One day, I was put into a shipping truck that said “STX” on the side in big letters. I was not sure what state I was from, but it was a long ride to New York. The truck was dark and filled with all these different lacrosse items. I could not figure out what I was at first, until a men’s lacrosse stick told me that I was the same as him, but the female version. I was taken out of the truck, and then out of a long, cardboard rectangle. I was covered in this bubbly wrap, and then I sat in a big storage unit for a couple of weeks, until a young woman unwrapped me and put me onto a shelf that was in front of a window. I saw people walk by; some did not look at me, and some pointed at me. One day, a girl passed by and begged her father to buy me. I was taken off the shelf and put into the girl’s home.

I went to lacrosse practice with her, and she used me every day for a good week, and the girl looked so happy when she was playing with me. Though, as the girl started to get older, she stopped using me as much. Every day became every other day, then every other day became once a week at practice. I felt lonely as I sat on the enclosed front porch. I wanted to bring the girl joy again.

After lacrosse practice when the girl was a teenager, she had a conversation with her coach. I overheard the whole conversation because she had not put me away yet. They talked about college and how she could play lacrosse in college, though she would need to practice more. From that moment on, she used me every day. She would go to her school and throw a ball against the wall. As she practiced every day, I felt happy again.

Though there came a time when the girl started to play more aggressively. She would hit me against other sticks, and it would hurt very much. She would even sometimes hit me against other girls’ heads and would then have to sit out for two minutes. She would come home and throw me in the dirt in anger when she played badly. My shaft would be all scratched up, and at one point the girl had to replace my net with another one because it had become too deep and damaged. Although I felt so much pain, I did not want her to give me up and put me in the trash.

When the girl reached her senior year of high school, I heard the news that she was going to a good school to play lacrosse. The girl seemed overjoyed, and I was overjoyed myself, until her dad told her that it was time to get a new stick. I started to panic; I did not want my journey with the girl to be over, and I did not want to be put into the trash. The girl said “Okay” to a new stick, but suggested that I be hung up in her room as a memory of her first stick because I was the stick that made her succeed.