What Soccer Taught Me About Being a Teammate

I played a lot of soccer growing up.

It was part of our family. My dad played. My siblings played. We played in the backyard. I loved the game, and I took a lot of pride in it. It was part of my Latinidad. 

When I got to high school, things changed quickly. I went from being a pretty good player to being a freshman trying to earn a spot. I remember the pride of dressing varsity for the first time, and the intimidation that came with it. Not only was I on the team, but I was willing to play left back, a role not many want so I was actually getting minutes on the field.

We had a strong senior group that year, I remember the leadership of Nick Andrews, and I learned quickly what it meant to work hard just to keep up.

I also realized something about myself early on: I was never going to be the most talented player on the field.

So I made a decision.

If I couldn’t be the best player, I would be the most prepared. I would be in the best shape. I would outwork people. I didn't have competition, no one wanted to be left back, you have to be good with your left foot and often guard the best striker. No one wanted to do it, but I would, and I would be in the best shape I could. 

That became my identity.

By my sophomore year, I was starting and playing a lot of minutes. One of my favorite memories came during the playoffs when we played Traverse City.

They had a star player—one of those guys who was clearly headed for bigger things. I’m pretty sure he eventually played Division I and maybe even spent time in MLS.

I played left defense, and before the game our coach pulled me aside and said something simple:

“I’m sticking you on him. He’s going to run all over the field and try to wear you out. Just stay with him.”

So that’s what I did. 

Whenever they had the ball, he was everywhere. When we had the ball, he would intentionally jog up and down the midfield line trying to exhaust me. I followed him every step.

At one point he looked at me and asked, “Can you do this all game?”

I said, “I’m going to try.”

He smiled and on his face I saw a, “Let’s see.”

I felt like my job was to save the legs of our better defenders. Matt and Justin our stopper and sweeper needed fresh legs as their were more skilled (and taller) in handle crosses and corners. 

We didn’t win the game, but he didn’t score a goal. And for me, that felt like a win.

By my junior year, things were going really well.

I was playing every minute of every game and probably playing my best soccer. I even scored my first high school goal, which was pretty unusual for me, in a tournament in Alpena... a left-footed shot, one touch, off a rebound. 

That year also gave me one of my favorite high school sports memories.

Our biggest rival was Heritage. They were always good. Better facilities, better training, and they seemed to beat us every year. For my South Bend friends reading this, they were like the Penn High School of our area.

We hated playing them. We knew half of them cause we played travel with them, Olympic development, tournaments, 3 on 3, etc. 

We hosted them under the lights at our field. Our football team had finished practice and actually stopped by to watch the game as it went into overtime, partly because they always beat Heritage and liked reminding us of it.

The game was brutal. Physical. Hard fought. 

We earned a free kick just outside the box. Everyone expected our best striker, Isaiah, to take it. But instead, another teammate stepped up with him, a foreign exchange student from Finland. 

Most of their players had grown up playing with Isaiah. They knew him well.

They didn’t know the other guy.

I prepared, as often off a missed free kick the team will counter hard, their keeper grab it and push it back out fast. I knew I could be caught sitting there watching this kick and not be ready. 

He lined up, hit the ball perfectly, and buried it in the back of the net.

Game over. Rushing the field. Even the football players cheered for us. 

I don’t remember how that season ultimately ended. 

But it didn’t matter.

For that night, we had taken down the team everyone thought we couldn’t beat.

And we were champions.

My senior year started with a lot of promise.

My brother’s class, maybe the best class of players ever, had come up behind us and was now contributing. We had good juniors and a strong group of captains. I was one of them.

We had a real chance to have a special season. Beat Heritage again. 

Early in the year we were playing a game in Bay City that we were comfortably winning. As a defender, I rarely got chances to score. But during that game I saw an opportunity to push forward and try.

Maybe I could sneak in a goal.

Maybe it would help my stats.

Maybe it would help if I got to play in college.

I pushed up the field during an attacking move.

And then it happened.

One of their players made a dirty tackle and completely destroyed my knee.

I tore my ACL and damaged my meniscus.

I remember my dad running out onto the field. I remember my brother being furious. And I remember knowing immediately that it was bad.

One of the things I remember most clearly was giving my captain’s band to a younger player, I think Justin. I had worked hard to earn that role, but it felt right to pass it on to someone who could lead the team on the field.

For the rest of the season, I found myself doing something new.

Coaching.

I spent time talking with, John the player who took my position. I explained how I thought about defending, how to pressure attackers, how to prevent crosses. I found that I actually enjoyed it.

And he did a great job.

Eventually our team made it to the conference championship.

Against Heritage.

I desperately wanted to play.

Doctors said I would eventually need surgery, but I convinced everyone to let me try. I strapped on a large don joy knee brace, got taped up, and stepped onto the field.

Within minutes, I blew my knee out again.

This time it was worse.

I went to the sidelines and watched the rest of the game from there. We lost.

I remember yelling. I remember being angry. And I remember crying.

But when I think about that moment now, I realize something important. Something I wish I had told my guys, especially John who took my spot, to Chris and Ryan my fellow senior captains. 

I wasn’t crying because of the pain.

And I wasn’t crying because we lost. I wasn't angry at them for us losing. 

I was crying because I couldn’t be out there with my team.

Not because my presence would have changed the result.

But because I wasn’t part of it anymore.

Soccer taught me a lot of things growing up, but the most important lesson was this:

It taught me how to be a good teammate.

Looking back now, I also see something else clearly.

Part of why I got hurt in the first place was because I was trying to score a goal.

That wasn’t my job.

My job was to defend.

And in that championship game, I probably could have served my team better by staying on the sidelines—encouraging, coaching, and helping my teammates succeed.

I still could have been part of the team.

Instead, I made it about wanting to play.

The injury changed my athletic career. After surgery and months of rehab, my knee was never quite the same. I never played competitive soccer again.

But the lesson stuck.

Years later, an NFL player who went to my son’s high school came to speak to them, I went and he really caught my attention.

“This is where I learned how to be a teammate.” ~ Danny Pinter, #63 Indianapolis Colts

He took that lesson to the highest level of professional sports.

I didn’t.

But I’ve tried to carry that lesson into every part of my life since.

Because most of us won’t be the star.

But every one of us has the chance to be a great teammate.

And I’m not done yet.

There’s still plenty more games left to play.