
In a fit of convoluted teenage rebellion, I tried out for field hockey instead. And don't let my opening statement fool you -- field hockey was horrible. Tryouts involved endless running, sprints, workouts, stick control, and my parents were sour about purchasing new equipment. But I remained resolute -- I wanted to play field hockey, this was mine; I could start from the beginning and build something for myself that they wouldn't control. When the coaches started asking around for a goalie, my hand shot up. I can still remember the moment when I realized that my passion for the sport had evolved past a rebellious act.
We met up on the grassy plateau back behind the school -- it was a home game, the junior goalie couldn't make it, so it was just myself and the senior goalie. The sky was dark and grey, the ground was soaked -- halfway through the A team game, the drizzle had already turned into light rain. The scarce home team spectators opened up umbrellas, I fixed my helmet over my head. The opposing school was intense, fast, frightening; they never seemed to need to talk and they darted around the field like pond-skaters over water. I wasn't afraid of them, though. My fear was focused on Jordan.
Jordan was a tall girl; recruited for her exceptional mind and outstanding athletic abilities. She had attended our school the year before, but transferred at the end of the year, landing on the opposing team. In the halls, she had been easygoing and friendly, but on the field, she was a force to be reckoned with: all lanky limbs and sprints, catlike reflexes and a fierceness in her unlike anyone I had ever seen. I was fiercely proud of my alma mater at the time, and I had something of a grudge against her: how dare she leave our school? How dare she return and challenge us? When she shot on me, I wasn't going to let her score. I wouldn't allow it.
Water droplets gathered on my glasses as we got in position for the B team game and the A team girls pulled out their umbrellas, lounging by the side of the field to watch with languid, silent gazes. The other team started off hard and fast -- I blocked most of the shots, but not all of them. Every time-out was spent furiously wiping the water from my glasses with my jersey. I couldn't see -- it was so wet and the rain just kept coming, it took everything I had not to slip on the slick soil beneath us. The ground in front of the goals had been trampled by cleats and hacked at by curved sticks; most of the grass had been outright destroyed. Nearly perfect circles of squishy, disgusting mud stretched out from the goals, and as the mud stuck between our cleats, we became more and more prone to slipping. Though we were holding our own, we were only one point ahead. The field players were equally matched, with Jordan sprinting in and out of my field of vision as she passed and peeled back off. I was so terrified that she would drive down the middle and shoot on me, that I would hear the deafening CRACK of enforced fiberglass against plastic as she nailed me in the stomach with the ball from 20 yards away.
I breathed. The sounds around me were fuzzy, sweltering heat and a pounding heartbeat in my head. The elastic back of my helmet was pushing down hard onto my ponytail holder, forcing a constant pressure onto the back of my skull. Everything ached. There was mumbling, talk of subs. We were sweaty and damp and our hair was matted and disgusting, our clothes were soaked; we were cold, muddy, miserable. Regardless, we all put our sticks in the center of the circle and shouted "TEAM!" before we raised them toward the churning clouds like Valkyrie warriors. We switched sides.
There was no time to relax as the other team started whaling on the goal: they took a shot, I slipped and slid through the mud trying to block it. Hands outreached, eyes clenched tight as I begged not to hear it -- a dull thud against the back of the goal. They scored on me. It took all of the strength in the world to force myself to get back up. After a few minutes of failure-induced nausea and hallucinations of predicted movement paths, someone managed to score back the point we lost with the hearty THUNK that comes when the goalie doesn't even come close to stopping the ball. Immediately, everything seemed clearer, even through my smudged, fogged up glasses. The rain came down harder than before, my hair was driving me nuts in tendrils against the hypersensitive skin at the back of my neck, humid and heating up between my scalp and helmet. I couldn't stand still, constantly shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I looked up at the scoreboard. 20 seconds left . I was in the clear.
Catastrophe struck. Jordan stole the ball and came barreling toward me. Nobody was on her -- nobody could keep up. She was looking right at me with those intense eyes, mouth warped into an intense scowl with the bulk of her mouthguard. My heart froze in my chest and I moved to stay angled between her and the net. My head pounded with my heart and I could see her bending over slightly even as she was running -- she was going to lift it. She was going to do something that I could never manage to block and I was going to fail and we were going to have to go into overtime and then we could lose and it was going to be all my fault.
She slid the flat of her stick under the ball, mud flicking up into the air as she forced it up. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion -- the muddied white ball headed straight for the top right corner of the goal, just out of reach.
I jumped - slid - sideways, stretching my arms out and hoping and praying, only to land square in the mud, sliding hard and fast. My helmet bashed against the goalpost and my ears rang, my head pounded. "This is how I die," I remember thinking to myself as the rain came down on my face. "I'm going to get a concussion and drown in the mud."
I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me, pulling me up, forcing my weight onto my side. My jersey was drenched, padded shorts caked in mud. I got to my feet to see some of my teammates, jabbering. I couldn't hear what they were saying, my head was spinning. I looked around for an explanation only to see a girl from the opposite team setting the ball up on the sideline with a referee.
The ball was out of bounds.
It had been about to go in, but I'd managed to knock it just off course with the edge of my stick -- I gathered from the chatter -- making it fall past the boundary line. I'd knocked it out. I'd prevented the goal. It was going to be a corner. I felt simultaneously sick and pleased with myself and terrified that, within the next ten seconds, I was going to fuck up exponentially and doom the team to overtime. I got into position between the two defenders and flier, watched dutifully as the ball was hit in-bounds, screaming for my teammates to GO as soon as it made it over the line. Defense got on their girls and the flier was fast as hell, but Jordan got the pass and stared up at me, easily dodging our field players. I couldn't see anything but her eyes, caged in by her visor and I could feel that desire to succeed. She was going to score, and she knew it.
But she had been confident last time, too, and she hadn't made it then, had she?
I steeled myself and prepared, she slammed the ball toward the goal -- toward me -- and instead of cowering I ran to meet it with an adrenaline-fueled kick, sending it halfway across the field. The opposing offense tore after it, but to no avail -- the buzzer sounded off to signal the end of the game and I slammed the flat end of my stick against my leg pads, sending a resounding BOOM sound across the field. My teammates accosted me, threw their gross, wet bodies at me and cheered. They were proud of me: for the first time ever, I was necessary. I cried. I'm not ashamed of that; I cried and I blushed and even as we went through the soulless, mandatory congratulatory high-five line with the other team, even as I looked up at Jordan, I was proud of myself. I had defended against a worthy opponent and not only survived, but succeeded.
No longer was field hockey some morbid form of masochistic rebellion against my parents. No, it had become a full-blown revival of my self-esteem, self-worth, and confidence. I was finally doing something for me - for my team - because I wanted to, and because I actually enjoyed it, and it felt damned good. What began as an act of spite evolved into a genuine passion; a love of the game, no matter how brutal, bloody, and godless it may be. I have to say, I rather like it that way.