I grew up playing soccer, my one true love. I had been dribbling and racing down the field at the mere age of four. I knew what the ball felt like on my toes like nothing else, and every moment I spent not on the pitch, was one I regretted. Season after amazing season passed me by as I raced through the years almost as fast as my feet carried me towards the oppositions net.

I played for a few years, my dad as the coach, and my constant goal was to improve and have fun. Bu eventually the competition in community soccer wasn’t enough, as not all the players shared my passion for the game. I found a wonderful way to solve my problem. When I was nine I moved up to tier 1 soccer, or club as its sometimes known. It is the highest level of competition and skill, and it was on this club team that I would meet the girls that I would soon consider family. Each one skilled and talented and absolutely in love with the game, only encouraging my love to grow as well.

It took only around three weeks for these girls to accept me as part of their family, and I accepted them as mine. Each one becoming my closest friends. We didn't just play together, we lived together. If there was a party, we were all there together. If there was a camping trip, we were there together. If there was a new soccer movie, we were all there together. And every moment was bliss. And it stayed that way, for a couple years at least, and then the beautiful tableau we had created began to crack.

It started with another coach. One who was in it for the glory, not for the players. He offered a few girls on my team a spot on his, and offered them a place on his roster for an international tournament in Europe. No one could refuse his offer, and we lost three members of our family. And that's what started the shutdown.

Soon enough, rumours were spread about other players leaving the team, to find a stronger place, filled with more opportunities. Parents were gossiping about each other and the questionable choices of the coaches and the coaches were arguing with the parents. Players were becoming angered and hot headed on the field, and would yell at one another freely. Our walls were crumbling around us, and none of us had managed to glue our group back together. We became divided, traveling in small groups of three or four friends, and then trying to be a team on the pitch. It was not a successful tactic.

On the final game of the Summer season, of one of my final games on this team, my best friend chose not to play, in order for her to play up for a single game with a different team. I’ll admit this frustrated me, but I moved on quickly. She’d be back next season I’d thought to myself. After the game, at our last practice, by coach informed us that he was no longer coaching and that my best friend was leaving our team, for good. Tears came to my eyes, fearful that this would be the final breaking point to my already broken family. I spent days worrying about the following season and how everything would work out. But I tried not to dwell on those thoughts.

Finally, try outs arrived, and I became aware of who the new coach was. And I was not happy. A man, (Who I will call Max for the purpose of this story.) had taken control of the team. This was a man who had been fired from multiple clubs, as he was hot headed, rude, arrogant, and was very demeaning. He was known for spreading lies, and his continuous meltdowns at soccer matches, which often ended with him pounding the ground with his fists and screaming at his players. But, even with all this knowledge, I still decided to give him a chance. The benefit of the doubt as they say.

I made the team, alongside my friends, and a few new players. He started off alright, saying 2-3 practices a week and a game, and that we were going to have a great season, but I was still wary.

His first mistake towards me was when he gave my jersey to a new player. The rules have always been, the veteran gets their number, but he believed that since I missed practice, I didn't deserve my number. It may seem like a minor error, but a players number is a part of them, and it feels like losing a piece of themselves alongside those digits.

He made a second mistake, a huge one too. He screamed at my friends, for the smallest of errors, and they were 14 year olds, they couldn't defend themselves. He would not yell at me though, because he knew how fast I would have left. See we can take yelling, but not being yelled at for one bad pass at practice, that is unnecessary.

I left the team the day after our first game, which we had lost. He called and emergency practice, where he told us how awful we had been and that we would be practicing 5-6 times a week. I already had a busy schedule and new I wouldn't be able to do that, and so I told him that I wouldn't be able to practice Monday or Friday. He said, “Oh, you’ll be at practice.” The moment he said those words I was gone.

That night I cried for hours, knowing fully well how hard it would be to find a team at this time. But the real reason I cried was because I was leaving the girls I loved. And it killed.

For the first season without my team, I played on and older club team. Which was hard because they were all older than me, and it was hard to interact with one another. Near the end of my first game, my old team arrived at the field, they practiced afterward. Tears came to my eyes, as I already missed them all so much.

As my game ended and I exited the field I said goodbye to my friends. Only two responded. I was crushed. These girls who had meant the world to me had walked passed me like I was dirt. They laughed together as if throwing it in my face. That was when I realized that I had obviously cared about them more than they had cared about me.

I went to their try out the following season, just in case Max had left as coach, which he hadn't, and it was the most difficult night of my life. Not one of them acknowledged me. I even asked one of them to pass with me and she walked right passed me. They wouldn't talk to me or look at me, and they would not include me in the game. Making it almost impossible to touch the ball. Each minute was hell, as I remembered what things used to be like. I stuck the try out out, but the moment it ended I ran. I cried the whole car ride home.

Finally, two seasons later I found I team I could stick with, and adopt as my new soccer family. But I was still holding on to the hurt and pain I felt due to my old one. They had caused so much pain that I had almost given up the sport I loved, my mother was the one who forced me to keep playing.

Two seasons with my new team later, and my chance to move on finally arose. My team was playing my old team in a tournament (although a few had left the team, and had told me that they should have left with me at the beginning), and I planned on winning. Max thought he was guaranteed a win, but my team, who knew my story, were not going to let that happen.

It was the hardest game of my life, as each player on the team hunted me down. I was boarded, hit and tripped three times as much as any player on my team, and it was obvious I had been targeted. Each hit made me want to cry, it felt as though I was getting punched in the face. These were the girls I used to love, and that used to love me, and now I was just their enemy who they had to use as a punching bag. They would gang up on me on the field, going out of their way to cause pain. I had to shorten my shifts because I was beginning to get angry and would retaliate. I even shoved one of the girls I had been closest with after the play had ended. I was so done with all of them and all the pain I had been caused.

The game ended, my team claiming victory with a 5-2 win. We walked off the field proud and victorious, and I cried tears of joy, feeling I had truly made the right decision to the leave years before. We received our medals, and I finally felt peaceful and happy about soccer again. My love of the game had returned. And not a single tear ever fell because of that team again.