Personal Narrative: Beach Football

My blistered feet were finally numb to the smoldering sand. It had been six wearisome days of vehement training under the harsh rays of the Southern California sun. The last play had finally arrived after a tiresome day, and as I wielded my last bout of energy, my ankle could no longer support my tired body in the deep sand and rolled awkwardly beneath the weight of my lanky frame.

My coach rushed to make sure I was okay. My bruised ego and sprained ankle lay with me in a sweaty mess on the beach volleyball court. Luckily, we were at the most incredible athletic facility that I had ever seen. After a long summer of countless tournaments and red, white, and blue banded medals, I made the U17 USA National Beach Volleyball Team roster. Accordingly, I received the opportunity to train at the Olympic Training Center in Chula Vista. At the time, I didn 't understand the incredible

There were a few tables of athletes whom I hadn 't seen the last few days. I asked a group of guys if I could join them, and sat down with the unfamiliar faces. They asked me how I was doing and if my ankle was okay, after noticing the pink saran wrap around my swollen foot. "Honestly, I am exhausted and my legs are killing me,” I complained. They reacted to my self-pity with gracious apologies and kind words. Another one joined the conversation in asking what sport I was training for.

Once I told them my sport was beach volleyball, the burly men went on to rave about how much fun that must be and how great it must feel for the sand to seep between my toes, and how I get to be in the shining sun all day. Again, I retorted by complaining about the sun, the hot sand, my blistered feet and sprained ankle. They listened and showed great empathy as I protested their positivity and wallowed in my own self pity. They apologized profusely and said that they hated to leave me, but they had to get to the weight room for evening