The summer before my sophomore year, I broke my ankle. At the time, it felt like my world had come to a halt. Soccer wasn’t just a sport to me—it was my thing. My identity. The game I fell in love with when I was ten. It gave me joy, confidence, and a sense of purpose. And suddenly, in one instant, it was all taken away. As I sat sidelined for months, I clung to one thought: Once I can walk again, once I can run again, once I can play again—then I’ll finally be okay. I poured

There’s a rule in sports that no one really talks about, but every boy seems to learn: You can cry after the final whistle. But not before. And definitely not during.  When a team loses a championship game, it’s okay to cry. When a senior plays his last match, it’s okay to cry. When your whole season ends in one final shot or missed play, suddenly the tears are allowed to fall. They even get praised, “That just shows how much you care.” Coaches hug you. Teammates pat your bac

There’s a reason I flinch when people call me a “jock.” Not because I’m ashamed of being an athlete—but because I’ve seen what that word can mean. And I know how it can trap boys/young men into a version of masculinity that leaves no room for honesty, mental health, or growth. The term “jock” comes with baggage. It suggests someone who is obsessed with winning, disconnected from emotional intelligence, and constantly proving their worth through dominance. A jock isn’t just so

When I first started watching Ted Lasso, I thought I was turning on a lighthearted soccer comedy. A quirky American football coach trying to manage a Premier League team? Sounded entertaining enough. But as the show unfolded, something surprising happened. I wasn’t just watching to laugh. I was watching to learn—about leadership, vulnerability, and what it means to be a man in a world that still tells boys/young men to toughen up and stay quiet. Growing up as a boy in sports,