My first memory of football was a drain. A treacherous gap 6-year-old me had to jump across to get to training. The ground that once used to be grass was now better described as patches of mud with a sprinkling of grass. Boots already caked in mud, brown spots flaking my pristine red socks, I attended my first football training.
My 2 brothers (1 older and 1 younger) had already been attending football classes at a club, JSSL FC, near our house. When I expressed interest in following them, my parents didn’t see any issues. I scored 12 goals on my first session and have since been trying to rehash that in a game. The closest I’ve come is 8 goals in a half in a Women’s National League (WNL) game while I was playing for Arion FC, but then my coach took me out.
I played many sports growing up. There’s a framed photo that’s hung up on the wall of our house that I think quite accurately depicts how my time was spent as a kid. It’s a collage- 4 photos of me in 4 sports. Football, Chess, Track and Field, and Ballet. It’s probably coincidental that the size of each photo also seemed proportionate to the time I spent in each field. 8-year-old Danelle in an oversized striped jersey between two opponents, almost twice her size. Leg drawn up, grim determination set on her face. The ball flying out of the picture. The other equally large photo of an innocent looking Danelle, chin nestled on her crossed arms, grinning before a chess board. The other 2 portraits, both slightly smaller in size, stark in contrast. One is the picture of grace- head tilted with faraway eyes, arms perfectly poised, legs in peaceful balance- a ballerina caught mid-pose. The other a picture of maximal effort- muscles flexed, the sides of my shorts trailing with the wind- as I sprinted towards the finish line.