A long, strange kick indeed

When I was a sophomore, just after the 1998 soccer season ended, Robbie Hyman wrote an article for the Observer that put into words everything I had experienced over the previous two months, and it captured, in a nutshell, what the next five years of my life would bring. You can find it here, and if you are at all connected to women's soccer, or are just curious as to what I'm talking about, I hope you read it.

That was just after the team lost to Ithaca in the quarterfinals of the NCAA Tournament, a week after taking the New England Championship in a dramatic penalty kick shootout against Wellesley. For me, it was just the beginning of what would be an amazing ride that just recently came to an end a week ago on the sidelines of a muddy game at Wheaton College.

Like Robbie, when I first heard that I was going to be covering women's soccer, I wasn't too thrilled. I had a few good articles under my belt, and there were hints that I would get football, the most coveted of sports beats. But the powers that be sent me elsewhere, having me cover soccer, a sport I hadn't played or even watched since middle school, and knew virtually nothing about. And it wasn't even the guys.

Needless to say, I had no idea what was in store for me.

It's been 88 games, over five years, and I lost track of the number of articles a long time ago. I've been through two coaches, eight assistants, 47 players, and even two university presidents. The team posted a 60-23-5 record during my tenure, including two NCAA New England Championships and a Final Four appearance. That's a .710 winning percentage. Just as a comparison, the Yankees, who won three World Series over that same stretch, played at a mere .623.

They made it easy. Three NCAA berths in five years and solid seasons in between kept me excited about this team, and eager to come back for more. I had all the bragging rights at the Daily. It was my team that had only had one losing season since 1980, my team that could actually beat Williams, and my team that would still be playing long after the other fall sports were done.

But it wasn't just that they won. It was how they played. They came out every game with so much fire, intensity, competitiveness, heart, passion _ whatever you want to call it _ that all you could do was sit back and admire how good they were. These were players who, in the five years I covered them, never once went into a game thinking that they would walk off the field without a win. And, despite the fact that Tufts plays in one of the most competitive conferences in Division III, they rarely did.

Because they kept me so interested, I slowly overcame my soccer ignorance, absorbing everything I could from being around the team, watching games, and talking to coaches. I grew to know the game, the players, the coaches, and even the parents far better than I ever thought I could.

Looking back, it all feels like a big blur, but one that has filled my head and heart with so many memories, I could write books. I've run the full gamut of emotions, from the highs of celebrating after a big win to the lows of the heartbreaking losses that this team, unfortunately, has seen its fair share of.

I was at the bottom of a sweaty pile of players in 1998, moments after Carmen Mikacenic nailed a penalty kick to give Tufts a win over Wellesley for the Jumbos' first-ever NCAA New England Championship. I rushed onto the field to join a swarming mob of celebrating fans that, if they hadn't already been tipped over, surely would have torn the goalposts down.

Two years later, part of me died in a 15-second span on Nov. 19, 2000, when the best season any Tufts team has ever had came screeching to an all-too-abrupt end. And every time I step onto Kraft Field, I can see the play running over and over again in my mind. It's like what must happen to Bill Buckner when he goes back to Shea Stadium.

Denise Buckley takes the ball at midfield and streaks down the far sideline. The countdown isn't going fast enough, and there's a growing fear in my gut that something awful is about to happen. I want to yell, run out on the field, do something, but all I can do is stare, watching it happen. Buckley gets to the corner and cuts in toward the goal. Ten-nine-eight. A pass across into the box. Seven-six. A shot, five, and a save, four. A rebound and another shot. three. No. Words can't describe what just happened. I fell to my knees on the sideline.

Then, twisting the knife in my heart _ the ensuing kickoff. Three seconds left, down a goal, and a suddenly out-of-luck and defeated team had to go back out there and put an end to its own season. Then I had to walk across the field and do my job, fighting back emotion and forcing myself to remain composed, detached, and impartial as I interviewed a devastated team. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do as a reporter.

And, as I watched that final game last Saturday, and saw a team fighting to keep its season alive, I kept hoping and praying that they could pull out one more miracle. Because, even after almost 90 games, it still ended too soon.

I wanted to see the team keep going, make another run deep into the tournament, and maybe even bring home a national championship. But mostly, I just wanted the magic that surrounds this team to live just a little bit longer. Magic that I, in some small way, was a part of, at least as much as I could be.

But now it's over, and here I am, writing my last article ever. It's an odd feeling, but I can't think of any better way to say goodbye than writing about this team one last time.

Finally, all that's left is to say thanks, and I hope you'll pardon the Oscar-award type thank-you list.

First, thank you to each and every one of the players, for letting me into your world, if only a small corner of it. Some of you wouldn't recognize me if we ran straight into each other, and others of you I truly consider my friends. But regardless of how well we knew each other, you all had an impact on my life.

To the sports department, for letting me hang around and for putting up with my missed deadlines and absurdly long articles.

To Steve Clay, for JumboCast. Thanks to you, I will now be able to stay involved with Tufts Athletics well into the foreseeable future. And to Kris Talon, my partner in the "booth." I'm already looking forward to next year.

To Paul Sweeney, Bill Gehling, and the rest of the Athletics Department, and to John DiBiaggio, for everything you've done both for me and in supporting Tufts sports.

A special thank you to Marianne Glassanos, and all the other parents, not just for the food, but also for all the support.

And last, but certainly not least, thank you to Martha Whiting. It's been a blast. I've enjoyed watching you grow as a coach, and I'm excited to see where you can take this team in the future.

Go Jumbos!