Lacrosse was never in my blood but it held a fascination for me almost as long as horses did. In between becoming enraptured with half-ton animals that wanted to squash me and getting the chance to actually be squashed, I played sports with balls. Soccer was not my thing; I wasn't the worst on the team (and never sat on the sideline picking four-leaf clovers), but I also wasn't particularly adept at locating both of my feet, let alone the ball between them. If I wasn't running away from it, I was tripping over it. Unfortunately, my hand-eye coordination was no better.

Tired of watching this for three years, my parents nixed soccer. I suggested lacrosse, which at eight years old looked really cool. They said no sports with sidelines. That was the end of that; I wore them down on the horses front, finding a bit more luck centering the animal between my legs than a soccer ball.

If you're wondering how the whole lax thing came around, I'm about to tell you... it didn't for quite awhile. After soccer, I'd decided to prove to my parents I could be good at lacrosse, enlisting the help of my younger cousin, who played along with her siblings. Bless her heart, she agreed. She loaned me her extra stick, sure I would catch on. Not only could I not catch, I didn't pass very well; I threw the ball right into her face. As I ran over to check on her, I dropped the stick, hitting her in the same spot. She declared I would never learn to play lacrosse.

And with that episode, lax went onto the backburner for many years. I became that weird horse girl and was extra awkward during high school, seeing the kids on teams and wondering what it felt like to be cool, or just athletic and coordinated in general. I came back to it briefly when I developed a crush on one of the lacrosse team members and went to a few games. We talked once or twice but he never seemed to notice my existence. I'd sit on the bleachers at poorly attended games, watching the guys score a goal or two while parents behind me groaned. One asked who I'd come for and I don't think I ever came up with an answer. These beautiful specimens didn't date girls like me; they threw paper balls at me in pre-calc.

If anyone had told me a few years later, I'd be engrossed in all of this, I'd have laughed. I turned my focus in college to snowboarding and my continued inability to figure out where all of my limbs were at the same time. A fair amount of weekend snow sports enthusiasts are lax players defying their coaches; when I got onto the board of the ski club I came face to face with a lot of potential recruits, fresh out of lacrosse practice and un-showered. In the following months, I became friendly with some of those freshmen and curious about their equipment. They'd roll their eyes and I'd snap back that if I could take the time to help them buy their first snowboards, they could answer my questions.

I also started seeing a guy who'd gotten a scholarship to play until suffering a career-ending injury. With the offer rescinded, he entered the college up the road from mine. He was pleasant and easygoing which is how I convinced him to teach me to play. I reasoned that since he towered over me, it was unlikely I'd hurt him. He wasn't sure he could get his old gear back since he'd given it to a freshman, too heartbroken to look at it after the doctor said he'd chance paralysis if he ever went back on the field. I sent him a link one night before jubilantly telling him the sticks were going to be ours. For $45, I was making my (our) dreams come true. He'd restring both, then take the wider head.

I was so excited... until he ghosted me two days after they arrived. I'd gone from gazing at them wondrously to wondering what to do with two barely usable sticks I didn't know how to use. Chatting with a guy one Saturday at the ski shop while ringing him up, he asked how I liked working there. I joked it was only to pay off my lacrosse gear. He responded that he was a coach. My coworkers jumped on me after he left, asking why I didn't get his number.

Only 24 hours later, I stood at the base of the slopes yelling, "Hey, I think I sold you that jacket yesterday!" He asked if I'd like to ride with him and I jumped on the chance to have some company and ask a few more questions. I told him I had no clue how to fix the sticks but I knew some pretty dumb guys who could string so how hard could it be? He exhaled slowly and steered me in the direction of some good tutorials. We're still friendly more than a year later and many miles apart.

I did restring them--not particularly well--and after finishing the first off with hair ribbons because the strings on it were too short, I eventually got serious and supplied myself properly. I took flak from my first month with men's sticks because I'm a girl and trying to break the mold, although I did eventually learn to string women's heads, which I very much enjoyed, despite saying I would never do it. I'd tell detractors I just wanted the men's ones because they were easier to catch with but part of me liked being different. I got recognition for it; I was 'that girl' again. I stuck it out. This was me.

Meant to be played respectfully whenever you hold your stick, lacrosse is known as the medicine game, gifted from above to heal the people and in a way, it did heal me. It certainly introduced me to some awesome people and others I'd rather say I never knew. Lacrosse brought me both great love and great sadness, an escape when I was too sick to do anything but string, a way to kill daylight hours with friends (along with slamming my head into the ground a few days before graduation), and my first job out of college, a year ago this week. It was a surprise to get it but I was so ready to prove myself. It didn't go as expected.

Very quickly I realized just how unprepared I was. Fresh-faced enthusiasm wasn't enough either, soon worn away by almost three hours of commuting a day, more discord than I'd expected, and having to admit I wasn't as recovered from my illness as I wanted to believe. Within my first week, I met a satellite coworker who'd dropped by to help me settle in. He held the ladder I perched on, in a dress, eyeing him up. I had no clue who he was.

Instagram famous, apparently; something I didn't partake in, so I didn't know about the kids who worshipped him as I threw stuff at him for pestering me or laughing as I'd dance to Pandora. He was tough on me but kind, a rock during the many hard times. He noticed my weight loss over the next couple months that I tried to hide. I hated how well he knew me and how often I cried to him. "Stressed Out" played on the radio constantly, driving home in the dark every night as I rarely had a day off. It was popular at the time, but I also took it as a sign. Long days, everyday, no end in sight.... Very often I wanted to leave it all behind but he said he knew I'd never quit and he was right.

And then it was over. The closing wasn't a complete surprise but betrayal and sadness still washed over me, then relief. I was finally free. I'd miss quiet afternoons stringing but I could continue to do that along with getting a normal job with normal hours. This had made me start to resent the game, never getting to pick up my own sticks anymore and just have fun. My parents had hoped it was a phase but the sport is deep in me now, as my stick collection doubled, and I prefer dating guys who also love it just so they understand why I do what I do. I've made myself a nice little network of other stringers in the last few months and I'm happy now having time to serve as a traveling companion for tournaments or go toss with one of the guys and take shots at the goal. I'd just needed my medicine game again.