A Love Letter For Abby Wambach
It’s me, Alison.
You definitely don’t know who I am. But sugar, I know you.
You are the incredibly attractive forward for the former magicJack in Florida, and I ignore that team’s ridiculous name and mostly try to stare into your eyes through my television. I would like to tell you something. I think I love you. I know that’s probably a little brazen of me, but let me explain.
You are really great at soccer. I have had a thing for soccer players since… well, forever. I think the sport itself is super exciting, much to my college roommate’s dismay, and I watched it every chance I got. Your legs are incredible, and they launch you around the field in the most delightful way. You also aren’t afraid. As I write this, I’m watching you in the 90th minute of the women’s semifinal against Canada. You aren’t messing around. I appreciate the fact that merely days ago, you were sucker-punched by that nasty Colombian, and yet you’re still here, playing and kicking serious ass. Since your Olympic start, you’ve scored a major amount of the goals and assists for the USA team, and you won the U.S. Federation’s Soccer Athlete of the Year five times. You are incredible.
You and I also share an injury, sort of. I was born with a bone disease called osteochondroma, which is like bone spurs. My disease doesn’t affect the bones like it normally does, behind knees and elbows for a quick fix. Mine affected my tibia on my right side that lead to its eventual removal in 2004. I went through a year using a wheelchair and a walking cast with crutches and feeling a little ridiculous. I then decided that I’d try to walk easily. When that happened, I chose to run. When I could run, I chose a half marathon. Now, my eyes are set on the same goal once again. You, on the other hand, collided with Andréia Rosa from Brazil in your final match before the Beijing Olympics, fracturing both your fibula and tibia. I cringe every time I think about breaking that bone, and my heart aches because I know the feeling of just wanting to jump out of bed rest and go. You took rest and recovery seriously, and now you’re back at it like it never happened. That’s hard to do — some people would be intimidated by returning to the thing that so severely injured them. You, on the other hand, are not.
You like philanthropy. You’ve recently answered a question on your website, stating you’d love to get into humanitarian and philanthropic work. You ran the 2011 Chicago Marathon Charity Relay with your adorable teammates Alex Morgan and Hope Solo. You chose to donate your money from the relay to juvenile diabetes research. I adore when athletes care enough to give with what they have, and you do that.
Most importantly, you’re pretty. You have an alternative lifestyle haircut, and I don’t mean to pigeonhole you, but I’m pretty sure you play soccer and touch Megan Rapinoe on a regular basis with that haircut, meaning you play for my team. There are rumors that you’re dating fellow footballer Sarah Huffman, but again, you keep your life private. And that’s the exact mystery I need to be madly in love with you from afar. Dear, sweet Abby, you are great. Keep kicking, and know your fans just adore you. Me especially.
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“EPIC FAIL”…that’s what the Facebook message read that I had scattered across my iPhone after revealing my two year crush on this girl that has consumed my mind since the first day we met.
There’s a girl on the treadmill in front of me. Blonde hair, fair skin, fit—but thick where it counts.
You would have infinitives that you truly hold close to your heart and a couple of onomatopoeic mixtures of syllables that give music to your life. You would often be misunderstood, but you’d never be boring.
How terrible you used to be at holding your liquor, and the ridiculous combination of drinks you used to deem acceptable, such as Rikaloff and Hawaiian Punch served in a Nalgene.