La Reina | The Story of Melanie Kavitz

worth

I remembered the vivid fear I felt when I tried out for the Franklin High Football Team; I expected the coach to turn me the other way, reminding me of my place, and what exactly it was I was darin to do. I had been among seven other candidates, and I had been benched for the first several rounds of play.

A lingering voice in the back of my head kept telling me that I wouldn't be playing at all, and that the only reason I was there for as long as I had been was because the coach didn't want to dismiss me in that manner in front of the other players.

As the minutes went by - one more painful than the next - I witnessed that desperation and disappointment reflected upon the coach as well. He hadn't found what he had been looking for, and it was going to hurt him tremendously. He seemed to have given the same silent response to every amateur player he took off of the game to send back to the lockers: You're not good enough for me.

That was when I mentally noted that being benched would be better than getting that look. The look of failure. The look that newly defined you no matter how hard you may have worked to define yourself.

When the coach approached me, I was hoping for dismissal - as I had been the only amateur player left on the bench. To my shock, I was told to get on the field and into position. But the coach didn't even bother to look at me. He expected the same from me as the rest, and the sooner I was done with, the less severe the frustration would've been.

I didn't want those eyes on me - I wasn't going to let that look define me the way it did the others. Nobody had the right to define me other than my own self, and I was going to make sure he and the other players on the field knew that.

The initial stares of confusion and dismissal didn't bother me; it was what anyone would've expected. I was as out of place as a random bag of Cheetos in the canned food aisle. Whispers of contemplation as to whether or not to take it easy on me filled my ears, but I affirmed my desire to be confronted with the very best that everyone had to offer.

Within five minutes, I had nailed a midfielder and two defenders to the floor and sent the goalkeeper flying the opposite direction with my first goal.

Within twelve minutes, I chipped a free-kick over a seven-men wall and the goalkeeper's head.

By the end of the twenty minutes, not only was I was able to single-handedly dribble past every outfield player to reach the net, but I was able to earn the respect of every player on the team and of my soon-to-be coach - who gave me the green light as soon as he called off the try-put.

Looking back at that memory to this day brought be so much pride, because that was something I was able to achieve on my own merit, regardless of the setbacks. I allowed my ability to speak for itself, and it did.

But a strong and persistent hunch assured me that this "try-out" wouldn't be anywhere near that simple.

This was the national team. The team that played in the Gold Cup. The Copa America on occasion. The Confederations Cup. The World Cup. This was the team that would have to stand their ground against the beat internationals in the world - housing the most incredible footballing talents this planet has ever seen and will ever see. Forget mediocrity - being anything less than sublime would never cut it.

I proved myself to be as good as the high school youth players of my home city. Now I had to prove myself against professionals of the game - legends who spent their whole lives for their passion and their dream to become the best footballer they could be. How was I ever going to compare?