Rookie. Mom. Coach.

When we were in college, my good, great friend Maryann and I used to train throughout the summer for field hockey in the fall.  We'd use our high school field, and one May morning, we were resting with our sticks over our shoulders while my younger sister, a freshman, was in gym class on the track around the football field.  Her teacher was a large man any respectable townie can imitate on demand.  He paused often and spoke slowly.  He taught us to play some odd version of tag involving a rubber chicken.  That morning, Danielle tells me, he gestured to the upper field were Maryann and I were standing and bellowed: "LOOK. [lengthy uncomfortable pause] At the athletes."  Right, Danielle thought.

Sports are pretty important to me.  I played field hockey and basketball throughout high school, and I was not spectacular at either.  I ran the 800 meter on our track team for two years because I didn't have the endurance for distance or the speed for sprints.  Also, our high school has a no-cut policy.  Yup.  You're beginning to understand.  I played field hockey for three years in college due more to a (romantically self-described) Rudy-like tenacity than to any smidgen of talent.  And when my formal athletic career ended, I entered all sorts of 5Ks, began playing indoor field hockey, and started running the Tufts 10K.  (A memorable 5K moment: Panting near the end of the course, I passed a father telling his son to continue clapping because, "These are the real runners."  "Damn straight," I thought.)  And I coached.  My first years teaching: varsity field hockey and track and field.  While working on my masters: jv field hockey.  Last fall, eight and nine months pregnant: eighth grade field hockey.  And this spring: freshman girls' lacrosse.  Um, I have never played lacrosse before.

I started on Monday, about two weeks after the head coach gave me a five-minute cradling tutorial and Todd and I spent two warm weekends tossing a ball back and forth (I spent this time scooping up the many, many balls I missed) in our front yard.  Our high school's program is only in its second year, and so there's no varsity team and the girls coming back with experience have exactly one year of experience.  It's been humbling so far: the first day I was cradling alongside all the newbies when the older players jogged over and I swear, provided a vaguely hazing sort of commentary on our progress while balls dropped from crosses left and right.  But it's also been fantastic: yesterday afternoon, I helped to demonstrate defensive positioning and could actually cut and scramble after the other coach.  This was not possible in the fall when I waddled around like Fred Sanford holding a field hockey stick.

Here's my point: I think it is so, so important for girls to play sports.  I so, so want Marley and Rudy to play field hockey (and now, lacrosse).  I will get over it if they don't.  I will.  I will embrace the oboe or robotics or tap dance or, God help me, Dungeons and Dragons if that's what my kids love.  But I am doing my best here to be a role model for these ladies.  Marley can immerse herself in all the Cinderella and pink nighties and "ballet-ers" that she wants.  She can refuse to wear pants and strut around in her princess pink glitter shoes daily.  But this past week, she did so with a miniature, sparkly pink lacrosse stick in her hand.  I just want to make sure that the option is there.  I don't care if she's filling my "ka-kwoss" stick with a cornucopia of super balls.  She is a three-year-old who knows what a lacrosse stick is.  And Rudy will spend a handful of games strapped into a Bjorn this spring.  There is nature and there is nurture.  I am going to nurture some athletes if I can.  Then, I promise, nature can do what it wants.