There's a Lesson Here

My original plan was to see the email arrive on my Blackberry, and immediately get to work on a post detailing my reactions to the news from Berkeley's graduate school. I wanted to keep the email unopened, write an introduction, and then essentially press "pause" while I read the news. I'd then finish the post accordingly. My reaction was going to be vivid, immediate, unscripted.

But then, I was at work when I got the email from the ERG graduate group, the office who's decision to admit or deny me into their program would largely determine the next few years of my life. Williams doesn't allow me to access my blog from the office, so I was kind of stuck. I really wanted to find out their decision and post the blog according to my formula, but waiting until I got home from work to post seemed like an eternity. After about 5 minutes of agony, I said "The hell with it," and opened the news.

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Growing up, soccer was everything to me. The games, the practices, and the teammates largely defined my physical reality, as well as my social scene. I played club soccer until high school, then moving into an even more rabid mode consisting of Wheat Ridge High School games during the fall, and then played on a club team for the remaining eight months. I would practice five days a week with the same 15 or so guys. I'd known all of them since we were toe-headed rug-rats terrorizing teams from the neighboring suburbs like some sort of white, privileged gang warfare.

Once we got about halfway through high school, our club team fell apart. That same tight knit group that had played together for years would all be funneled into another club, and we were thrown in with about 30 other unfamiliar guys in a massive tryout. The powers that be would form three new teams without a guarantee that the old friends from Wheat Ridge would stick together.

I remember the tryout as a nerve wracking experience. I'd soon be scythed away from some of my best friends. Things went predictably awry, and I ended up on the second of the three teams. Solace came in the fact that a couple of my close friends were also on that team, but I watched as about five familiar faces were given first team jerseys. I hated to see them dissipate onto another team almost as much as I suffocated under my wounded pride. Bitter poison, knowing you're second tier.

The night we were assigned to our teams, many of us ended up meeting over at a friend's house. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to go, but I figured it would look pretty bad if I got cut and then didn't show up. I opted to take my medicine and go congratulate the one's who'd made the "A" team. When I got to the party, I walked towards the group of assembled players but couldn't say a word. I could only put my head down and cry. Keep in mind, I was 16 years old. I think I've always been a total pussy.

I played one season with the "B" team, and eventually found that the lowered pressure and reduced expectations were probably a good thing. Our coach was an erudite ex-pro who, instead of X's and O's, had us watch Glengarry Glen Ross as a means of explaining what it meant to close the deal and win a game. We flew to a tournament in California, but this location was selected primarily so that the team could enjoy the beaches, and not necessarily picked for the quality of the competition. When we played the "A" team during the season, they beat us 5-3. It didn't seem to matter that much. I think the mood following our defeat sprung from the fact that the game fell the day after a funeral held for a classmate. Soccer, for me, was beginning to matter less and less.

After that club season, I realized that a schedule of 200 or more days a year of games, practices, and singular focus were overrated. I decided to pull the plug on my club career, opting to play on our school's team during the fall, but trading my shin guards for a helmet during the spring's lacrosse season. My Junior and Senior years of high school allowed me to ebb and flow with the seasons. In large part, I was able to avoid a total burnout from uninterruptedly kicking a ball. I found that I loved lacrosse, too, and this break let me refresh my desire to play other sports. My passion for soccer would be reignited at the end of each summer, and though my skills were somewhat blunted, they'd come back waving a flag of realization that I wasn't ever going to play for Real Madrid or Chelsea, anyway.

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Trading soccer for lacrosse led to an interesting fallout. I ended up looking at colleges before my senior year of high school, and relished the idea of playing club lacrosse at a university. This probably played a part in my decision to go to St. Louis, and that certainly led me to Spain. Spending time in Europe sparked my love of climbing, and also introduced me to my two best friends. I can't complain about how it worked out.

As I digest the news that I didn't get accepted into Berkeley, I'm trying to remember the lessons I learned a dozen years ago. I'm not going in the direction I thought I would, but there is a greater good that will come out of this. To start, I am somewhat relieved that I don't have to move away from Boulder. I've come to adore my friends here, and find such comfort within this incredible climbing community.

Within just a few minutes of posting the news on Facebook, two good friends have offered the autumn alternatives of Burning Man and a climbing trip to The Valley. And you know what? I think I'm taking them up on them both. If I'm not going to school, I'm still going to live big.