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

