That’s what I keep telling myself, even though the moment replays in my head like a looping highlight reel—only instead of glory, it’s just a reminder of what didn’t happen. The ball was in my hands, the end zone was in sight, and for a few seconds, everything slowed down. The roar of the crowd, the cleats pounding the turf, the adrenaline—none of it mattered. All I could see was open field. All I could hear was the sound of my own breath. I’d imagined this exact moment thousands of times in my head. In the backyard when I was a kid, dodging invisible defenders, diving across the imaginary goal line. In the locker room, during those long pre-game stretches when your mind drifts off and you picture yourself making the play that changes everything. This was supposed to be that moment. But it wasn’t.
It wasn’t because I stumbled, or maybe I hesitated. Maybe I looked back too soon, checking to see who was behind me. Maybe I let the pressure get to me. Or maybe, honestly, someone just made a better play. Their defender, our mistake. I could try to pinpoint the exact second it slipped away—when the ball bounced out of my hands, or the turf monster caught my foot, or the defender reached just far enough to trip me up. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I didn’t score. And that reality hit harder than the turf when I finally went down.
You spend so much time preparing, so much time convincing yourself that when the opportunity comes, you’ll be ready. You’ll be clutch. You’ll rise to the occasion and prove to everyone watching—coaches, teammates, family, maybe even yourself—that you have what it takes. But then sometimes, life hands you a different outcome. One that doesn’t make sense in the moment. One that hurts more because of how close you were. It’s not like I didn’t want it enough. It’s not like I didn’t work for it. It just didn’t go the way I wanted. And that’s a tough pill to swallow, especially when you know how many people were counting on you. When your name was the one being called. When your hands were the ones on the ball. When you had that one shot—and missed.
But that’s the thing about life. It’s unpredictable. It doesn’t care how many reps you put in, how much heart you have, or how badly you want something. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes, even when you do everything right, it still doesn’t go your way. I didn’t score the touchdown. That’s the truth. And as much as I wish I could go back and do it over again—run faster, grip the ball tighter, keep my head straight—I can’t. All I can do is move forward. Learn from it. Grow from it. Accept that in the grand scheme of things, one play—no matter how important it feels in the moment—is not the whole story.
Still, it lingers. The silence in the locker room afterward. The subtle glances from teammates. The coach who doesn’t say much but doesn’t need to. You feel it all. Not because they blame you, but because you blame yourself. It’s internal. That gnawing feeling that you let people down. That you let yourself down. And it doesn’t help when people say things like “you’ll get another chance,” or “keep your head up,” because deep down, you know that particular moment is gone. That exact scenario won’t come around again. And even if another opportunity does, it won’t be the same. The stakes will be different. The people watching will be different. You will be different.
But maybe that’s okay.
Because if we only ever succeeded, if every play ended in a touchdown, we wouldn’t grow. We’d never know the depth of our own resilience. We wouldn’t understand the value of persistence. And I’m starting to think that matters more than a single score. The real measure of character isn’t whether you cross the goal line. It’s what you do when you don’t. Do you crumble? Do you wallow in regret? Or do you keep showing up, keep grinding, keep believing in yourself even when it’s hard?
I’m trying to choose the third option. It’s not easy. There are nights when I lay awake replaying it over and over, thinking about how things could have gone differently. What if I trained harder? What if I anticipated that hit better? What if I didn’t drop the ball? But eventually, you have to stop torturing yourself with “what ifs” and start focusing on “what now.” What do I do now that I didn’t score? What does this moment mean in the long run? How do I respond?
That’s where the growth is. In the response. It’s not about pretending it didn’t hurt. It did. Still does. But there’s something powerful in being able to say, “Yeah, I messed up. I missed my shot. But I’m still here. I’m still going.” You find strength in the recovery. You find clarity in the chaos. And maybe, just maybe, you find out who you really are—not in the highlight reel, but in the quiet moments afterward, when no one’s watching and you’re still putting in the work.
It’s easy to be proud when things go your way. When the crowd is cheering and your name’s in the paper. But real pride comes from knowing you kept going even when it didn’t. Even when you wanted to quit. Even when the weight of failure felt like too much to carry. Because truthfully, that’s what separates the good from the great—the ability to fail and come back stronger.
So yeah, it’s unfortunate that I didn’t score the touchdown. I wanted it more than anything. But maybe this moment was meant to teach me something else. Something I wouldn’t have learned if everything had gone perfectly. I’m learning patience. I’m learning humility. I’m learning how to pick myself up without needing applause to motivate me. And I’m learning that setbacks don’t define you—responses do.
People might forget the dropped ball. The missed opportunity. But they’ll remember how I handled it. If I kept working. If I stayed committed. If I didn’t let one moment undo everything I’ve built. And that’s the kind of legacy I want. Not just one defined by touchdowns and trophies, but by grit, perseverance, and the willingness to keep showing up—even after disappointment.
Because life happens. That’s the phrase I keep coming back to. Life happens, and it doesn’t always happen how we want. You train, you prepare, you give your all—and sometimes, it still doesn’t go your way. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. That doesn’t mean you stop trying. If anything, it means you try harder. Smarter. With more heart and more hunger.
I’ve started to look at this not as a failure, but as a chapter. One that hurts, sure. One I’d rather rewrite. But also one that’s shaping me into the kind of person who can handle the highs and the lows. Because anyone can celebrate success. Not everyone can walk through disappointment and come out stronger on the other side.
So, I keep running the drills. I keep showing up to practice. I keep lifting, studying film, listening to the coaches. I keep grinding—not because I’m trying to prove something to anyone else, but because I’m not done yet. Because I still believe in my story. And because deep down, I know that one missed touchdown doesn’t erase the kind of player—or person—I’m becoming.
It still stings, no doubt. There are moments where it rushes back and catches me off guard. A song, a clip, even a random conversation. And there it is again—the play, the fall, the almost. But I let it come. I don’t run from it anymore. I let myself feel it. Then I let it go.
Because that’s how you move on. That’s how you grow. You honor the pain, but you don’t let it own you.
And maybe one day, there’ll be another touchdown. Or maybe there won’t. But either way, I’ll be ready. Not just because I’ve trained harder or studied longer—but because I’ve been through the kind of moment that tests your soul. And I’m still standing. Still chasing. Still believing.
It’s unfortunate that I didn’t score the touchdown, but life happens
