Personal Narrative-Racism

I was gripping my stick with only my right hand as I watched the game from the half. I felt myself wishing the sun would peek out from the clouds instead of feeling the blowing wind. It was the second half of the game and we had held off the other team after their two goal lead in the first half. I didn't know how much time we had left and that worry was in the corner of my mind. I observed as my teammates reached the other team's goal and I heard the loud popping noise of the ball hitting the post. A defensive player on their team swooped in a carried the ball quickly to the sideline. It was like a switch went off from watching to getting into position preparing to stop the other team from advancing to the goal if they passed my teammates. “Backpedal” my coach yelled from the sideline. I knew the other team was increasing speed and would close in slowly towards our goal. In my mind I remembered that this was the time to dig deep and want it more than anyone else on the field.
“I’ve got girl” I heard several voices yell. I started shouting the numbers of the players “Twenty-four, sixteen, five”, making sure that all the girls were marked to best prevent a

I heard the screeching whistle of the referee and I looked over my shoulder and thanked him for pausing the game for me to exit. I reached my coach and showed her my finger at first she didn't realize until I showed her my other finger that was a polar opposite. The trainer had got me ice for my monstrous purple and black finger as I sat on the cold, wet grass all the built of pressure released through my tears. I bent over my knees, holding my hand hoping the terrible pain would stop. The trainer was able to comfort me, but the only thing on my mind was the thought of going home. What felt like seconds later the horn blew and the game had ended. My coach turned over her shoulder telling the trainer and