The athlete never dies

by Steph Woody
Staff Writer

I've been in college almost a year now, and when I think about what was racing through my mind a year ago, I smile.

Sure, I was apprehensive to move away from home. No more home-cooked meals, free laundry or clean showers. I was worried all my friends from high school would fall off the face of the earth (some of them did). But one of the major things I had to let go of was never playing sports in a real uniform again.

Playing sports had been my life since the fifth grade. When one sport stopped, the next one started. I never had to set aside time to workout because I was practicing all the time. So when I stepped off the basketball court after the last game of my senior year, I thought it was over. I thought I had closed a chapter in my life that began when I was eleven years old. I was wrong.

I remember going to an Ohio volleyball game against Kent State in the fall. My friend from high school played for Kent. Watching her brought back memories of our days playing basketball together. I knew she had enthusiasm, attitude and intensity. Then I saw her displaying it on a Division I volleyball team, and immediately chills ran down my spine. I wondered if I could ever do something like that.

I remember taking my little brother to a hockey game on Sibs' Weekend. The place was packed; there was nowhere to sit. After circling the arena three times, we were stopped by the entrance where the players come out to get on the ice. My brother tugged at my sleeve and gazed in awe as the bulky players ran past us and glided onto the ice.

The arena filled with blaring music that made me want to kick some ice, and I don't even like hockey. Throughout the game, my little brother talked about how one day he would be a great hockey player (even though he couldn't skate). I saw his dream fold out in front of me. Ohio won that game in overtime on a last second shot.

I remember my first intramural basketball season. Our team, eight freshmen with no coaches, won every game including the championship. For the 40 minutes we played, life was great.

On the bench, we reminisced about playing University of Tennessee-bound girls in high school, trips to the state tournament and summers full of American Athletic Union ball. At some point, the thought of the Ohio women's basketball team having only eight players on its roster entered our minds.

I remember covering the Southern Cup track meet. Going into the last event of the day, it was still anyone's meet. Ohio took to the track and prepared to run the 800-meter relay.

The pause before the gun went off made my heart jump into my throat. I was nervous for them. When I heard the bang of the gun, I felt my legs twitch. After Ohio claimed victory, fellow Post comrade Paul Shugar and I wanted to run out and pile on the team. I felt like running 10 miles.

Even when I go for my daily run, I sprint up the hills and try to catch the person in front of me on the bike path. When I hit the last 10 minutes of my run, I step it up a notch. It's those moments when I know the athlete in me is still alive. And I smile because it always will be.

Woody is a freshman journalism major. Send her an e-mail at stephwoody@hotmail.com.