It was 35 degrees and raining; it was not that middle of the summer rain, but rain like a soda can on the back of your neck.
On April 7, I stood in the barren bleachers with my mitten-less hands in lint-filled pockets, watching the women’s lacrosse team drown in the mud.

Each step of misdirection caused players to lose their footing only to find themselves wearing skirts in sludge.
As the clock ticked down to one minute, the score was 13-4, Roanoke with the advantage. Guilford had control of the ball, then suddenly lost possession.

A Roanoke player picked up the ball and took it the length of the field to shoot and score a goal.
Then, by the end of the game, Roanoke had scored once more.
The final score was 15-4, and Guilford had fallen to Roanoke.
Not only had they lost, but they had been whooped back to third grade.
At the end of the game, however, the loss didn’t matter.
What angered me was the poor sportsmanship displayed by Roanoke.
The game had been won for Roanoke long before the final minute rolled down.

Their players could have burned the clock out and merely held onto the ball for the rest of the game, but instead they wanted to further embarrass Guilford and fluff statistics like throw pillows.
Why would they exert the effort to put Guilford down?
Did Roanoke’s players do it to make themselves feel superior? Wasn’t 13-4 bad enough?

Wasn’t it enough that Guilford’s women knew that they had been obliterated? Of course.

But Roanoke showed no remorse, no heart, no inner light. Guilford’s women were strong, dragging each other out of the thick muck.
After the foghorn resonated, I stood on the bottom step of the bleachers and looked onto the field. I saw mud polka-dotting the backs of women’s legs and shirts while disappointment was sprinkled onto Guilford faces.

They did their girly cheer, thanking the referees for their hard work and the other team for playing.
Then Guilford walked off the field soiled, pristine.