Dad was able to find a local travel team that had one girl playing with the boys, but for all intents and purposes it was a boys’ league. Because of the physical differences (and, in the league’s mind, capabilities), girls were allowed to play with boys, but boys were not allowed to play with girls. There were a few truly coed teams out there, but they were in towns that were hours away from us. Since there was at least one other girl on this team, my dad hoped the situation would be similar to me playing coed. But none of the other teams we would go on to play against had girls on them, and it messed with my head that suddenly the activity I loved most in my life was being ripped away from me because of a single letter on a piece of paper somewhere. It felt like the universe was playing some sort of cruel trick on me
On the first day of practice, Mom and I walked down a long sidewalk that separated two soccer fields, girls on the right and boys on the left. One by one we watched the kids ahead of us splinter off onto the side they belonged to, running up to their teammates, slapping backs, and hugging each other. I could see some girls whispering and pointing at me, and I looked up at my mom. “I don’t want to be here,” I told her. I saw her eyes fill with tears and understood that what was happening was just as hard for her as it was for me. I knew she and my dad were doing everything they could to get me back on the right team. Dad thought it was a good idea for me to keep playing so I could stay in top form, but I could tell that my mom wasn’t as convinced that this was a good idea. She was right.