I have 43 brothers.

On Friday nights we line up, two by two, geared in our orange and blue awaiting the go-a-head signal. The butterflies thrash in our stomachs, and we all try to fight them down. The tension builds in our throats; we just want to yell and eventually some of us do. We’re pumped. We’re ready. We’re off. Jogging onto the turf, from the shadows of the field house into the lights, the Greyhound pride flows through our veins. In that climactic moment when our cleats hit the turf, the adrenaline pushes us into a sprint across the endzone. I can be spotted by my miniscule height of 62 inches or perhaps instead by the two tattered ankle braces I wear religiously. If that’s not enough of a separation factor, a hint of my brown ponytail can be spotted in the small space between my helmet and ill-fitting shoulder pads. We are a unit, a team; they are my brothers, and I am their sister.

Everyone thought and some hoped my dream to suit up as a Clayton Greyhound was just a phase during my “tomboyish” youth. My mom was supportive, but underneath that strong exterior she feared I’d be smashed by some 6’2” 300-pound offensive lineman. She was wrong; he would be bigger than that.

Despite my mom’s concern, on the first August morning of my football career I stepped out of her car and made my way down the asphalt towards the field house. One of the varsity players walked towards me and stopped to ask me what position I played. I told him I wasn’t sure yet. He responded, “You look like a linebacker.” I nodded and contemplated this as I made my way to the front doors. I liked the way it sounded, and so I became an inside linebacker for the Clayton Greyhounds.

I’ve been playing football for four years, but I’ve made fewer than 10 tackles and have never been exhausted at the end of a game. During a typical game my workout is over after our pregame warm-up. I go through practices being pummeled by hundreds of pounds of bones and muscle to the point that all the air from my chest goes out in one quick breath. My arms have been decorated by black and purple splotches, an imprint of my practice jersey, and even an orange and blue cast. Yet, I still stand on the sideline watching the game I’ve prepared for all week pass me by. And the question that I have been forced to face is whether or not it was all worthwhile. Are the rare two minutes in a game that doesn’t count and perhaps half a play at the end of fourth quarter, if I’m lucky, really worth the endless hours of grueling practice? Is that rare moment when the coach yells out my name, puts his arm on my shoulder pads, and shoves me onto the turf in the midst of a game really so precious?

Looking back, I’ve been disappointed. I had walked into the field house expecting and dreaming about what it would be like to suit up and play my first game. Yet, each game I’ve played in I couldn’t help but feel bitter and angry at being put in only because the clock is quickly approaching zero. I’ve been insulted and questioned each year; I’ve been hit and run over too many times. Yet, Coach always tells us to “never walk away from the game.” And as pointless as my football endeavor may seem to others and sometimes even to myself, I could never turn in my irritatingly uncomfortable shoulder pads.

I’ve come to realize I don’t stand a chance against the average football player, unless I dive at his legs or take my chances and hope he’s not wearing a cup. Perhaps I keep coming back for the challenge, or perhaps for the possibility that during those two minutes of play I just might reach up, pull the football into my hands, feel the butterflies freeze, the sinking turf under my cleats, tuck the football away, and…