In Argentina, soccer is a way of life. It is a part of the culture, and with its excellent teams and coaches, makes a great place to get back into shape to play again. In researching my travels, I found a training school in Necochea, Argentina, at which I made arrangements to train for two weeks. For me, however, the opportunity to train alongside pro hopefuls was more than just about the sport itself. It was about a personal battle I fought, and—I am beside myself with joy in being able to say this—ultimately won. In the end, only a small component of this experience was about the sport. It was about having my health back.
The Long Road
After years of struggling with unwelcome, unexplained symptoms and consulting numerous healthcare professionals for help I was given a blanket diagnosis...that really got me no where. All I knew was that when I exercised heavily, I became extremely, painfully ill for days on end. How do you tell an athlete it is over?
I want to say that the solution came swiftly. I want to say that I handled it well, and accepted it like an adult. That this new lifestyle didn’t phase who I was. For a few years, the fallout of this unusual set of circumstances did not paint a pretty picture. And to add to it, the challenges I faced were never something I felt comfortable being public about. It was hard to put into words something you don’t really understand yourself. I knew I wanted my sports back so badly, but I had to pretend I didn’t. I had to be in denial, because facing it was too painful. I tucked away all signs of my athletic past, I refused to watch any soccer and I avoided going to games. I often didn’t tell people that I played because I didn’t want to explain why I couldn’t play now. It wasn’t a time in my life I cherish: the diagnosis, the misdiagnosis, the confusion, the fear, the reality and the denial. The trials, the pills, the procedures...and the tears that flowed on the way home from every pointless, waste-of-time doctor’s appointment. But also, there was the courage I managed to muster to push for an answer—the answer I ultimately found.
And here I am, sharing my experience from training in Argentina. I am in a time in my life I always hoped for, but didn’t think I would get. For me, training was about a lot more than an improved touch on the ball and a cool story to match a stamp in my passport. Just stepping on the field, now, for me, is likely my greatest accomplishment.
Back into Shape
For training, we would either do an indoor session, and outdoor session, a small practice at the park, or scrimmages at either the stadium or indoor facility. The guys would also go to the midday conditioning trainings with the semi-pro team, but my fitness level was not up to par with that level of intensity. And my quads were simply not going to accommodate it. They held in, though. After many pep talks; “C’mon girls. Stay with me.” Yes, I was referring to my quadriceps when saying ‘girls’. Most evenings we would go to the stadium to train with the local boys’ team. Our coach would pick us up early for our small training, and then we would join the group for evening scrimmage.
Welcome to Argentina
The last night in Necochea was the most memorable. It was a cool night, with dark clouds threatening. The air filled only with the stampede of cleats gushing through mud, the varied thumps of the ball, and each of us yelling at each other as we battled. There I was, in the pouring rain with this handful of local boys and my brothers, pushing the ball forward. We’re sprinting, we’re stretching, we’re screaming. Pushing, pulling, lunging; getting that slight tap to your teammate and digging in to get forward and receive the next pass. Demanding, punishing your body to step hard and get there never felt so comfortable, so natural.
The sun has gone down and we’re playing under the buzz of the lights coming on, with the rain sporadically pounding us. The scrimmage gets more and more players as the night goes on, and quickly moves from controlled, working-the-ball down the field to an all-out pinball machine scrap fest. The game has changed and I realize I will either be in it, or out of it. Well? If you bitches want to scrap, then I’ll scrap! Hacks, lunges, slices, dices. Welcome to Argentina. Crashes, slashes, cuts, dodges. The occasional quality pass. Thwacks, thumps, knocks—chasing each other down the field to pick off that ball. A loose ball and three of us go for it. The guy in front of me took a larger step and we collide in a full-frontal smash—and I go flying. I am so wrapped up the adrenalin of it all I hardly notice the nosebleed and the growing bump on my forehead. While these players were exceptional with footskills and strength, they didn’t anticipate as well. In such a game, the strategy of place-yourself-next-to-the-beehive-and-scream-like-hell-for-the-ball proved to be effective and earned me some excellent shot opportunities. I didn’t score that night and I really wanted to, but I was dangerously close to the upper V three times. It’ll happen.
Where’s Your Sports Bra, Hill?!
I learned so much in my two weeks in Necochea. To bring more socks and sports bras than you can shake a stick at. To pay attention all the time and to look tough, play hard, and hit back. To scrap, scrap, scrap! That challenging yourself makes you smarter, faster, stronger, and better. That playing with a small, ghetto ball on turf will demand improvement with your control. That you must never take off your sports bra so that it can dry in between trainings, because you’ll forget to put it back on and have to tell the coach why you shouldn’t scrimmage… That blisters are your friend—be hospitable to them. That Argentinean MTV is hilarious, and it’s even more hilarious to mimic the characters with your little brothers. That dulce de leche is delicious with everything (and I thoroughly tested this theory). That 26-year-olds aren’t as fit as 16-year-olds, but that just means you have to work a little harder to get there. That few things are more gratifying than Abel with a grin on his face, a look that crosses between pride and surprise, shaking both fists as he yells with enthusiasm, “BUENA! BUENA SSSHHHHEEEEE-LA-RRREEEE!! BUENA!!!!!!”
And despite my nonchalant approach to what I thought was doing there, it soon became evident. I came to Argentina because I needed to ask the question. And in Argentina, I found the answer. Indeed, soy futbolista!
The Long Road
After years of struggling with unwelcome, unexplained symptoms and consulting numerous healthcare professionals for help I was given a blanket diagnosis...that really got me no where. All I knew was that when I exercised heavily, I became extremely, painfully ill for days on end. How do you tell an athlete it is over?
I want to say that the solution came swiftly. I want to say that I handled it well, and accepted it like an adult. That this new lifestyle didn’t phase who I was. For a few years, the fallout of this unusual set of circumstances did not paint a pretty picture. And to add to it, the challenges I faced were never something I felt comfortable being public about. It was hard to put into words something you don’t really understand yourself. I knew I wanted my sports back so badly, but I had to pretend I didn’t. I had to be in denial, because facing it was too painful. I tucked away all signs of my athletic past, I refused to watch any soccer and I avoided going to games. I often didn’t tell people that I played because I didn’t want to explain why I couldn’t play now. It wasn’t a time in my life I cherish: the diagnosis, the misdiagnosis, the confusion, the fear, the reality and the denial. The trials, the pills, the procedures...and the tears that flowed on the way home from every pointless, waste-of-time doctor’s appointment. But also, there was the courage I managed to muster to push for an answer—the answer I ultimately found.
And here I am, sharing my experience from training in Argentina. I am in a time in my life I always hoped for, but didn’t think I would get. For me, training was about a lot more than an improved touch on the ball and a cool story to match a stamp in my passport. Just stepping on the field, now, for me, is likely my greatest accomplishment.
Back into Shape
For training, we would either do an indoor session, and outdoor session, a small practice at the park, or scrimmages at either the stadium or indoor facility. The guys would also go to the midday conditioning trainings with the semi-pro team, but my fitness level was not up to par with that level of intensity. And my quads were simply not going to accommodate it. They held in, though. After many pep talks; “C’mon girls. Stay with me.” Yes, I was referring to my quadriceps when saying ‘girls’. Most evenings we would go to the stadium to train with the local boys’ team. Our coach would pick us up early for our small training, and then we would join the group for evening scrimmage.
Welcome to Argentina
The last night in Necochea was the most memorable. It was a cool night, with dark clouds threatening. The air filled only with the stampede of cleats gushing through mud, the varied thumps of the ball, and each of us yelling at each other as we battled. There I was, in the pouring rain with this handful of local boys and my brothers, pushing the ball forward. We’re sprinting, we’re stretching, we’re screaming. Pushing, pulling, lunging; getting that slight tap to your teammate and digging in to get forward and receive the next pass. Demanding, punishing your body to step hard and get there never felt so comfortable, so natural.
The sun has gone down and we’re playing under the buzz of the lights coming on, with the rain sporadically pounding us. The scrimmage gets more and more players as the night goes on, and quickly moves from controlled, working-the-ball down the field to an all-out pinball machine scrap fest. The game has changed and I realize I will either be in it, or out of it. Well? If you bitches want to scrap, then I’ll scrap! Hacks, lunges, slices, dices. Welcome to Argentina. Crashes, slashes, cuts, dodges. The occasional quality pass. Thwacks, thumps, knocks—chasing each other down the field to pick off that ball. A loose ball and three of us go for it. The guy in front of me took a larger step and we collide in a full-frontal smash—and I go flying. I am so wrapped up the adrenalin of it all I hardly notice the nosebleed and the growing bump on my forehead. While these players were exceptional with footskills and strength, they didn’t anticipate as well. In such a game, the strategy of place-yourself-next-to-the-beehive-and-scream-like-hell-for-the-ball proved to be effective and earned me some excellent shot opportunities. I didn’t score that night and I really wanted to, but I was dangerously close to the upper V three times. It’ll happen.
Where’s Your Sports Bra, Hill?!
I learned so much in my two weeks in Necochea. To bring more socks and sports bras than you can shake a stick at. To pay attention all the time and to look tough, play hard, and hit back. To scrap, scrap, scrap! That challenging yourself makes you smarter, faster, stronger, and better. That playing with a small, ghetto ball on turf will demand improvement with your control. That you must never take off your sports bra so that it can dry in between trainings, because you’ll forget to put it back on and have to tell the coach why you shouldn’t scrimmage… That blisters are your friend—be hospitable to them. That Argentinean MTV is hilarious, and it’s even more hilarious to mimic the characters with your little brothers. That dulce de leche is delicious with everything (and I thoroughly tested this theory). That 26-year-olds aren’t as fit as 16-year-olds, but that just means you have to work a little harder to get there. That few things are more gratifying than Abel with a grin on his face, a look that crosses between pride and surprise, shaking both fists as he yells with enthusiasm, “BUENA! BUENA SSSHHHHEEEEE-LA-RRREEEE!! BUENA!!!!!!”
And despite my nonchalant approach to what I thought was doing there, it soon became evident. I came to Argentina because I needed to ask the question. And in Argentina, I found the answer. Indeed, soy futbolista!
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