Losing happens

It has been more than a week since the U.S. women’s national soccer team lost the World Cup to Japan. In the minutes after their defeat, I was stunned. Heartbroken isn’t too strong of a word. I tried to explain to my husband why I had become so invested in the team winning. As a former competitive soccer player, their tournament comeback and dramatic win over Brazil (sorry, Marta) in the quarterfinal was a bright spotlight on the sport. More than a decade had passed since the country was this riveted by women’s soccer. That in itself was inspiring.

But what moved me even more was watching those girls play their hearts out. They played with a passion and determination that the sport in the U.S. hasn’t seen in some time. It was a display of athletic intensity that made me proud to have played soccer for two decades--long before it was remotely cool and long before Brandi Chastain ripped her jersey off to celebrate a penalty kick victory over China in the final 1999 World Cup match.

In fact, when I watched that game 12 years ago, I was coming to terms with the fact that my soccer career had ended as a freshman in college. It was a strange break from the sport and one that I never expected. I was a most devout (and I mean that in the religious sense) player until mono forced me to miss about two months of my senior year (both school and soccer).

I eventually recovered and joined the women’s soccer team at Seattle University. About two weeks in, as I had just begun to overcome my nerves, I suffered a concussion during practice. The injury forced me to red shirt for the season. The sport and I were never the same. When I returned to practice the following winter, I could play aggressively and technically, but something was missing. It was that driving force that makes you want to be on the field at all hours. That makes you think in soccer. Everything is about angles and connections and the movement of the ball. When you’re on the field, slide tackling a ball out of bounds or body checking a threatening forward, it feels like a blessing. It seems like you could never lose that feeling--until you do, and then you understand the arrogance of taking it for granted. You also realize what separates the true competitors in the sport from those who just love it and work to be skilled at it.  

So, when I watched those players on the field, I’ll admit: I was living vicariously through the team. My personal history aside, I found myself simply as a female athlete thinking if they were capable of such a performance, well, then so was I. In their matches against Brazil, France and Japan, they defied the expectations of the masses and created new limits to push beyond. They showed this country and others that women can play with passion and heart. That may sound unimportant, perhaps less of a goal than actually winning the Cup. But here’s the thing: it never fails to surprise me the number and type of people who think that women are less capable, less driven athletes than men.

It would have been a perfect ending had they won. And they should have won, but they didn’t. The heartbreak lasted for a few days until I realized that sometimes we just lose. It seems simple enough, but competitive and professional sports is built around the idea that with the right physical and mental training, a team should be able to "finish" notwithstanding balls that bounce against your favor or red cards issued over controversial calls. For the most part, I agree. Champions don't let those moments determine the outcome of their competition. But here's the thing: I didn't once think the U.S. had relaxed gratuituously, taking the game for granted. I think two split-second plays, and perhaps confusion in the back line, changed everything.

So, yes, sometimes we lose. It hurts, especially when your chance comes every four years. But it happens to all of us professionally and personally, even when we've done everything to achieve a different outcome. Even though, as I admitted, I had something personal to gain out of a World Cup win, I didn't feel cheated by the loss as a fan.

In the days following the game, the team and its stars did a tour of U.S. media, showing up on the Today Show (below), the Daily Show, Letterman and more. They talked about their loss with grace and humility. I found it inspiring. Perhaps they were being a given a pass by the media, as some suggested, but I thought something more important was happening. The women demonstrated that losing happens, and though it may very well be heartbreaking, there is a way to compete with heart and lose gracefully. It certainly isn't the prize, but it does offer something arguably as valuable: character.

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