At the end of every week at soccer camp, our coach, Avery, hosted the “Lost and Found
Scrimmage.” The idea was simple: every forgotten water bottle, worn-out shin guard, or mystery
T-shirt went into a pile. Each camper could claim one item before the match—and whatever you
picked, you had to wear or use for the game.
      The kids loved it. Shouts echoed across the field as players scrambled for mismatched
socks and oversized jerseys. But one camper, Leo, stood out. While others hesitated, wrinkling
their noses at stained pinnies or ripped shorts, Leo always raised his hand first. He’d grab the
most battered gear without complaint, lace up, and sprint onto the field. By the time the whistle
blew, he was laughing, sliding, and celebrating goals like his uniform was brand new.
Coach Avery pointed him out one day after practice. “You see Leo?” he said. “He doesn’t
wait for perfect conditions. He plays with what he’s got.”
       That simple lesson became the cornerstone of how I approached not just soccer, but my
entire athletic journey.
       For most of my life, I played sports at schools that didn’t have perfect facilities or endless
resources. Our middle school gym doubled as a cafeteria, and our soccer “field” was more dirt
than grass. When I started running track, we didn’t have starting blocks or proper spikes. But
like Leo, I made do. I ran hill sprints behind the school, watched YouTube videos on form, and
borrowed shoes from friends.
       When I transferred to Hopkins, I was overwhelmed by the difference. Perfectly lined
fields, shiny new uniforms, and entire teams of experienced players. During my first soccer
practice, I felt out of place. My touches were heavy, my passes rushed. Meanwhile, my teammates
seemed effortlessly confident.
       That first week, Coach Avery—who had moved to Hopkins around the same time I did—
pulled me aside. He reminded me of Leo’s mindset. “You don’t need perfect,” he told me. “You
just need effort. Play your game.”
       I took those words to heart. I began showing up early to practice to run drills alone. I
asked upperclassmen for feedback and started watching film to study positioning. When I didn’t

make varsity that first year, I didn’t sulk. I used every practice as a chance to close the gap be-
tween where I was and where I wanted to be.

       By junior year, I earned my spot on varsity for both soccer and track. But what mattered

most wasn’t the promotion—it was the confidence I gained from knowing I could build some-
thing out of less-than-perfect beginnings.

       Coach Avery’s approach was never about results; it was about mindset. He encouraged

us to adapt, to think creatively, to see opportunities where others saw limitations. When a rain-
storm flooded the field, he turned practice into a slide-tackle competition. When we lost by a

wide margin, he made us watch our mistakes—then had us laugh about them. “You don’t grow
from the scoreboard,” he’d say. “You grow from the mess.”

       That message stuck with me beyond the field. Whether in the lab, in the classroom, or
mentoring younger players, I try to bring the same resilience—to treat challenges as part of the
game, not obstacles that stop it.
       Leo taught me that resourcefulness can be powerful. Coach Avery showed me how to
channel that lesson into effort and persistence. Together, they shaped how I play: with optimism,
grit, and trust that I can make the most out of any circumstance.
       Motivation shouldn’t depend on a perfect field or perfect gear. It comes from showing up,
raising your hand, and playing with whatever you have.