To The Little Girl in a Jersey,

You are eight years old, and in love. The smell of scuffed hardwood helps you breathe easier, in a way you never knew you could. The sound of squeaking shoes makes your ears perk up and gives you a rush of adrenaline. You're learning to do math behind the snack table, tallying up two dollar gatorades and five dollar hot dog meals. The teammates that you are on the court with will now become your friends for life, and if you end up in a new place later on down this long, winding road, you can always find a court and a ball to ease your mind.

Cherish it now. You have fallen in love with a sport which will teach you dedication, tenacity, and pure discipline. Your parents will support you and send you to countless tournaments, give up their birthdays and mothers/fathers day to watch you play. They may even drive two hours to watch you sit on the bench. Don't get discouraged when you don't make varsity, or when you stop growing at 5' 3". Don't get discouraged when you have that one coach who doesn't believe in you, because it will happen at least once, and it will not be easy. Don't get discouraged because all of this will make you stronger. That coach who tells you that you can't do it will become the single reason why you should. You will have to learn to pick yourself up at a young age, because that's what sports teach you, to keep going.

In five years, when what you love becomes political and every game becomes the most important game you'll ever play, remember why you love it. Remember that feeling of water finally meeting your lips after five sets of lines. Or the excitement of your first three-pointer in a game. Remember the look on your face in that photo where you got your first medal. Remember looking up at the obscenely high hoop, wondering how the high school girls shot the ball effortlessly, with the type of arc to give anyone goosebumps.

In 10 years, when it's all wrapping up, stand in the middle of the court and breathe it all in. Breathe in that same smell of scuffed hardwood that now is covered with your blood, sweat and tears. Remember the memories of your scuffing shoes, the same shoes that have been on your feet as you play through breakups, tragedies, pain, and hardship. Remember your teammates, the ones who told you that the missed freethrow was OK, and the ones that helped you navigate through defense, and through life itself. Remember what it feels like to be eight years old and in love with the game.

Remember to never lose yourself in the process of fighting for the game you love.