Tales From the Field: 12 Stories, 1 Championship

Captain Megan

You know what they say, "Second place is the first loser."

We don't need to be the most talented team. We don't need to have the best player in the league. We don't need trick plays, fancy moves, or complicated strategies. The Central High women's varsity soccer team simply needs to be the hardest working and most prepared team to win a state championship.

At least that's the way I see it. And my way is the only way, at least for pre-season before the coaches get involved.

I smooth the front of my t-shirt, the one that has "Captain Megan" written above a soccer ball, a present from my parents when they found out I had been named captain. Then I blow the whistle and call the girls in for a huddle.

"All right, ladies. Enough warming up. Let's get down to business. Break into groups of three and work on one-touch passes." They all stare at me like they're waiting for more instructions. I blow the whistle again and scream, "Let's go!"

Last year we lost in the finals, a brush so close with victory it left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, or maybe that was the taste of blood from when I took a cleat to the mouth. Either way, I'm not interested in second place.

I make my way around the groups, correcting form and shouting encouragement. Among the returning varsity players are four seniors (not counting me—the most important one), three juniors, and one sophomore; all of whom are likely to be starters.

That leaves two starting positions and a handful of bench positions for the remaining twenty-two girls who have shown up. Anyone who doesn't attend pre-season training won't have much of a chance at making varsity.

A flash of quick feet catches my attention. With narrowed eyes, I stare down the player, assessing this newcomer. I consult my clipboard and match her face to a headshot of Brooke Giamatti, a freshman prospect. She's got a good touch and solid build, definitely varsity material. I nod my head in approval.

Brooke's smile holds a bit of a self-satisfied smirk behind it. She'll be a good addition to the team as long as she doesn't get too cocky.

"Hunter!" I yell the last name of one my returning juniors. Her first name is Addison, but no one calls her that.

I beckon to her, and she jogs over, face bright red and cheeks puffing out from the effort. It looks like she's gained ten pounds since last season.

"Did you follow the off-season training and nutrition guide?" I ask.

The slight wobble in her chin betrays the answer before she even speaks. "I hurt my ankle over the summer—"

I hold up my hand to cut her off. "Five suicides, the full length of the field." Her mouth gapes open. "Go! Now!" I yell before she can argue.

It may seem harsh—Hunter's hardly overweight—but as a team, we have to be in the best shape of our lives. We're only as good as our weakest player.

Some, including my own teammates, might not like my strict attitude (some even go so far as to call me choice word or two), but that's mostly because they don't understand the pressure. Sure, the coaches and the parents all told us that we did a great job after last year's loss. But I saw on their faces what they wouldn't say: We were a disappointment, we had failed.

Plus, it's my senior year. This is my last chance to impress college recruiters. If I want any chance at a scholarship, I have to do more than stand out, and the best way I can do that is lead my team to their first ever championship.

A sharp blast on my whistle gets everyone's attention. I divide them—except for Hunter, who is still lumbering up and down the field completing her suicides—into two teams to scrimmage. Watching players in real game situations is the best way to evaluate their skills and to find out how they mesh with the rest of the team.

I'm handing out yellow pinnies to one team when a scream rings out across the field. Hunter's down, clutching her ankle and writhing on the ground in pain. Half the team rushes over to her. I kneel by her side and place a hand on her shoulder to get her to lie still.

Her face is scary pale and awash with tears. Through gasps, she says, "I think it's broken."

One look at the twisted angle of her ankle and I know she's right. I point to Haley, one of the other seniors. "Call 9-1-1."

She runs to her bag and pulls out a cell phone, while I try and keep Hunter calm. I tell everyone to give her some space and quietly instruct Hunter to stay still and take deep breaths.

The low wail of sirens announces the arrival of the emergency vehicles. As Hunter is carted off on a stretcher, I know it's kind of insensitive, but I can't help but think, "There goes my perfect season."