The Spring Day in ’91 That Sparked My Lacrosse Obsession
My obsession began on a day before YouTube, Instagram, or any of the endless streams of highlights we take for granted today. Back then, if a team wasn’t within your region / league, they might as well have been in Senegal. Growing up in Westchester, those Connecticut teams felt like they were a whole different continent, even though they were just across the border.
In our little kingdom, Yorktown ruled the lacrosse world. If you talked college rankings, it was Syracuse or bust. So, stepping into the Sports Barn in Yorktown wasn’t just about buying gloves; it was like stepping onto sacred ground. I wasn’t just purchasing gear. I was entering a hallowed space where lacrosse was religion, and I was the pilgrim.
Saturday nights at the Mount Kisco indoor tennis center were legendary. Teams from all over came to play, and when those kids from Connecticut showed up, I stared at them like I’d just spotted a lost tribe. I was fascinated. Who were these kids? How did they play? It was a mystery, like discovering a secret lacrosse society no one had told me about.
There were few camps. Travel teams didn’t exist. Lacrosse beyond your own field was like folklore—passed down in whispers. I’ll never forget when I first heard about Gary Gait’s legendary leap over the goal. I hadn’t seen it, but in my mind, it was a magical, gravity-defying feat. I pictured him leaping with both feet over the goal, flipping upside down mid-air like Spider-Man staring down at Mary Jane, then slamming the ball into the net and landing like an Olympic gymnast. When I finally saw it on tape years later, it was, of course, impressive, but not quite the supernatural event I had imagined. Still, that’s how lacrosse was back then: more mystery, more myth.
That’s what I miss today. There’s a beauty in not knowing everything, in letting your imagination fill in the gaps, in allowing your mind to create magic where reality is still out of reach.
The day that sparked all this was at a game during the spring of my freshman year. Sure, I’d played a bit before that, but it was more of a casual fling, playing with a stick my neighbor had given me, unstringing and restringing it like a caveman trying to figure out fire. But it wasn’t until we took a school trip to Maryland—Anne Arundel, to be precise—that lacrosse truly sunk its hooks into me. Maryland, the Holy Land of lacrosse.
The older guys told me about this mystical land called “Maryland,” and my best friend, Burger—God bless him—tried to educate me about what it meant to the sport. Six hours on a bus, and Burger filled my head with the legends of Maryland lacrosse like we were about to embark on some sort of pilgrimage. By the time we arrived, I was practically vibrating with anticipation.
We pulled up to the field, and the crowd was already buzzing. Teams from all over had been invited, and you could feel the tension in the air. Then, the lights went out. To this day, I’m not sure if that was some low-budget attempt at special effects or if the stadium just couldn’t pay the electric bill, but it didn’t matter. Because when the power came back, the speakers blasted AC/DC’s Thunderstruck. That was it. I think I discovered my first chest hair in that moment.
The game kicked off, and my jaw practically hit the floor. I, nor Burger, wasn’t planning to go in, just watching in awe from the sidelines was the expectation, that is until our starting defenseman got a penalty. Suddenly, I was called in. Me, I wasn’t ready, but there I was. I sprinted to the top right of the box just as we practiced for man down, terrified, the stadium lights glaring down, and the opposing team must’ve smelled the fear on me, because I do not even think they completed two passes until the shot came fast and hard. Boom. Right in the thigh. I felt nothing but felt everything all at the same time. I Picked up the ball and tossed to the middie breaking upfield. You would think I knew what I was doing. Burger was screaming, “YEAH, JOE!” as if I’d just scored the winning goal at the championship.
To be honest, I don’t remember much after that. Our coach was frantically waving for me to get off the field to get our middie on. When I came off, most shocking of all the coach who had the personality of a rock on Stonehenge looked at me and actually said “good Job”. Burger, ever the hype man, saw the bruise on my leg—this massive, bullseye of a mark—and yelled at me, quoting Rocky, “NO PAIN!” I was thrilled. If smartphones had existed, I’d have been snapping pictures left and right. Instead, I grinned back at him and replied with my own movie quote, channeling Jessie Ventura from Predator, “I ain’t got time to bleed.”
We didn’t win the game, but inside, something had been lit. A fire, a passion that’s burned ever since. Lacrosse had me. It was a part of me now, and though I tried to look somber for the team’s loss, but I was ecstatic, that experience was amazing, deep down, I knew. I was hooked for life. Let’s go!
