Prologue

My story with soccer begins on a little dirt field behind the playground of a small Catholic school in Buffalo, NY. I was 10 years old, shy, acclimating to a new school where I wasn’t sure on how to make friends or talk to anyone. Yet I was bold enough to hop in and play. I can’t remember exactly what drew me to that foam ball being kicked around the dust at recess or that mass of boys swarming around it like a cloud of bees. But I must of smelled something sweet in it. Call it fun. Call it communion without language. Conversation. […]

Chapter 1: Forgive the Keeper

My soccer friends used to say I was “insane” to stand in front of the net like that.

My goalkeeper buddies agreed. We would joke that we were a special breed: Aliens who weren’t afraid to dive in front of flying balls. To face human stampedes charging at us at top speed. And feet. There were many kicks to the head at the end of a breakaway save. […]

Chapter 2: Grand Old Flag Anxiety

What’s in a symbol that costs 16 cents wholesale and comes on a stick?

One that consists of a small piece of rough fabric, maybe the size of your hand, with tiny, individual strands dyed red, white and blue? It’s star-spangled, trying to shine for everything that America represents: speed, markets, capitalism, productivity…I’ll have you name it. 

Perhaps for you this symbol means nothing but pride. Pride for country. Pride for history. For family, freedom, opportunity.

That’s definitely it for me. Sometimes. I grew up as an upper-middle-class-first-generation-Jamaican-Guyanese-Black-American. Privileged and somewhat foreign, my lineage sounds long enough to be a Starbucks order: USA’s only legal liquid crack. This country (as well as many others) crawls across my skin like some unsettled energy trying to figure out how to express itself. Some days the fidgeting is more apparent. Like that afternoon I went to the U.S. women’s national soccer team’s (USWNT) last World Cup send-off match in Harrison, N.J. […]

Chapter 3: Black Cards, White Sidelines

I am and always have been a reggae girl. I can thank my dad for that. 

In our house, he made sure we had the best surround sound system in town. It featured four speakers spanning the basement and the living room, and each came with a booming bass. Bob Marley, Beenie Man, and “SHABA!” used to play for hours and hours off cassette tapes. The riddim rumbled through the floors.

When my older cousins, aunts, and uncles came up from New York City, we always had a dance party. They tried on the latest moves with their heads bowed, Red Stripes high, and smiles sweet as fried plantains. I learned how to bogle in diapers and attuned my ears to Jamaican patois. I heard the husky purr of my grandma’s voice in the gruffy rhymes of Buju Banton. He’s part of the reason why I can understand her on the phone. […]

Chapter 4: La Canicule

On a balmy Saturday evening in Lyon, France parties of people gathered before the Hotel of God. It wasn’t a holy ensemble per se, unless you consider romance a religion: The pious lounged beside the Rhône River to drink up the rosy sun at dusk.

As darkness descended, the water began to glow. Liquid gold reflected the hotel’s ethereal lights. Couples sipped wine and sucked lips as my friend, Emma, watched me toss a sandwich at a flock of swans. Skateboarders ka-kunked-ka-kunked on the cobbled paths while a guitarist crooned somewhere in the crowd. […]

Chapter 5: The Alex Morgan Question and the Trappings of the White “Male” Gaze

Under the lights of Groupama Stadium in 2019, a patchwork of American and British fans spread across the seats like a worn quilt. Ruffled and warm, it billowed and fell with bones swayed by the waves of our emotions. (Look closely to see the dark sweat in our seams).

Sixteen euro and I had one of the best seats in the house thanks to Natalie, a woman I had met a few days prior at the Festival of Football. Lucky for me, she had an extra ticket to the semifinal last minute. We sat right above the U.S. goal, drinks in hand, doing what most peanut galleries do: analyze the match like we knew better — woulda chose better — than some of the best talent in the world. […]

Chapter 6: Nothing is Ever As It Seems: An Attempt to Capture the 2019 World Cup Final (And More) In Written Memes

I’m standing in the backyard of a small rustic house atop a hill called Saint-Didier-Mont-D’Or. I’m staying with colleagues from The Equality League (EQL), an org that trains athletes to be activists and advocates.

God, I could pinch myself.

I can see everything: from the sprawling stone and metal of downtown Lyon to the ocean blue saltwater pool glittering a silent serenity in the luscious garden below.

This place is a scene in a European fairy-tale — a type of place you’d find Belles and Beasts singing “Bonjour” on their way to buying bread in the square. If anyone needed baguettes, though, they should come here where we’ve got plenty. My roommates got way too many, thinking they would last the week. But the French apparently don’t use preservatives and the loaves are hardening quickly. Please be our guest. […]

Chapter 7: Rainbows, Bowties, and Tied Reigns: The Evolution Will Never Be Linear

Security at the Madrid Barajas International Airport did not have the technology to detect it at the time, but on July 8th, 2019, an imposter was making her way through the line at baggage screening. She was getting away with a ridiculous crime — an offense that could only be detected on a telepathic level and exclusively punished by a raging inner critic. 

I knew this imposter well. 

She’s the part of me who comes alive anytime I think of saying “yes” to something that seems way out of my league. That day, it was her clammy palms glomming onto my luggage. […]

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