You've played it all your life. From the moment you could first physically perform the most basic maneuver the game requires, you bonded with it. You've loved it deeply and connected with it in ways you never have with any human. You've bled, sweat and cried over it, and while your friends would play it on a TV screen, you itched to get out and do the real thing.
You watched as your passion grew. You worked tirelessly on a masterpiece that you knew would never be complete, not because you chose to stop working on it, but because you were never going to stop getting better. With your playing field as your canvas and your body as your paintbrush, there was never a limit to what you could do when you understood the potential of what you were creating.
And all of a sudden... it's gone.
Your body taps out while your heart goes on. Every ounce of your being is torn to shreds the moment you realize you cannot continue. One wrong move, one unfortunate collision, one split second of an absolute disaster and the hardest decision of your life has been made for you. The doctor speaks the words no athlete imagines they'll ever hear. Why? "Because it can't happen to me... you only hear stories of other people like this." It's your breaking point; the moment you know you have to give it up. Everything you've ever worked for is out the window, and you feel lifeless as you sit there processing the reality of your situation.
It's like being in a relationship with someone for as long as you can remember, still loving them, and having to say goodbye forever. You'll never feel "that feeling" again. The rush of competing, the fire in your heart, passion in your eye and tingling in your hands as you take to the grounds on which you play.
The good in the matter comes in the fact that you'll never forget it. You'll reminisce in your own mind, feel the goosebumps take over your body while this goofy sort of grin starts to take shape. You'll remember everyone who supported you and those who doubted you who you proved wrong. You'll remember the faces that surrounded you of those you called family because they shared the same passion you did. You'll remember the mountain top feeling of a big win and the humbling heartbreak of a tough loss. You'll remember the coaches who equipped you with knowledge, guidance and resources to succeed. You'll remember the pain you accepted because it meant you were doing what you love. You'll remember these things now, and you'll never forget them.
You'll wish you could still do what you once did for the rest of your life – of this I'm certain, but there is a beauty in letting go. There's a freedom you experience. Not a freedom from burden or the time you've spent, but a freedom to enjoy the game in a new way. Freedom to be an advocate for the betterment of the game with a new perspective. Freedom to take what you've learned about yourself in your many years of playing and apply it to other areas of your life.
There will be a fair share of good and bad days following the end of your career. Hours upon hours went into growing your craft and your character as a result. You are who you are now because of who you have been in relation to the game you've loved so dearly.
