A regular Friday turned into an internal judgment day as we awaited the posting of the team roster after school. The day seemed hindered by an invisible force whose purpose was to slow down every period. As the final bell rang I was already halfway out the door of my last class, though I still managed to get to the locker room behind all the older boys. The sixth graders were marshaled to the back and forced to wait our turns to see the roster. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I got my chance to see the roster. I scanned it looking for a P. Gordon. The bubble of calm that had surrounded me during the day quickly dispersed into a cloud of fear. I didn’t make the cut. My hands began to shake. I slowly picked up my bag from my locker. I was upset and confused, unsure of how to react to a feeling so foreign to me. My naiveté led me to believe that all my brothers would be upset with me and think I was just a big failure. As it turns out, I experienced the complete opposite of what I anticipated. I was met with support and advice courtesy of my brothers, who stressed that giving up was not an option and that I would find my