The [Lacrosse] Afterlife

Guest contributor Parker Johnson with some needed perspective

The come-down from college lacrosse is a nasty one. Every job site or office has at least one guy who has made the treacherous leap from student-athlete to desk jockey and tells you about how they used to be able to chuck the pigskin a quarter mile. The movie “Office Space” is no longer a farce but more of a Michael Moore documentary depicting the desolate khaki-laden landscape that is the modern office. My generation was born too late to experience the joys of home ownership and too soon to enjoy the spoils of working from home. The afterlife for former college lacrosse players like me is less than ideal. 

As pencil pushers worldwide are forced to return to the office, I have returned to the job site. I served a 10-month stint at a prominent accounting firm where my productivity was measured by the amount of business buzzwords I could cram into a single email. The soul-crushing ass-kissing that was clearly used to measure intelligence at this company had destroyed me. The days of sleeping like a rock after class, practice, and lifting were over; my daily sense of accomplishment had been wiped from my life with one snap of Thanos’ fingers. 

For the last year, I have felt a subconscious sense of embarrassment towards my collegiate career. Sure, I graduated with 2 degrees and a slightly above-average GPA, but I firmly believe that my greatest accomplishments happened on the field. I worked hard to earn a scholarship, a spot in the starting lineup, and a few conference championships. Despite this, I still feel ashamed of the “athletic achievements” section at the bottom of my resume. The thought of an employer looking at my life on paper makes me assume that I am viewed as another stereotypical dumb athlete. 

My largest source of self-consciousness came from beige conversations around the water cooler where I attempted to take a mental break from what my life had become. When coworkers were attending weddings or camping, I was suiting up for beer league. This cultural disconnect made me feel like I had not successfully crossed through the portal into adulthood. While other spreadsheet warriors were winding down for the night, I was drinking a warm pilsner after a 9 p.m. game in a locker room with my towel-laden teammates. It has taken me almost a year to accept my lifestyle for what it is. Over the past 365, I have realized that there is one certainty in my life: The lessons I have learned through the game are far more valuable than any lesson I learned in the classroom. 

There, I said it. 

I don’t regret a single moment of my ongoing lacrosse career. I’m in pain when I walk, my joints creak like a suspension bridge, and my nose juts out from my face like the Leaning Tower of Piza. All this pain was endured so that I could be a mediocre DII finisher. I used to believe that I was an anomaly because I endured all this adversity despite never playing at the highest level. Statistically, I have accomplished more than most people. If you played a sport in college, you’re in the same boat as me. 

The mere act of dedicating your life to one thing shows more dedication and resiliency than any tangible reward can. Why, as adults, must we feel ashamed for receiving our dopamine from a sport we enjoyed as children? The lacrosse community is small, and that might be a good thing. 

There are only a handful of us who understand what it takes to be a college lacrosse player and to continue to play the game we love after graduation. The term “student-athlete” is, frankly, backwards. No one has ever left a classroom with bags of ice crudely taped to their body after a long lecture, excited to do it all over again tomorrow. 

We might be a certifiably insane group, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. When I think about where my friends come from, where my sense of enjoyment comes from, where my entertainment comes from, and what days of the week I look forward to most, I think about this game. 

Why do we dedicate ourselves to a game where the pros make less than a garbageman? Loving something that cannot love you back seems fruitless. Spending thousands of dollars and countless hours to play an obscure sport with a poor reputation seems like an exercise in futility - but, for some strange reason, there is an entire global community of headcases like me that can’t get enough. 

I’m probably too late to tell you to never graduate but I might be just in time to tell you to never stop playing. No matter how badly life has you in a chokehold, the game will always be there. Those who think we are crazy haven’t had the privilege of experiencing this great game and, frankly, will never truly understand what they are missing out on.