D
ad,
I’m sorry I never told you I was
quitting soccer. The goals that we
built together never fully manifested, and
it was too hard for me to tell you in person.
Our lifelong father-son puzzle has fallen
short here, at the University of Michigan. I
did not know it then, but looking back now I
understand how proud you must have been
to see that goal posted above my bed: “play
professional soccer.” Without your sacri-
fices, I would not be close to where I’m at
today. There’s so much I’ve wanted to tell
you over the years, but words are always
harder to find in the moment. I hope this
letter shows you all you’ve done for me, and
all that is left for me to find on my own. But
mostly, that soccer will always be ours.
I like to think soccer was my profound
connection to the world, an arbitrary love
that derived out of some deterministic fate,
a secret language between the ball and my
feet. From the beginning there was this
subtle art in which the ball freely flowed on
the field. I loved the sound of the grass part-
ing, leaving a line as I passed the ball to your
feet and you smiled. I was a child blissfully
at play.
This “love” was the centripetal force that
kept our family so close. Tethered to your
grandiose passion for the sport, I was des-
tined to keep playing, no matter what. My
first memory of soccer evades me, but per-
haps you can recall. Did the game choose
me or did I choose it? The feeling of being
with the ball became so innate as the years
moved on that the question soon eluded me.
The game became a chance to escape my
mind, and my identity slowly merged itself
to it — the first thing that looked like love.
In eighth grade, when I was asked to pen
a letter to my future self, I responded pas-
sionately in a way that made you proud. I
was genuinely sure of who I wanted to be. I
wrote, in my block/bubble hybrid handwrit-
ing, about the only thing I knew — I wanted
to be a professional soccer player.
And yet, as a 12-year-old, my goals were
not entirely my own. Standing in a mir-
ror, I always saw you pointing back at me.
Coming from a privileged community,
the world wasn’t leaping out of its shoes to
show me my naïveté, so soccer became the
lens through which I learned, and you were
almost always the teacher.
Each lesson I learned, on and off the pitch,
always aligned with our soccer goals. In the
summers, that meant hours at the field with
a repetition of shots, 12 balls for each corner,
left and right, each passing round marked by
the word “again.”
In the winters, the echoes of the rac-
quetball walls were conditioned faintly into
my ears with each pass. The sound of the
last rolled into the next, until a constant
white noise appeared. What started as play
became a routine of practice and repetition.
With each touch, pass and shot, we built
together the foundation of our relationship.
If I wasn’t playing for the love of the game,
I certainly was doing it to be loved by you.
As I grew, the expectations of the game
grew more immense. My anxiety and the
constant criticism I faced blended together
to create a meticulous form of perfectionism.
Even after bright performances, you were
always fixing my mistakes, constantly hon-
ing and molding me like a fine craftsman.
I know you were hard on me for a reason,
so I was equally hard on myself. I wanted
nothing more than to prove you wrong. I
knocked the ball against the wall for hours in
the backyard, constantly hearing your voice,
until I finally internalized it as my own.
Accordingly, one mistake in game would
sometimes haunt me for the rest of the
match. Without knowing it, we both had
created a paradoxical loop. My greatest
assets — practice and perfection — also
became my downfall. Still, I always wanted
more, to prove to you that I was everything
but a quitter.
When the inner workings of chance
and geometric luck combined with hours
of sweaty shirts and fancy footwork, we
had finally done it, Dad. I walked around
Ann Arbor with you and Mom in a dream-
like state. My whole life had been for this
moment. You put your arms around my
shoulders as we walked out of the Michigan
Athletics office, freshly signed to the Uni-
versity of Michigan. I can’t remember if you
said you were proud of me, but I could feel
your warm presence.
As I walked out of the locker room and
into my dreams, I lightly tapped the words
“WIN FOR MICHIGAN.” Standing in front
of the crowds with jittery hands, I took a
deep breath and looked for your familiar face.
With a slight nod of your head, the years of
preparation raced through my mind. Nobody
knew how I was standing there, but you.
Two years treaded on and problems are
destined to arise when the sole basis of your
identity is built on performance. When I did
not play well, I excluded myself from any
validation. My idea of self-worth became
thin, reduced to something that my coaches
could fiddle with. Off the pitch, I always felt
the need for approval, which I was no longer
getting from soccer — a never-ending act,
constantly appeasing others as I had done
my whole life.
Simultaneously, the game no longer
seemed like my own, a version manipulated
for far too long to fit the views of how oth-
ers perceived I should play. College athlet-
ics, built around structure, rationale and
winning, had bullied out the formlessness
and freedom I had found at any early age.
My creative dance with the ball came with
instructions on how and when to do it.
At times, I still felt like that child at play,
smiling effortlessly, unburdened by what
the game had become. I hoped that when I
found anxiety and insecurities while play-
ing, that child would empower me to play
with passion. I hoped he would help me
dictate every move and mistake as I purely
played for the love of the game. But, by
my senior year, the expectations of those
around me had rotted away that part of
the game. Soon, I felt as if I was playing for
everyone but myself.
One should never pursue their craft with
popularity as the sole purpose, and yet, most
of our creative outlets are monetized and
marketed based on their transactional value.
With soccer, my form of creativity became
battered and bruised beneath the demands
of winning. My soul was sick and tired of
soccer’s solid shell. The soft elements of play
that I first found with you were now broken
and brittle. Hardness and strength had left a
steel bridge, with no room for water to flow.
I know we never reached our final goal,
but in my 17 years of playing, I don’t think
we should end on a negative note. Society
often looks at athletes as one-dimensional,
but each sport comes with its own socio-
logical, psychological and cultural char-
acteristics. For me, in my highly subjective
biases, soccer is not just a game, but an art
and philosophy. At its pinnacle, it reaches
for an aesthetic dimension, utilizing dance
and movement of the body through space.
I learned throughout my years playing that
a sense of honor and duty comes from com-
petition, forcing me to search the limits and
potentials of my mind and body.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019 // The Statement
2B
Managing Statement Editor
Andrea Pérez Balderrama
Deputy Editors
Matthew Harmon
Shannon Ors
Associate Editor
Eli Rallo
Designers
Liz Bigham
Kate Glad
Copy Editor
Silas Lee
Photo Editor
Danyel Tharakan
Editor in Chief
Maya Goldman
Managing Editor
Finntan Storer
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | SEPTEMBER 18, 2019
The I in Athlete
BY LUCAS ROSENDALL, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
COURTESY OF LUCAS ROSENDALL