Restraint

     Dribble. Dribble. She’s been running full speed, effortlessly, back and forth, for ten minutes now.

     Drip. Drip. The stream of sweat begins where her golden locks meet her pale, freckled face. Sweat drips past the vein above her temple, noticeably raised from intense focus. Where the stream meets her rosy cheeks it releases droplets every few seconds, like a dehydrated waterfall, onto her fire engine colored jersey. 

     As the other ponytails run in frantic circles, in each step she pushes the checkered ball with the grace of a ballerina toward the goal. It’s as though a butterfly erupted through a sea of gnats. They are playing a game, she is showcasing an art. Everyone in attendance can see she is different. Everyone in attendance knows this is more than a game for her. Every set of eyes on the green canvas is on her.

      A purple jersey begins to approach her. Her brow furrows, each fold in her forehead a mark of determination. In one fluid motion, with the toes of her right foot, she pulls the ball back a foot or so. Then, with the inside of the same foot, she pushes the ball past the left side of the purple jersey. With ease, she’s recovered the ball and dribbling again. It was just part of her dance. 

     Dribble. Dribble. Her blond ponytail seemed to pause in the air as her left foot made contact with the rolling ball. If you blinked, you would’ve missed it. The ball soared into the top right corner of the net with the intent of an eagle diving down for its next meal. 

     Silence. For a moment, it couldn’t have been more than a second, the crowd was silent. No clapping, no yelling, silence. A crowd of people who may have nothing in common more than their presence in this moment went silent, in pure awe of the art we all just witnessed together. The initial feeling many describe having when they first step into the Sistine Chapel, when they are so mesmerized by Michelangelo’s ability that they have no words, that enamored feeling collectively consumed each person at the Proehlific Park indoor soccer field on this cool, Thursday evening. 

     The red team, their fans, and the high school boys soccer team, who were patiently watching the game while waiting for their own game to begin, erupted in hoots and hollers, recognizing the thoughtful work she put in today, and for years prior, that put the soccer ball in the back of the net this evening. 

     “Woohoo!”

     “Way to go!”

     “Yeah!”

     She’s scored two goals now. 

     Dribble. Dribble. She has the ball again. A purple jersey races toward her at a forty-five-degree angle to her right, elbows flailing in the warm air. Dribble. Dribble. The defender is within a foot now. She pushes the checkered ball with her right foot to her left. The purple jersey’s left elbow rams into her chest. She stumbles back for a moment. 

     “That was a push!!” a fan yelled at the referee. 

     “Chill out!” a woman, who appeared the be the fan’s mother, retorted.

     Both the fan and her mother know it rarely turns out well for your team if you scream at the referee. They also know it’s difficult to resist, especially when it seems as though a player on the field’s safety is at risk. The fan doesn’t yell to the referee again.

     Each time when a defender approached, the athletic artist wasn’t timid with her move: How? What thoughts go through her head? How does she stay calm under pressure? Careful thinking, significant practice, restraining her eagerness, and confidence in her abilities push her toward success, “I analyze her speed and the angle she’s coming in at to decide whether I can get past her with just speed or if I need to make a move to get her off balance first.” It’s what she does every day, but excitement and anxiety still overwhelm her mind when she’s on the field. 

     How do you decide when to pass? “If I’m under less pressure than the person I would be passing to then I keep it,” basic analysis of feasible risk versus achievable reward. 

     What if she makes a mistake? What happens next? “I try to forget about it immediately. It’s important to have short-term memory loss when it comes to sports. If I dwell on my last mistake than that inhibits my ability to make the next good play.” If you want the future to be successful, you can’t linger on the past. 

     “Ouch!” I murmured, my mouth filled with a cookie just out of the oven. After arriving at home from the soccer game my mom made chocolate chip cookies. With an oven mitt, I pulled them out of the oven. Excited for the warm cookie to meet my watering mouth, I grabbed the most appetizing one immediately and took a bite. In a fraction of a second, my mouth screamed at me, “Too hot! Why did you do that!?” I knew that it burn, I’m a junior in college. I’ve been eating cookies long enough to know it would burn, but maybe this time it wouldn’t? No, I knew it would burn, I had taken the cookies out of the oven seconds before. But, my taste buds yearned for the cookie louder than my brain told me, “No, that’s too hot.” 

     “Ouch! Why does my tongue hurt?” I thought to myself as I pulled my body out from under my sheets. “Oh, that cookie,” I remembered burning myself the evening before. I didn’t wake up remembering how delicious the cookie was, rather how much it burnt my mouth. Restraint. Risk and reward.
“Ouch!” I did it again, the chocolate souffle was too hot. I remembered the cookie from the night before. “Come on, Hannah!” I thought to myself, “You have to learn to restrain yourself.” Whether it comes to eating, as it has the past two days, being an overbearing friend, watching another episode of “The Good Place,” or pushing my mind and physical body too hard, I need to practice restraint. I went to yoga.

“Reach out, as far as you feel comfortable,” the yoga teacher instructed while we each stretched our arms toward our toes during a sun salutation, “Listen to your body. Don’t push your body further than it wants you to.” I listened. I listened to her and I listened to my body. I relaxed my stretch. I listened to my breath. Deep inhale, long exhale.
Later, while in savasana, lying on my back, legs stretched to the end of my yoga mat, arms by my sides, palms facing the ceiling, eyes closed, the yoga teacher stated, “I’ve been thinking a lot about our breathing today, how it changes with our mood. Especially when we are excited, angry, or upset, our normal breathing pattern is disrupted. It’s okay to feel those emotions, but try not to let it affect your breathing.”
     “Be mindful of your breathing.”
     “Inhale. Exhale.”
     “Focus on each breath.”
     “Inhale. Exhale.”
     “Deep breaths.”
     “Inhale. Exhale.”
     “Inhale. Exhale.”
     “Inhale. Exhale.”
     “Sigh it out.”
     “Inhale. Exhale.”
     “Ahhh,” the exhales of the class filled the quiet room.
     “Inhale. Exhale.”
     “Deep breaths.”
     “I’m leaving in a week. I have so much to do. Don’t forget your headlamp --”
     “Inhale. Exhale.”