The shirt. A coveted item in intramural sports. At my university, whatever team wins their division’s tournament doesn’t receive fame or money—their names don’t go down in history—but—they get the shirt.
Some, like me, could only dream of what it looked like. Perhaps a soccer ball on the front. A few words that proclaim Intramural Soccer Winners. Made of white cloth that’s not soft, but it’s the only thing tied to your legacy, so you wear it anyway.
That’s what I imagined.
After closing my competitive season of soccer unexpectedly, I hoped to play on in other ways. Most of my past teammates didn’t attend my university because they were living out of state or playing professionally (cheers to those ones). I thank God that despite this, somehow, every time the intramural season approached, I met some stranger who had room on their team for another player.
For two seasons of coed, on two different teams, I heard about the shirt. The excitement built as a rag tag group of strangers hoped they could win it. However, there were always a few things in our way: team unity, a belief in our abilities, and, for me, the opportunity to play my actual position.
Both seasons, due to many complexities, I had to play a field position instead of goalkeeper. It was fine, but I performed best in the goal box. And so, we’d get scored on and lose and see no more than two games in the tournament.
Until this past winter.
Coed intramurals ended in November. Since I graduated the next semester, I thought I wouldn’t have any more chances at the shirt. I’d have to go back to indoor. Then, a text came in. Someone from my coed team needed a goalkeeper for their women’s intramural team.
My eyes shone brighter than my phone screen. I kid you not; a smile stuck to my face for the rest of the day.
I committed to play with them. This time, I knew three people on the team—better than the zero I usually knew. Most of us were still strangers, but each person seemed to know at least one other previous to our team coming together. A good sign.
Before the tournament started, we had a few season games. It started off alright. A win and a loss. Then our team plummeted. Loss, loss, loss. A tie. Loss, loss, loss. We didn’t know what to do. Our team captain continued to inspire us to fight and rearrange the field positions, but we were an interesting mix. Some of us had played on a collegiate level, and some hadn’t played anywhere but the field behind their junior high.
When the tournament started, we had a low seeding, and it surprised no one. Many of us prayed we would at least make it past the first game. They couldn’t ask for more than that.
I can’t explain what happened. Call it divine intervention. Call it grit. But something changed. We won our first tournament game, and we won our second game. And our third. And fourth. And whether we were down players or behind in points, we continued to fight. We began to believe we could win—and so we did.
We played teams who were overall better in skillset, but we didn’t let them score. We didn’t stop shooting. At one point, we always put the ball into the back of the net—whether with a header off a corner or a wild shot taken just past midfield. In those quick 40 minute, 7v7 indoor games, we owned the field.
When we made it to the finals of the winners’ bracket, all of us sat on the turf field wide-eyed with goofy smiles on our faces. How did we do it? We had no idea.
If we won that game, it would only take one more win to get the shirt. If not, we would have to play three more games: the finals in the losers’ bracket. The overall finals. And, if we won that, another “final” game, assuming the team we played hadn’t lost yet.
Complicated. We preferred to just go for the simple win. Although, underdogs never take the easy way. We lost the winners’ finals 2-3.
Two days later, we played in the losers’ bracket finals. After forty minutes, we had tied 1-1. It went to five minutes, golden goal. If anyone scored, the game ended immediately. No ball passed the goal line. That meant one thing: PKs.
I like to think I specialize in PKs, but truth be told, I was out of practice. After all five players had shot, we were tied 3-3. I hadn’t blocked any, but luckily, two people on the other team had missed their shots. Now, we had to win by 2.
We shot first. Goal.
They shot second. It went straight down the center. I blocked it.
We were ahead by one.
We shot again. Goal. Ahead by two.
They had one chance left to score and close the gap.
The entire time, I had second guessed my abilities to predict where they would go. For most of the shots, I was reacting and too slow to stop them. I decided I needed to go for it this time. Do my best to guess right, dive, and block it.
They shot. The ball flew to the left post. I jutted out into the air. My palms connected with ball and it pivoted into the post and back onto the field. No goal.
We won the losers’ bracket finals! Everyone rushed to me, and I tried not to tip over as we jumped up and down, screaming. We would go on to play in the overall finals.
Two games away from the shirt.
The day of the final-finals, we prayed for help. We wanted to play our best. A few players were missing, and with the end of school, everyone was tired. However, a crowd of family and friends had come to cheer us on.
Forty minutes passed. We ended in an eerily familiar tie. Golden goal time. No one scored. PKs. They missed one of their shots, and we won the first game. No time for huddling into a group and screaming like before. We had to strategize for the next game, coming up in ten minutes, against the same team.
One of our players arrived from her water polo finals. She was tired. We were tired. So much of our energy had gone into the first game.
It defeated a part of us when the second game started and they scored. However, we came back quickly and scored ourselves. I wanted to shut down the other team. Keep them from putting anymore balls into the net. However, after spending a certain amount of time throwing your body onto the ground, you also start to get worn down. A few shots opened up in center for the other team and they scored again. And again.
This gave them confidence and by the end of the forty minutes, we had finished our season with a brutal defeat. I’m ashamed to say they beat us 5-2. Panting, we told everyone good game and returned to the sidelines. No shirt for the underdogs. The better skilled team had won.
Our glum faces looked down as we removed slick shun guards from under our socks. Our team captain congratulated us. She said she never thought we would make it as far as we did. I don’t think any of us thought we would. But we fought hard. We had something to be proud of.
I recently learned that after I graduate, I can continue to play intramurals for two more semesters. I’m not sure if I will ever be on a team that wins the shirt. However, I wouldn’t want to have played with any other team than the one I played with this past season. Through all my years playing soccer, I always insisted that a team’s belief in their ability to win is one of the strongest determiners in if they will actually win. I stick by that.
This past season, my team showed me how belief, passion, and positivity can lead someone to success. It was hard. It required great internal and external effort, but throughout the season, we became close. Our games became more enjoyable. And the effort became worth it.
Whether playing a sport or not, I think this applies to life. When we work hard, believe in the good in others, and use positivity, more things become possible. We see more success. We enjoy the process more. See, it doesn’t matter if you’re the underdog. We don’t have to win the shirt to enjoy life, but if we believe we’re worth the shirt, it makes life a lot more enjoyable.
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