Team Player

Be a team player.

I have always hated that phrase. Maybe it’s because I never had an example of what a “team player” looked like

We weren’t “team sports” people in my house. We weren’t individual sports people. We weren’t sports people, period.

But I tried. My attempts at team sports involved groups of girls in city rec volleyball and basketball, who would rather see me fail than everyone win. I rode benches. I left practices crying.

Be a team player meant “Let the other girls win.” Stay out of the way. Don’t try if you aren’t good. Be a team player meant don’t try to grow if it’ll hold someone else back. Let the natural athletes take it. You go read a book.

I’ve spent a lot of time hiding from new things out of fear of being bad at them. And while I maybe did avoid some public embarrassment of failing in front of others, I did something else, too: I built a shame reservoir that runs deep. I let myself believe that I am inadequate.

 I let all those mean girls win.

It’s almost my one year anniversary of joining roller derby. I joined on my 33rd birthday. And this season has been tough. I watched nearly all of my cohort pass minimum skills and move on to scrimmaging. Some are bouting. I’m still working on turning around reliably.

The first time I watched them scrimmage without me, I cried all the way home.

“I’m never going to be good enough,” I sobbed.

“You’ve come so far,” my mom told me.

“I’m so proud of you,” my husband told me.

I’m worried I’m holding my teammates back.

“Remember when you couldn’t stop?” My coach said

“I still can’t stop,” I countered.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” She said.

I’m worried the others think I’m terrible. I’m worried the girls are still judging me.

“You’re killing it, Pinkie,” my teammates shout. “You’re going to be a bulldozer!”

“When we talk about you behind your back, it’s to say what a powerhouse you are,” another said.

I am slowly learning a new definition of “team player.” I have roller derby to thank for that. It’s helping up someone you just knocked over. It’s congratulating someone who knocked you over. It’s skating slower next to someone new. It’s sharing tips on gear, and cheering someone through that last minute.

It’s knowing that we don’t make it as a team unless we make it AS A TEAM. While the speed of our journeys may be different, we’re all on the same track.

I’ve let mean girls live rent-free in my head for long enough. This is their final warning: Pack it up, ladies. My derby sisters are coming for you, and they aren’t about to put up with your negativity.

At 10 pm Tuesday I get home from practice. I smell weird. My arm hurts from my elbow to my shoulder. I know I took a hit, but I honestly can’t remember it. My right hip aches. I took a helmet to the lip. I’m exhausted. It’s all I can do to strip out of my sweat-soaked clothes and take a shower.

As I collapse into bed, my phone chirps.

“You did awesome tonight,” the message reads.

“How was derby?” My husband mumbles through his sleep.

I lay down and feel every joint and bone and muscle screaming.

“It was awesome,” I tell him. And I mean it.