One fall afternoon of my sophomore year of high school, I leapt over the fence surrounding my soccer team’s practice field. I ran for the outhouse as quickly as possible so I could make it back to the field in time for the start of practice.

In the Port-O-Potty I found a pair of black soccer gloves with plastic grips on the fingers that would enable a player to throw a ball in without slipping. I’d lost my pair recently, so I figured they were mine and snatched them on my way out. October was nearing its end, and the sharp New England weather that hit my town in northern Connecticut at that time of year has no mercy for soccer’s post-season. Nothing worked better to keep my hands warm and ready to go in a game than those gloves.

About a week later, my high school team played our first-round state tournament game. After a surprisingly and refreshingly successful season of twelve wins and four losses, we went into the tournament seeded sixth and eager to be the first girls’ soccer team from our high school to win the tournament.

We won the game 3-0 and moved onto the second round. The next game wasn’t as cold, but I kept those “lucky” gloves on my hands. They wouldn’t be removed during game time for the rest of the tournament.

By the time we reached the championship game, our warm-up rituals (someone had to comment on the uneven circle we formed to stretch), the order we stretched (hamstrings first, then quads…), the gloves on my hands, and who received the ball first in our passing drill before the game (always Jackie) were all set in stone. That was what had to happen if we wanted to win.

And it worked. I kissed those lucky gloves the moment the final second of game time
passed and the scoreboard read 2-0 in our favor. Not only had we made town history by tripling our wins from the previous season, but we soared through the tournament without one goal against us.

It wasn’t until about a week later I found my real pair of black soccer gloves in my bedroom. When I realized I’d been wearing an unknown pair of gloves for the past month, I didn’t care. I hung them up on the bulletin board in my room and there they remain today, symbolizing the year my high school soccer team, composed of only fifteen players and no seniors, won the state championship.

When relatives and town members asked me and the other girls on the team where we drew our strength from, nobody responded, “We kept to our tradition and dressed up before every single game,” or “Our captain commented on our lousy ability to make a solid stretching circle every warm-up,” since this is not how teams win games. Instead we described the intense practices beginning in August, our center forward’s consistent ability to put balls in the back of the net, and the rock solid defense we built from.