What Will Become of Us?

Mirrors really are a loathsome invention. As nearly the first thing we see at the start of each day, so often our image is not as we desire. In the world of sports, taking a look at yourself and your program can be baneful when the night has left your hair stirred. In the case of the Palm Beach Punishers, as with women’s football as a whole, the picture in the mirror this morning is one of ambiguity and concern.

The lack of sleep is palpable; the bags beneath our eyes tell the tale of a rollercoaster first half to the year. A pre-season of poor practice attendance and lackluster fundraising efforts almost ended our year before it started. The numbers of both players and coaches seemed dismal for the majority of the winter. The effort peaked at the right time; a hard game in Jacksonville proved to be much less of a beating than expected, and we managed two big touchdowns and several long drives to generate some confidence within the ranks.

It proved effective, and we opened our home schedule with a deafening roar: shutting out freshman Savannah and putting up a record 38 points. We returned from two idle weeks with another home victory, this one a more nerve-racking 16-8 struggle over Tampa, putting us a 2-1 for the first time in our five-year history. As excited as we were, many players, alumni of winning athletic programs in the past, could tell there was something oddly unsettling about celebrating such small efforts. The problematic special teams inconsistencies as well as our faltering offense made the mirror both bleary and fogged.

The cracks showed against rival Miami. Though we came closer than ever with a 12-9 effort, the game was in our hands when we opened up with a well-executed 59-yard touchdown drive. They blocked the PAT, but we marched back down the field on the next series and kicked a 30-yard field goal. The lead was almost puzzling for us. We lost trust in one another, and handed the game to a crippled version of our arch-nemesis.

We’ll get another chance on June 18th, but not until we face Savannah again, here in the sweltering humidity of Southern Costal Georgia. While the rest of the world is busy quibbling over the rapture (predicted for the umpteenth time to commence today at 6:00pm), we’re trying to avoid the Armageddon of our season. This time we’re in the Sabres’ house–missing several key players and our defensive coordinator–who promises to run our defense to bones if they give away a shutout.

But somehow it seems impossible to again achieve such a whomping against the Sabres, who, despite their dismal record, have promising numbers and a solid coaching staff. With the collapse of their IWFL counterparts, it’s likely members of the Stingerz/Peachez have found their way onto the Sabres.

A fledgling O-line tries to come together, while still maturing league staff try to pursue TV time.

It’s almost as though several pieces of the picture are suspended in air, and in 4 short hours they will fall into their place. A similar image floats precariously before the IWFL and WFA’s  marketing forces. With the NFL lockout mediation still hitting snags, the possibility of an empty fall season grows. If the two sides can’t reach an agreement by June or July, the likelihood of mobilizing the manpower needed to make football happen lessens. And if TV time becomes available, and fans want football, will we make a quick turnaround to play in September?

So we dampen our dreary faces and paint our cheeks with promise. We may hate the way we look sometimes, but we can’t afford seven years of bad luck.

Changing Facemasks

You get used to the view from your bedroom window. It’s how you start your morning, how you plan your day. It’s something constant; there are slight differences from time to time, but by and large, the landscape is the same. And there is something to be said for familiarity (despite it’s famous way of breeding contempt). I’m learning this rancorously; I have spent two weeks abandoning my home–upon a quiet nature preserve–for a raucous downtown apartment. But that’s just the allure–for once in my life, that cacophonous space is in my name. The choice to leave my prior residence was not indicative of my affinity for it; it was all about location and independence.

Besides the landscape of your yard, the view outside your helmet is similarly captured. Facemasks, for example, can seem incredibly obtrusive at first try-on. But eventually, your vision will learn how to ignore each bar blocking you. It’s our mind’s way of overcoming an obstacle.

I believe I’ve just lost a bar.

Palm Beach, welcome to the WFA

The Punishers have officially made the jump; we are now card-carrying members of the Women’s Football Alliance. We’ve all watched their meteoric rise over the last 3 years. Now Palm Beach, and myself, have the chance to climb that mountain as well. We are in like company; the Punishers will join several teams in Florida, like Jacksonville, Tampa, and Orlando. In fact, that regional appeal was what made the case for our departure.

Though we’ve cherished our relationship with the IWFL, and admire their pioneering of the game, dollars and sense drew us elsewhere. We changed positions, so we had to change our mask.

It’s hard to tell where we’ll go from here, but one thing is certain; as I move into my first apartment on my own, my team is also lugging boxes. Fortunately, we have some familiar neighbors…looks like we’ll keep that ‘Furious’ rival down South. And with rumors of another South Florida franchise emerging, it may prove to be an interesting year.

When Fear Turns to Fate

The more time I spend in the sea, the more unusual occurrences I’m privy to. Whether it’s a dead sea anemone floating in the surf, or a shark being startled by me, each day brings a new adventure and a better understanding of the world I’m invading. There is a respect that replaces the nervousness of a fledgling surfer, and an awareness that encroaches upon the departure of terror.

The football field is not so different from the ocean. As a newcomer, the stentorian presence and danger of larger adversaries is daunting; and their comfort in the water is enviable.

Run not for the sake of your life, but for the deed that begs accomplishment.

But there is a turning point in every young athlete’s life; the moment that opponents cease to rattle you. It is the advancement of the competitive spirit, the maturation of the drive to win. For me, that shift was under the unlikeliest of circumstances, and in the strangest of places; the defensive side of the ball.

Defense has long been treacherous waters to me…Arctic seas that startle my tropical capacities. Offensive-minded by nature, hitting was a trigger I was missing, an instinct I wasn’t born with. Or perhaps just a tide I had not yet committed myself to braving. Our final home game sent me migrating, and forever changed my mindset.

With only 14 (somewhat) healthy players on our sideline, we were staring down an antagonist we’ve never conquered: a Tier 1 team famous only for beating us. They were thin on numbers, but still nearly twice the amount and size of us. Closing the season out at home, we were desperate for a good showing, and very patchwork in personnel.

The Achilles heel of our defense all year was at corner–rushing the outside almost always proved devastating to us. Such was my assigned location, and my task was containing one of the most prolific outside rushers in the league. I forced myself to think of it as visceral, and spent the off week pouring video and corner strategy into my mind. I wore a little extra padding, and asserted myself that no matter how bad they ran me over, I would not let go.

The fear of failure was replaced by a manufactured certainty of my abilities. I knew no matter their size, they could not match my speed. My improved strength also helped me, as several girls tried in vain to elude my grasp and block me off the ball. There was no opponent would could keep me from containing the plays to the outside. Though I was sometimes knocked down by my larger counterparts carrying the ball, I brought them with me every time, including a touchdown-saving tackle on the aforementioned halfback (around 225) and a ridiculously large trick play “wideout” (300 at the LIGHTEST). I also found myself able to disrupt plays in the backfield by keening in to their tendencies and reading the backfield–something I’ve never been able to do with any regularity.

We weren’t quite able to pull off the upset, but we made our point. 14-6 against the Fury is no small feat for a battered lineup of mostly rookies. I was also able to pursue my defensive responsibilities without sacrificing my kicking or offensive duties, as I finished with solid punt and kickoff averages and hauled in a 48-yard touchdown pass in the waning minutes of the 4th.

I’m no Nnamdi, but I did everything asked of me. I can end this season knowing that despite our dismal record and unfortunate abandonment issues, the players who remained were truly willing to make the ultimate sacrifices, and I feel closer to my program than ever. I may not have had the stats of last year, but I did far more on the field and overcame much greater odds to score my three TD’s and 2 field goals.

I’m yet to reach the mecca of my predation…but I’m finally beyond my larval stage. I can swim the seas with confidence, for there is no climate that I cannot adapt to.

Greener Pastures

There are no trade deadlines, no agents to negotiate with.

In women’s football, it’s as simple as a release form. You play for where you live, or you drive to where you play. No gas allowances, no salary cap. Some teams pay you, some teams you pay. It’s hard to know what you’re getting into until you’re knee-deep in it.

Bad teams get good, like the Carolina Phoenix or the Kansas City Tribe. And good teams get bad, like the Detroit Demolition, 2007 IWFL Champions now nearly defunct. Though on any given Sunday any multitude of outcomes are possible, certain infrangible laws prevail over the majority of the football world: well-coached teams win games, and athletes score points.

But experience and knowledge of the game are often unknown. Coaches don’t always come with a pedigree or resume, and players can outrun a horse but catch like a donkey. Many rookies do not know what a first down is. Personal responsibility and judgment become more important for team owners in the women’s game. Likewise, teaching is paramount as there’s little chance of Pop Warner or High School player experience.

After four years of letdowns, I find myself at an important crossroads. I must choose either to stay and fight to shape this team as a franchise founding player, or seek my fortunes elsewhere. With my degree now in hand and forever in the future, my career chances may well coincide with pigskin opportunities.

Yet how can one forfeit the bond and affection of a team that feels more like family? Though it seems like abandoning ship, how many more times can I watch that family suffer and sink? There is no easy answer, because there are no rules. All that matters is that you can live with it.

I have fought for every friendship I have gained here, thus making it all the more difficult to depart. The road from the bench to the record book was arduous, but the road into hopelessness is worse.

I’m ready to fight three final battles with my sisters. Two between the buzzers, and one in the off-season. We’ve spent months washed in our own blood…now it’s time to tend the fields.

Nobody Said it Would Be Easy

After a loss this demeaning, it’s tempting to place blame and withdraw. That is our instinctual response–to find the meek and weed them out.

a particular calling left unanswered...so far

But as a program, that kind of fault-finding alienates players. To lose players emotionally makes on-field performance impossible, while losing them physically hurts recruiting and crumbles tradition.

The truth is, everyone is to blame. We’ve all fallen short of unrealistic expectations; all that is left is pride. The toughest foe of them all is self-doubt, and turning that into self-motivation is like making wine from water. The poison of regret has a toxicity beyond any other, and a cup can only hold so much bad blood before it spills over.

So we pull our heads from the sand a drag ourselves forward. For myself, it means a new training schedule and a new purpose. I cannot live for numbers…I can only hope for betterment.

No good deed is left unPUNISHED.

Sugar High

We did it.

Not quite in Namath fashion, but the Punishers pulled it out this past weekend. It was a toil more than a triumph.

The 14-hour overnight bus ride set the tone, as sleep was elusive and tempers were thin. When we arrived at our hotel in Baton Rouge we found it in disrepair, but such are the fortunes of wayfarers.

Threatening weather held and we arrived at the field. As I warmed up my kicking leg I found field goals to be the only sufferer of the uncomfortable endeavor, with a success rate of 14/20 and a distance range of 35 (results much lower than I expect). It seemed as though the short nap in the hotel had provided adequate energy otherwise.

At first glance our adversaries were thin on numbers but big where it counted; in the defensive box.

We got off to a slow start. Fatigue was rampant, and I felt both groggy and off-balance. After drinking several Titles in the locker room, myself and others were confidant the flurry of mistakes would soon halt. We had the lead, but not the momentum.

In the third quarter, we blew it open. Two receivers and a makeshift fullback (who normally plays defensive line) had scored in dramatic fashion. As the excitement increased, my talented young quarterback threw me a perfect go route. Once I secured the ball, I ran faster than I have in weeks. Sprains and overuse had slowed me, but the rush of white lines made me witness to my recovery. 61 yards later I made my long overdue return to the endzone, and our team posted its fifth offensive touchdown of the season, putting us ahead 26-6.

But tribulation reared its head, and a massive offensive line and officiating misfortune gave our opponents’ hefty running game a boost. I became mindful of my imperfect field goal warmup, and feared for my ability to seal a close victory. Incertitude is my arch nemesis, and I fought it back with the help of my teammates and a few well-placed kick-offs (which were vital considering their return capabilities).

As the clock sifted away, we drove the ball deep into their territory once again. However, I wouldn’t find the endzone this time. Instead, the ugliest side of the game, rage, found me. A frustrated player on Louisiana’s team put a brazen helmet-to-helmet hit on the back of my head after a wayward pass, rendering me unconscious for a few moments (a detail I argued fervently until I witnessed the event on film).

Much to my dismay, my coaches and trainers kept me on the sidelines for the remnant third and all-important fourth quarter.

With our lead now reduced to 6 and our adversaries driving further, another one of my teammates made an impressive one-handed interception to seal the game in the final seconds.

Catharsis in grand fashion and elation in abundance. I was able to overcome the demons of self-doubt, but was once again faced with the harsh realities of the game. Only seconds separate each of us from retirement, and I thanked my equipment and physical training for my ability to avoid a concussion from the hit.

I love my team despite all the challenges we face both within and abroad. We came together at long last. That vindication was not without demurral, nor is it lacking brevity.

As our sugar high courses freely, Sunday’s powerful Tier I foe looms. That day will be both vital and volatile, and my workouts seem to be responding.

The first step to Sweden is surviving the season…

Punishers: 1-3 (Tier II: 1-2)