Saturday, Nov. 23.
Silence abounded as we shifted the ball around the field in relentless preparation. The stands to our left were a mere skeleton, empty and void of life, while we spent the afternoon practicing and talking tactics. You could see the breath of hard work and groundwork and preparation in the still air. The next day, we were competing in the National Championship. Today, we were practicing, like the hundreds of times we did before. And we had been to that title game in our minds—hundreds and hundreds of times before. But here we were.
Sunday, Nov. 24.
The Norfolk air was biting; brisk wind incessantly tousled our ponytailed hair as we rose with familiar cadence up the stairs and onto our chartered bus, the chariot to our impending destiny. We found our seats, and I turned off the world, slipping headphones over my cold-bitten ears. The bus slowly rolled away from our hotel, the place we’ve surely emblazoned in our memories as our championship week home. We were on our way. We were on our way to the National Championship, this time not simply in our minds. This time, for real.
I looked out the glossy window intently as we crossed intersections and passed empty side streets. I sat with legs propped against the seat in front of me, shoes untied and forehead leant up against the tinted and fingerprinted windowpane. The world below moved on with its usual speed and monotonous tone. Women walking dogs. A man bundled in layers, hands exposed, attempting to fix the chain on his bicycle. I watched the scuffed, blackened sidewalk serve as an avenue for these everydayers. They had no conceivable way of knowing what was going on inside that bus in that moment. And they never will.
Last year, we didn’t even make the NCAA tournament. We crapped out early and often from games and, eventually, from our season. And we wouldn’t let it happen again. Last year, we lost in the first round of the ACC tournament, a loss that perhaps we deserved. Our season ended, but we continued. We practiced the following week, and the following week, until the Final Four—a Final Four we couldn’t even sniff being a part of—and learned how it felt to have a championship length season. And here we are now, living in one.
Reaching the National Championship is just about the extent of a dream that you can have in the sport of field hockey, unless you’re looking to play internationally, and here we were. For so many, playing on the Sunday before Thanksgiving is hardly even a dream. It’s untouchable. It’s impossible. And here we were.
As the closing horn droned its fateful buzz, most of the team collapsed hollowly, realizing the dream was over. It was done. The result was theirs. The trophy was theirs. We stood with tepid gaze as they celebrated, and embraced so longingly and lovingly each of our sisters. We were done—some of us for the year, some of us for good.
We may feel we’ve done wrong, and if we feel that way, there’s little we can do to remedy it. Maybe we did do wrong. They found the back of the goal on Sunday and we didn’t. We lost. But how lucky we were to have seen the field that day? How lucky were we to have practiced another week or two weeks? We were lucky. We are lucky. Even to lose on Sunday, we are lucky to have danced so many days. In this heartbreaking moment, it’s near impossible to recognize, but we are so, so lucky.
It’s no shock or secret that hockey doesn’t make national headlines the way football or basketball does. But for players, this is our moment. My teammates and I came to Duke with this at the forefront of our minds. We don’t talk about making the National Championship. We talk about winning the National Championship. We hustled for 24 games this season. We fought incessantly for wins and fought incessantly during losses just the same. We attacked together. We flourished together and failed together. We cared about a greater togetherness. We were one, and while this loss hurts more than others, this team is untouchable in its character and devotedness. This team will go on, without these seniors, sure, but poetic justice will incur in due time.
We will hoist that trophy in due time.
I can’t be thankful for Sunday’s loss, but I am thankful for Sunday’s lesson. We won’t always come out on top, in sports, in work and in life. It’s about the journey. Trust in the journey. Trust in the system and the strategy. Trust in the ones running beside you. Sometimes we weathered the storm and sometimes it down poured on us. But it was a journey of electric moments—moments you can’t buy or get out of classes. You can’t put a number or a grade on this experience. You can’t feel this passion and pride or pain and power in any classroom. My heart remains heavy and high in my throat to say goodbye to this team. To this program. To this athletic department. So I won’t.
Thank you, Duke, for the opportunity to be a Blue Devil. But I can’t say goodbye. I can’t omit wearing that uniform from my memory, and I never will. I can’t say goodbye, so I’m not.
I will always be a Blue Devil. And so will the women who competed on Sunday night. We were women at work that evening, not girls playing sports. Women unafraid to get hit. Women proud to hit someone and hit them hard. We were Blue Devils that night, blue collars out. And we always will be.
We are Duke.
Ashley Camano is a Trinity senior. Her column runs every other Tuesday. Send Ashley a message on Twitter @camanyooo.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.