No One Cares. Play Harder.

While my teammates posed cheerfully with bursting smiles on the ESPN stage, a silver medal clenched between their teeth, I tried to hold back tears of humiliation.

Field hockey started as an occasional Sunday recreation, simply a time when I could exercise and be with my friends. Little did I know that over the next five years, field hockey would become all-consuming. Every time I renewed my club membership, I waved goodbye to birthday parties, weekend trips, and even my strongest grades. Everyone around me seemed to love the eight-hour weeks and consistent weekend tournaments in the Northeast, but I never felt satisfied, and what used to be fun for me turned into something that I truly dreaded. Club field hockey was the first exposure I got to a real team sport. I have always been an extremely competitive and athletic person, so joining a club team felt natural. Other girls joined the team in the hopes that they could go D1, but college was far from my mind at the time. However, it became increasingly hard not to think about it when the wall of athletes that had gone D1 greeted me every time I walked into the practice facility. Initially, I wasn’t worried about playing time or fitting in with my new team, but what I soon realized was that my fiercest competition was not with other teams. It was within my own club.

Healthy competition is vital to healthy teams; it fuels athletes by giving them a sense of drive. At my former club, no mistake went unnoticed, and oftentimes one wrong move could get you moved down a team or to a lower court. I never felt comfortable enough to make a mistake, so much so that my mind was not focused on the actual game and instead filled with stress about how messing up would come off to my coaches and teammates. This was a brand new feeling for me. At school and at home, I am extremely extroverted: never afraid to speak up, fail, or even say words that might end up costing me. At my old club, I started to see my light dim, and I felt incredibly conflicted. Why can’t I enjoy this? How is everyone else doing fine? At this point in time, most of my nights ended in stacks of homework left undone and me being on the verge of a full breakdown. Little did I know, my final debut was coming up shortly, even if I would be watching from the bench.

The Disney World ESPN tournament is the most anticipated of the year (and frankly the shortest flight from Texas than the rest of our tournaments). This tournament has been the only sliver of hope I have been clinging to at some of my lowest moments. After a challenging season, my team advanced to the quarterfinals, then surprisingly the semifinals, and then by some miracle, the championship. The final game was a dream for everyone on my team—at least for the ones who got to set foot on the field. To my dismay, I was not subbed in the first quarter, then the second, then the third, and finally, three-fourths through the fourth quarter, my self-confidence, which had been lost for a period of time, came back. I decided to take the risk and walked to my coach from the bench with a smile. I asked if I would be going in this game. I saw her eyes sharpen and stare me down. “You will never go in because you asked.” My face fell immediately, but her response was fair. I had no right to ask, and I was fully aware of the chance I was taking by confronting her. However, I don’t think she knew the extent of the impact she was making on my confidence and perspective on self-determination. What she answered that day helped me clarify that it didn’t matter if I played or not; field hockey and the elite level I was playing at were not making me happy.

Club coaches normally hold everyone to an almost unachievable standard. Mentally, I was willing, and I desired to put in the work necessary to become the all-star player that everyone expected of me, but I knew that the way I faced the world would never align with what my coach desired from me. My tendency to always rebut and speak up never seriously held me back before, until I played club. I could have gone down the road to D1 if I did exactly what I was told and agreed with everything my coach said, but that is simply not who I am. When the game ended, I posed with my team for a celebration picture celebrating second place. Standing on the podium, I knew my field hockey days were over, and I felt like I had wasted so much time on something that ended up not being worth all the hours I put into it. At least that’s what I thought.

When I exited the tournament, I saw a merch table, one shirt in particular that read “No one cares. Play harder.” This was field hockey for me in a nutshell. Even if I was struggling, my coach did not care for it, and only viewed me as a statistical number. When I think back to the day I officially left the club, I do not see myself as a quitter and instead as someone who left with a lesson. The lesson that you cannot be your best if your heart is not in it. In the following months after the Disney tournament, I decided to play field hockey again, but for my school. I still had retained all of my skills, so I got to start at center mid for the entire season, which felt natural. Playing for this team felt freeing. I could make a mistake, laugh, then get back to work.

The phrase “nobody cares, play harder” had a new meaning for me. It was no longer about how no one cares when you are suffering; instead, no one cares if you make a mistake, so do not give up, and you will do better next time. I felt that the love I initially had for the sport returned. Whether it is a sport, science project, startup business, or first job, always keep in mind that nobody cares. Play harder.