Whatever Happened to the Mystique of Being a Lacrosse Player?

When I played lacrosse, there was a mystique to it that I don’t really see today.

Maybe it’s nostalgia.
Maybe it’s age.
Or maybe it’s something real that slowly faded without us noticing.

I played in the early 90s in Westchester County, and when the season started, it felt different. It felt magical. Winter had just loosened its grip, it was still dark out during practices, and lacrosse players carried themselves in a way that didn’t need explaining.

You just knew.

We all looked a little rough around the edges.
A little off.
And that was the point.

We wore shorts with a stripe.
A beat-up boathouse jacket.
A white hat that had seen too much sun and too many practices.

Our sticks were never perfect. Shooting strings were frayed. Mesh was broken in just enough.
Shark cleats were muddy, torn, and definitely not new.
Most of us wore a t-shirt under our pads that probably hadn’t been washed in months.

And somehow… we loved it.

Everything was slightly imperfect, but it felt authentic. There was a shared understanding among players that this wasn’t just a sport—it was an identity.

I remember seeing someone wearing a boathouse lacrosse jacket once and instantly knowing they weren’t really a lacrosse player. I can’t even explain how I knew—it was just obvious. The way they carried it. The way they wore it. The way they didn’t quite fit the unspoken code.

If you played in the 90s, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

It’s hard to put into words, and it definitely doesn’t fit into a one-minute video. But there was something sacred about being part of that group. You earned it. You lived it. You wore the marks of it.

Today, the game is bigger, cleaner, more accessible—and in many ways, that’s a great thing. Equipment is better. Opportunities are everywhere. The sport has grown, and growth matters.

But sometimes I wonder if something important got lost along the way.

Not skill.
Not athleticism.
Not opportunity.

But identity.

I’m not saying kids today don’t care. They absolutely do. They work hard, they train year-round, and they love the game in their own way. But the mystique—the feeling that being a lacrosse player meant belonging to something slightly different—feels harder to find.

And maybe that’s on us.

Maybe it’s something we stopped talking about.
Maybe it’s something we stopped valuing.
Maybe it’s something we assumed would always be there.

Or maybe it’s something we can help bring back.

Not by forcing tradition.
Not by pretending it’s still the 90s.
But by teaching kids that lacrosse is more than highlights, gear, and rankings.

It’s culture.
It’s community.
It’s earned identity.

That imperfect, slightly off, beautifully gritty version of lacrosse—that mattered. And I’d love for the next generation to feel even a piece of what that felt like.

I don’t know if that mystique is gone forever.
But I do know this:

It was real.
It was powerful.
And it’s worth remembering.

Maybe even worth rebuilding.