I am standing in a place that is something like a foreign country,

but where I feel completely at home.

It is a small country – its borders measure only 59 feet by 29.5 feet – but it has its own laws, customs and habits.

It has a barrier that measures just over seven feet high, a fabric mountain range of sorts that divides it in half,

and two distinct groups who inhabit it. The mountain range defines a “demilitarized zone” that persons who live on either side are not permitted to cross.

I’m standing at the barrier, in silence, looking across to the person on the other side.

And I’m waiting– for the sound of a whistle that is the spark that puts everyone and everything around me in motion.

This is not how my day began.

It’s an hour before and my bags are getting heavy as I slowly trudge from my mother’s car, with sleep still in my eyes.

I have taken a shower already, yet I’m still not fully awake. I have put on make-up, but only for the purpose of looking more intense.

I’m almost there, now almost running, trying to escape the cold of the early morning.

I open the door and see an assortment of familiar blankets and bags, and I drop mine close by. I sit down for a minute to catch my breath, thinking to myself

that no sane teenage girl wakes up at five thirty on a Saturday morning unless it’s to do something they love

. I’m not sure that I am sane. I am certain that I am about to do something I love.

Coming out of my thirty-second trance, I unzip my bag and find my gear –

my ankle braces, knee pads, and shoes.

My back is leaning against the unsympathetic gym wall as I take off my nice warm sweats. I put on my socks and knee pads and ankle braces,

but that’s no longer what they are to me. They are battle gear and I am readying myself to go to war.

I stand up, stretch my arms, and take off my sweatshirt,

showing a uniform distinctly similar to only twelve other people in the whole building.

I begin to warm up. My heart starts to beat faster and faster, and any nervousness that might have been slowly creeping up on me turns into excitement.

My hands begin to sweat, and I am aware of everything around me and nothing at the same time.

I am aware of the people nearby, but I am strangely unaware of noises and people surrounding the court.

Finally, a horn blasts and it is time for us to begin.

A referee climbs to his perch above the mountain range that separates us from the other side, as if he were Switzerland, and motions for us to shake hands.

And now I’m at the net,

in silence,

looking across to the person on the other side.

In this moment, those on the other side have become my worst enemies. I am a warrior

and want nothing more than to bring honor and glory to the people whom I am fighting alongside. It is never an easy battle.

There always seems to be more challenges than rewards.

The injuries are numerous and take time to come back from, and I often have been asked why I bother going back into battle when it would be so much easier

to stop.

I could never do that. The glory of the battle is what I do.

The adrenaline rushing through my veins and the power of smashing a ball into the ground is what I live for.

It is where I am the most myself and where I feel the most content. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And then I hear it – the sound of that whistle. And I am in motion.