One year and twenty-two days ago, I stood on the field at Hall of Fame Stadium in Oklahoma City and received a silver medal for my softball team’s second place finish at the the Women’s College World Series. We had played a hard-fought, three-game series against Florida that ended in a 4-1 decision to give Florida their second straight national title. We were devastated. And for me, no matter how much Hutch reminded us in the locker room that the final game should not define our season, that loss was made even more heartbreaking by the knowledge that it would be the last softball game of my career.
Or so I thought.
Last Wednesday, I found myself once again standing on the first base line with a heavy heart, lined up to receive a second place silver medal. My Israeli softball team, the Bet Shemesh Fireballs, had lost to the Israeli Women’s Softball League Championship to the Junior Tigers. Like the series with Florida a year ago, the game had been a thrilling one (but unlike the Florida games, I found myself on the field instead of the bench!). Our team was stacked with players from the Women’s National Team and so was favored to win, but amidst many fielding errors and an abnormally weak offense, we did not prevail. The blow was softened by the fact that all season I have helped coach the Junior Girls team, and their excitement at winning the league after months of hard work was truly inspiring to be a part of. Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the bitter feeling of disappointment that, once again, I had failed to win the last game of the season.
I would like to say that this transformative year has taught me to be okay with losing. It hasn’t— years of competitive sports and academics have ingrained in me a deep distaste for failure that I am still trying to work myself out of. But one thing this softball season, my first out of retirement, DID teach me was gratitude and love for the game, and for the people around me that share it.
I found the Israeli softball program by fluke. An Israeli agency that I follow on Instagram recently launched a baseball program that partners with the Israeli baseball league. I figured that was as close as I could get to softball, so I messaged the director and asked to help out. After much pestering, he finally got back to me and asked why I wasn’t interested in working with the softball league instead. You can imagine my reaction: softball? in Israel? where??
He put me in touch with the Director of Israeli softball, who set me up with a position as an assistant coach for the Junior National Girls’ team. So began the grind: travel to weekly practices, planning drills, and getting my glove shipped to Israel (special thanks to Lori and Jeff Lasday for that!). Soon after, I got a call from the head coach of the Bet Shemesh Fireballs asking me to join the team for their spring league. Despite an injury sustained while hiking the PCT the previous summer that limited where and how much I could play, I agreed.
I don’t think I realized how much I’d missed the game until I stepped onto the field for practice. It was a beautiful clear evening in February (no snow in the outfield! can you imagine!) and we were playing on an American-funded field in a city called Petach Tikvah, about 20 miles northeast of Tel Aviv. As I warmed up, I marveled at how naturally the throw-catch motion still came. During batting practice, my swing was rusty but smooth, connecting with the ball as it always had. And as I rotated between positions in the infield and outfield, my glove still managed to find the ball, my feet just barely keeping up. It didn’t just feel good— it felt right.
As the season went on, I realized that it wasn’t just softball that I had missed. I had missed being part of a team. Even though we are close friends, my roommates in Lod could not replace the camaraderie that comes with being part of a sports team. I looked forward to our weekly games not only for the chance to compete, but to goof around with my teammates in the dugout, cheering them on when they did well and pick them up when they didn’t. Being and supporting a teammate was an integral part of my four years in Ann Arbor, and I consider myself fortunate to have found the same in Israel.
Many people this year have asked why, in the midst of a busy volunteer schedule and an exciting new country and a somewhat social life, I would travel an hour, sometimes two, by train two nights a week just to coach and play softball. This league did not pay me anything, did not contribute to my resume or prospects for a professional career. There were no fancy uniforms, no ice tubs, no media interviews. We averaged three fans per game, bought our own gear, carpooled to the field, and our athletic training staff consisted of a decades-old first aid kit. We played our own walkup songs from a speaker in the dugout, and instead of hanging out in hotels after the games, we met up for beers at the brewery in town. Softball, for me, became less of a job and more of a hobby. I could have fun both on and off the field, and not sacrifice one for the other. This was a dynamic I came to cherish.
That’s not to say I disliked my time playing for Michigan Softball— quite the contrary. Representing the block M at such a high level remains one of the greatest honors of my life, and the lessons I learned from my four years with the team still resonate deeply: important, hard-earned lessons about commitment, discipline, leadership, teamwork, and resilience. I would not be who I am today without my time as part of Michigan Softball. But still, the time came to move on. Many college athletes find it incredibly difficult to cut ties with the program that gave them so much, and to which they also contributed immensely. I have had those moments too, where the feeling of emptiness, of loss, of your entire world continuing without you in it, is stifling. Seeing snapchats of team hangouts and watching highlights from an exciting game is agonizing, not only due to nostalgia but because it is unfathomable that something you dedicated your life to can continue to exist without you. I sympathize with each and every college athlete— and there are many— who have not yet found something that makes them feel the way their sport did. I’m still not sure if I ever will. But this year has come close. Playing softball in Israel has given me the opportunity not only to play the game, but to live out this integral part of my identity— that of an athlete— while still allowing me to develop other pieces of my persona to which I had not given so much time.
These were my thoughts as I bowed my head to receive my silver medal from Ami, the Director of the league who had offered me this opportunity many months ago. Once again, my team walked off the field as a runner up, falling short of the trophy we had strived for all season. We turned our eyes from the celebrations of the other team; we packed up our gear in silence. Nevertheless, this ending was different. I was so proud of the Juniors for how they had played. I was, maybe, a little more tired and sore than when in my athletic prime a year ago. But most of all, I was filled with gratitude for the past season of play. And instead of mourning a career finished, I was honored by every pitch I’d had the chance to be a part of, and hopeful that there would be many more to come.
