The Athlete Way

I am still striving for a dream I once touched.  The night was getting late. The crowd, though inspired, seemed to be getting restless. They were ready to move, mingle, and celebrate. Rhodes - my 10 month old niece - who sat beside me, had fallen asleep hours ago.  As I walked up to the podium, I didn’t know the exact words I would say. I had scribbled down a few notes. Yet writing a speech didn’t feel authentic to me. I wanted to let myself be carried by the passion in my heart, because the passion is what had carried me to that moment. I had to trust that the passion would lead me where I was meant to be. I was at my best when I trusted the passion, and let the desire to please fall away. I had mixed emotions leading up to the Hall of Fame and 100th Anniversary ceremony. Joy, grief, thankfulness, resentment, excitement, and anxiety. A lot of anxiety. Anxiety about the people I would see, about what I would wear, and say. I was scared about how I would feel in the moment - wo...

Dear Rachel, I hope you play better today. But I hope more that you enjoy your play today. This might upset you but I was never really into winning or losing. I always loved just watching you play - when you were just playing the game and using your own abilities. And when the object of the game is to get the ball into the goal, and you play just to get it in goal, not to add up a score but to get it into the goal. I loved the goals they always give me chills simply because it is the object of the game - not because it makes you win. And then when you are playing to keep the goals from the other team, and you just block them because it is the object of the game not so they do not get points, or so you don't lose, but you play just to keep it out simply because that is the object of the game. I love that too. What I took from today was pretty simple - half the battle is your presence and your voice - you touch the ball, on a good day, for about a minute during a 70...

I’m not going to be the hero you read about in books. I’m not that type of hero. I am a weaver. I weave seemingly random moments into a tapestry of words that come together to form a message that connects the outwardly disparate, distinct threads of my life. I merge bold obnoxious hues of green, red, and orange, with soft pastels of pink, yellow, purple, and blue. That is my craft, my gift. I connect things, subtly, invisibly, patiently, into an intelligible whole. The other day I went to community mediation with a friend. The teacher spoke of the Zen Buddhist tradition of koans, and I came to understand them as being a bit like Jesus’ parables, paradoxical anecdotes used to demonstrate the inadequacy of logical reasoning to arouse enlightenment. I left the meditation with the sense that my gift, like my life, was remarkably similar to this notion of koans. It doesn’t make sense. It’s an answerless riddle, whose truth, invisible to the eye, is discernable only to the heart. ...

Morning dawns, And with it, I’m gone. Darkness settles, And in it, I mettle. Demons come. And from them, I run. Bells ring And with them, I sing. Winds blow, And from them, I know. Light appears, And in it, I hear: There’s nothing to fear God is here.

Lips brushed gently against my ear. It was like the soft caress of a warm wind. A shiver descended my spine. I anchored my bare feet into the brown panels of cold wooden floor. The room was empty, and yet, I wasn’t alone. I knew those lips. I knew that wind, and I knew that the swell was nearly upon me. “You’ve returned.” I mouthed in wordless welcome. “Yes. I’ve returned.” She whispered. “Again?” My eyes spoke. “Again.” She replied. I bowed my head in calm acceptance. The urge to fight - to run, to protest, to demand a reason for her intrusion – rose instinctively inside of me. I let the urge rise, I let it morph into anger, and I let rage color me blind, enjoying for a moment, the freedom of sightlessness. Still, I felt her. I opened my eyes. “Yes, I'm here.” She answered. Unyielding and inescapable, she remained. I had no choice. I let the rage reach its crescendo, and then, I watched it fall, and with it, my body crumb...

My fingertips fumble for the button. I ache to make it come undone. Naked. I’m ready to be naked, to stand still and quiet out in the world. It’s summer. I want to let the sun kiss my skin. It’s always been summer, and yet I’ve lived in such fear of winter, wearing so many layers, stacking layer atop of layer, afraid to face life without layers, scared to be naked. Scared to be still, scared to sit in the moment, scared of the spaciousness of life. It’s hot beneath all these layers. I’m sweating. I’m suffocating. I tell myself to let go, to unbutton the buttons, and let the layers fall away. There’s a universe within. I sense it pulsating through my veins. I’m ready to set that universe free. I cling to the layers though, to the rigid macadam-crusted earth. I said it was summer, but its actually fall, and today I walked in the sun, and sat in the shade of a tree, on a bench, and leaves fell around me. They danced from the sky, twirling and teasing. It was beautiful. And I thou...

I'm not sure what it is about baseball but I love it. I love the sound of it - the slow hum that cascades imperceptibly into a crescendo of action; the sharp clash of wood beating leather and the strong snap of the glove catching a fly ball. I love the cheers of the crowd and the buzz of the lights. Oh, the crackle of the radio in the dark heat of summer; how I love those old, deep voices that bring to life the story of the game; that open our hearts to the humble heroes of America's game - the original ball players.

I wrote the article below in the summer of 2010 on my good friend and USA teammate Keli Smith Puzo. The story, which featured in the debut issue of  my fictitious hockey magazine, chronicles the iconic life of Puzo as she redefines the image of the American hockey player by taking on new adventures as mother and wife, while flourishing in her traditional role on the field . In the years since this article was written, Keli Smith Puzo has played in the London Olympics, and given birth to another son, Ian. Smitty announced her retirement recently. Congratulations, and Thank You Keli.

My Beautiful, Winding Road  - a blog for espnW. Below, ictures from the road.

The lights whirled. My head spun. I peered through the small square window of indestructible glass. My heart raced. I was uncertain. Was it rude to look? For a moment our eyes met. I didn’t smile. My face contorted into an uncertain grimace. I wanted to smile. I wanted to open the door, and say something silly, grab his hand and tell him that I cared, and that he’d be okay, and that if he needed anything, we were here, right next door, where we’d always been. Well, where he’d always been. I didn’t, though. I couldn’t. I was scared. Too scared. Fear won. The moment between us broke. He threw his head back in mad laughter as he sat the rapturous clutch of pain, still too proud to show weakness. Age hadn’t crippled his stature. He was broad, tall, and strong. His presence commanded attention. His gaze settled upon the roof of the ambulance; I thought maybe I’d been wrong to look. Tomorrow, he’d be fine. And when he came home, I’d walk across our ...

Week Two: Pick Up in the Park . What a turn out.  We had over 25 people show up and play. Great local representation - mothers, daughters, fathers, sons, sisters, brothers, neighbors, and friends. Everyone got competitive and joined in on the play.  Novices competed against Olympians, All-Americans, and High School Football Coaches. What was the common denominator?  Competitive fun for all. This week's Pick Up Session will take place on Thursday, November 15 at 6:30pm. We will play under the lights on the tennis courts at Berlin Park. It'll be the first go on the tennis courts. Be patient. Eat dinner, then come play.  Just an FYI, I'll be away this Sunday. Please don't let that stop you from arranging a game. Remember, all you have to do is Show Up and Play.    Pick Up in the Park: Upcoming Week Purpose:   To empower creative play, develop competitive instincts, grow leaders, and unite our community with sport. It’s spontan...

Kylie Dawson at the on Nov. 4 Pick Up in the Park I look out onto the field, but she's not there. The fierce, nitty-gritty, blue collar, I'll-find-a-way-where-there's-not-a-way-kid is no where to be found. Where has she gone?  What have we done to her? I miss her. I miss watching her play. I miss the ferocity and focus of her eyes.  I miss her anger, her tears, her post game spazzes. I miss her exploration, her creativity. I miss her determination, her passion.  What have we done to her? Have the exorbiant costs of youth sports forced her out of the game? Have we praised pretty too much or patted her too often on the back. Have we overemphasized skill and dimmed her competitive instinct.  The early specialization, the debilitating costs, the pressure. Where's the fun in the game? Where's the exploration? The creativity? Where are the dialogues of different perspectives? The constructive conversations that prom...

In Dublin, Ireland at the Champions Challenge, an International field hockey tournament. Here's my take on Ireland, the Land of Lore. There are some places I really like. Ireland is one of them. Not sure why. Maybe it’s that quirky Eye-ish twang – “I-dink-day-cullit Ingish” or those abundant rolling hills of lush green. Heck, maybe, it’s just the Guinness - I love an impeccably smooth pint. Whatever it is, it enchants me. There’s something special about the people here. The Irish are made of durable character, modest in their work and tireless in their effort. They are refreshingly practical in their perspective - humorously stoic yet deviously witty. Aside from the red hair, freckles, and fair complexion, most of the Irish are equipped with three things - a good sense of humor, a solid imagination, and a strong liver. It's Darwinism at its finest - these genetic traits are survival necessities - the daily weather is absolutely abysmal...

A few days ago, the National Team returned to the Olympic Training Center in Chula Vista for a short training camp before the Champions Challenge Tournament in Dublin, Ireland. This post is about exhilaration of my experience returning to training camp after the let-down of the Olympic Games. I turned the handle, pushed the door aside, and walked through. Bam. It hit me like the rolling in of a late summer storm.   A soft, clean, indistinct smell wafted into my nostrils. It was a familiar yet paralyzing scent – it was the powerful smell of nostalgia, both blurry and timeless. With eyes that should have been wizened by age and experience, I gazed at the seemingly unchanged room - the large box-cushioned couch against the wall, the wooden tables, the antiquated brown refrigerator, the TV – though new - still hanging in the corner. My feet dug deep into the dorm carpet. I stood still. My heart leapt. I felt like a kid again, like the kid I’d been l...