Back in high school, 1990. Lacrosse wasn’t just a sport; it was an obsession, an all-consuming fixation that occupied every spare thought. But I didn’t play it year-round like the kids today, with their off-season teams and endless tournaments. No, my seasons had variety. In the fall, I played football for two years, then switched to soccer for two more. Winter was a mixed bag—one season of basketball, then three of winter track, a grudging concession to getting in shape for lacrosse season. Summers weren’t for showcases or training camps; they were for lifeguarding, being a camp counselor, or getting shipped off to foreign countries by well-meaning parents who thought I should see the world.
But through it all, lacrosse was the constant. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I had a stick in my hands, fixing pockets, hitting the wall. I found walls everywhere. That was my training. Not some carefully curated elite travel experience, just a kid, a stick, and a wall. The truth is, I didn’t play nearly as much lacrosse as the kids today. But my life was full, a mosaic of sports, work, travel, and the kind of experiences that stretch you in ways competition never could.