Wiz Khalifa wrote the song that decided my high school jersey colors: black and yellow. My fourth year of high school soccer kicked off this past Friday with a friendly against a midtown Atlanta team.
The girls’ game started at six. My game was scheduled for seven thirty. The team bus left from school at five and drove up to the concrete and turf stadium that huddled under the glare of Atlanta skyscrapers a few miles away. We arrived just after the girls’ game had begun. My team took seats on the concrete bleachers and cheered on our girls… and of course ragged on the teammate whose girlfriend was playing.
At halftime my team took the field for a quick jog, and then spent the second half of the girls’ game warming up on the small patch of grass of to the side of the field. Everything felt routine, despite this being the first game my team had ever played together. After our pregame motivational talk and lineup, the team trainer taped and padded my ankle (thank you to the players who mangled my ankle at practice.)
As a tradition, my coach always starts all seniors. Generally, most players take the bench for the older kids. It’s tradition. Not this year. Coach walked up to me in the locker room and whispered, “Get
yourself ready. I’m gonna start you out at right back.” I had been getting ready since the bus left and Lupe Fiasco had started playing in my ears. This year is the first year I started, first year that I played the entire game, and the first year I had a crowd of people scream my name in unison when I approached the stands to grab a ball that went out.
The pictures will let you know who won. The score when the game ended was 2-0. The 2011 season has begun and I’m ready to fuck shit up all the way to the state finals. This is our year. I came out, made varsity, and I’m starting on the soccer team with the most state championships of any team in any sport in the division. What’s next?