"I Just Can't Commit"

I made a commitment to something and I (brace yourself, people).... did not follow through. In fact, I went completely cold-turkey, avoiding phone calls and making excuses in my head to justify my behavior.


That indoor soccer league I mentioned briefly in my previous post? I decided--after a week of waking up sore, dragging myself out of bed, and limping up the three flights of stairs to my office-- that this league was not for me.


So, I quit. Q-U-I-T. I'm ashamed and embarrased. There are very few times in my life where I have made a commitment (and this one was a $40.00 commitment, mind you) and not been able to hang in there. In fact, I can only think of two instances in my life in which I have allowed myself to essentially give up and move on, rather than suck it up and keep my commitment promise.


Instance 1:
The Sutton Fuller Hamlets, a premiere soccer team that required my parents to tote me around the state of Massachusetts and beyond, in which I was recruited during a week-long soccer camp by the coach, and enlisted as the "back-up goalkeeper." My 12 year-old mind did not, at the time, realize that playing on a premiere team did not come with the same pixie dust as my town teams. "Back-up" keeper was just that-- if the starting goalkeeper was sick or injured, then I could play. I wasn't used to that, and I don't think my parents understood that either, or they wouldn't have forked over the pricey league fee. Even on my town teams, we would typically split the game 50/50 (and I didn't mind playing mid-field from time to time).


I remember the starting keeper all-too vividly. Her name was Mindy and she was from Lancaster, MA. She had straight black hair and a growing arrogance that I'm sure got her smacked across the face once she got to high school. Her toilet humor reminded me of that 90s show, Beevis and Butthead. She even colored a tampon red one day during practice, and flung it at me. But, obnoxious personality aside, she was good. I like to think I was an occasional threat to her cushy position (I worked my 12 year old ass off in practices), especially since she never quite warmed up to me. Here's hoping she stopped throwing faux tampons at her teammates if she was planning on making soccer a career.


The rest of my teammates (from all over Central MA) were mean, kick-you-in-the-wrist-while-your-hand-is-on-the-ball mean. And the coaches screamed bloody murder from the sidelines at the players who missed shots and weren't hustling 100% of the time. I came to accept that kind of environment as I got older, but I loathed driving in Mom's car the 45 minutes to practices after school and the three hour drives to games on Sunday mornings, where I would sit on the sidelines in my "back-up" glory. My parents let me quit halfway through the season, after giving me a firm "we don't tolerate quitting in this family, but..." type of speech. I went on to play in many premiere leagues after that, but my parents made sure that I was not enlisted as "back-up."


Instance 2:
My college newspaper. I was a devoted staff writer during my freshman year before applying for the position of Copy Editor, which I held during my sophomore year. Junior year, I was promoted to Assistant-Chief Editor, in which I spent every other weekend and many week nights in the basement of the campus center, holed away in the Student Publication Office, editing articles and laying out the newsaper until the wee hours of the morning. There were many deadlines in which I layed out the majority of the newspaper, on my own, which resulted in a hostile, yet passive-aggressive, attitude toward the Editor-in-Chief, who was busy with other commitments. However, the Chief and I had our differences, sometimes verbally, and I will admit that I struggle to find the balance in profesisonal and personal life, even to this day.


In retrospect, I should have confronted her and told her I didn't appreciate doing all the work, especially since she was supposed to be "in charge." Yet, I worked hard, usually without a peep, knowing that this would prepare me for when I was the Chief Editor the following year.


However, that didn't happen. I was not promoted. I applied and interviewed, as a formality (like the year before) for the position, which was given to one of the Copy Editors. I didn't even know anyone beneath me had applied for the job. I was notified via letter, which stated something to the effect that "we are sorry to inform you..." etc etc, and they offered me the opportunity to remain as a staff writer (which, mind you, was open to anyone on campus who showed up at the meetings).


I was hurt. It was difficult to swallow, especially since the person they accepted had less experience than and I did. Looking back, I shouldn't have "expected" the job, just because I had been on the editorial staff for two years prior. That's not how it works in the real world, either. However, it was tough for me to continue my hard work for the paper, knowing that they had chosen someone else as Chief the following year.


The paper had three more issues to put out before summer. I let my hurt and immaturity reign, and I decided that if they didn't want me the following year, then they could finish the next three issues without me. I ended up announcing my resignation at one of the Editorial Staff Meetings. I thanked everyone in as polite a manner as I could muster, left my office key on the table, and walked out.


A week later, I received a letter of acceptance for The Walt Disney World College Program for the fall semester. I had applied two months prior. To this day, I like to think that fate had something to do with my not being offered the Chief position.


Two instances in 26 years isn't bad, right? Well, I guess I'm now making it three. After the fourth missed phone call from my team's Captain, I knew I owed him an explanation.


I was honest. I told him I had commited prematurely, without taking into consideration that I have been out of the game for a long time. I also told him that my schedule was already too busy, and that I would miss the last two games anyway, due to vacations. Understandably, he was irritated, but he appreciated my (finally) getting back to him. He told me that I'm still welcome on the team in the fall. I told him I would consider it, but to be on the look out for other female players.


And that was that. I still feel pretty horrible, but not as horrible as I did after that first game, in which I was kicked in the face and hands by grown men. How silly of me to think I could walk back onto a coed indoor soccer team as a goalkeeper and magically reapply my training from years past.


I feel like there should be a moral to this story, similar to Aesop's Fables, or the like. I'm open to suggestions.