Washed up. Wannabe. Trapped in the past. Those were just some words floating aimlessly throughout my mind as I made my way into Henninger’s athletic complex. It was my first recreational lacrosse game since last summer. Enough said.

I managed to find my mouth guard, gloves and goggles tucked into the way back of my car trunk. I opened the bag to double check and nearly choked on the aroma that infiltrated my nostrils. My gloves were the culprits. (I hadn’t washed them since, well, in quite some time for fear of superstition). The gloves were now unleashing its fury.

One of the first people to arrive, I decided it was a good idea to start stretching. During the playing days as a collegiate athlete, I could skip over the individual stretching time allotted to get our limbs ready for competition. Out of the trenches for over a year, it felt as though my body had completely collapsed from what I knew before. My knees are now my downfall and my back will be forever a part of my regular pain tolerance. I more than welcome the time now.

I took a look around. I looked at the opponents. I looked at the team. This should be interesting I thought trying to squeeze my gloves on as I proceeded onto the field. It was right then and there that I got a pit in my stomach. Maybe it was what I ate for dinner? Maybe I need to run to the bathroom?

“Let’s go, ladies,” chirped the referee. The team’s gawking and late team introductions were slowing the start of the scheduled game time.

The opponent’s youth caught me off guard. Clearly in their prime, I quickly realized that it was going to be a matchup of the Springbok gazelle and African lion. This time, speed trumped power. They ran us into the ground, spreading the midfield out and capitalizing in transition off our turnovers. If it wasn’t for running time, the score would have been more than the 16-3 final we endured.

I remembered my first full-fledged conditioning practice as a freshman at Gannon University. It was so intense that I gasped for air like a fish out of water. I remembered turning the corner as we ran sprints and coming face-to-face with my trainer and mouthing, “I need my inhaler.” I was experiencing that flashback as I scrambled up the field, looking frantically for an open teammate. The ball had suddenly become a grenade, ready to explode at any minute.

When the scoreboard signaled the end of the game, a part of me was relieved that this was over while the competitive side seethed with anger.

Note to Christina: This is for fun.

Too sore and tired to drive home, my fiancé opted to offer his services. (I don’t do well in the dark driving anyways). I tossed him the keys and gingerly got in.

It’s only the first game, no need to worry yet.