USWNT’s Christen Press’ thank you letters to herself, football and the fans: Exclusive

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Dear Little Christen, (The Beginning)

I love you now.

Nobody ever asked you if you wanted to play. At three, the gift of soccer was laid at your feet. At four, talent became a responsibility you carried, and scoring the way you made others proud. Especially your parents.

From their spots on the sidelines, they jumped for joy and cheered until their lungs ached, all because you put the ball in the back of the net. Not because you dribbled without tripping on your too-big jersey or because you’d picked enough daisies for a flower crown. Because you scored.

While your little teammates celebrated together, you were stuck watching them watch you. You were stuck on their joy. Their pride. You were stuck on the lesson you learned: if scoring made them happy, you’d keep scoring. In fact, you’d never stop.

At five, you learned to smile, to lace your cleats, to keep going—because you could. You could do what no one else around you could. So how could you stop? How could you let it go when everyone watched you with awe and expectation? For all those years when nobody thought to ask what you wanted, you did play beautifully. And though it was hard, and though it came at a cost, I am proud of you.

Christen Press shares a letter to her younger self. (Christen Press)

Only in the twilight of my career did I realize you’d been with me all along — the little Girl in the Backseat, riding to training every day. I learned to glance in the rearview mirror and do the one thing nobody had done for us: ask. “Do you want to play today?” And every time, your eyes lit up. Yes, you wanted to play. But even more, you wanted to be asked. That “yes” was yours. It was ours. And that’s the joy we finally found together.

Now I have something new to ask. And despite the weight that this question carries, I feel prepared, supportive, and nurturing when I do. “Are you ready to say goodbye?” Not to the joy, or the game, or the play … but to the life we built around it. To the early morning drives. To the hairspray and sunscreen we wear like armor. To the laughter born of botched languages in foreign locker rooms.

To the barefoot walks after training. To the weight of the crest pressed against our chest. To the pre-match texts from Dad. To the sound of the whistle that always felt like it was asking, “Are we really doing this again?” To looking up after games into a sea of 23s. To the ache of loss and the wild joy of a win—reminding us that we’re alive, living the full human condition. To the little girl in the stands who reminds me of you. To the post-match hug from our dear one, always proud that we tried.

Are you ready to move on? Will we ever be?

Dear Football, (The Middle)

I love you now.

We’ve been together a long time, haven’t we? You’ve been my greatest teacher, my toughest critic, my longest love affair. You gave me family born from strangers — even rivals. You gave me scenes I could never have scripted, and a passport stamped with dreams. You also took things from me — sleep, knees, peace of mind on penalty kicks — but isn’t that the price of devotion?

I remember winning Regionals in Hawaii at 13, sprinting across the field with my teammates, leis swinging around our necks, certain nothing could ever top that joy. It hasn’t.

I remember dragging my family to the track on Christmas Eve, running from something scarier than Scrooge: the January camp beep test.

I remember scoring goals that felt like destiny, and missing ones that haunted me just as long. I remember the header when I swear my mom borrowed my body for a moment, guiding the ball home herself. (I hope she’ll come back for one more.)

U.S. forward Christen Press celebrates scoring the opening goal during the France 2019 Women’s World Cup semi-final. (Jean-Philippe Ksiazek / Getty Images)

I remember trying to ground myself on a frozen, muddy Manchester pitch, the sting of cold feet somehow settling, after hours of idly chasing perfection.

I remember subbing into the end of a match with nearly fifty thousand people roaring, and tears streaming down my outside back’s face. With one squeeze of her hand as I came onto the pitch, I told her: I’ve got you.

And, I remember meeting Tobin, who came from an opposite map of sports: she, pure love of the game; me, driven to be great, to make my family proud. We met in the middle and filled the spaces the other left open. From her, I learned that joy itself could be reason enough — that the game could be loved without needing to be justified. From me, she learned that our gifts could be carried for others — that the work we poured in could ripple far beyond ourselves. Together, we discovered that there is no single way to belong to this game. There are many paths to the same field, and walking them side by side made us braver, fuller, and truer.

People will say, this isn’t goodbye. But for me, it is. I need it to be—to explain the conflict and sadness and immensity that sit in the pit of my stomach. “See you around” doesn’t capture that. The lessons you taught me—how to run toward fear, how to lead and follow, how to lose and still be whole, how to see life through the eyes of a Rookie — those are forever.

I have a confession: I don’t think you were ever my Dharma, my destiny, or my purpose. You were, simply, my way. I believe I was given the gift of this game so I could be something else: a fighter for progress. For women, for queer folks, for people of color. For love and freedom and equality.

Somehow — despite never making a youth national team, despite lacking the will to tackle, head the ball, or run through walls — I became a mainstay on the best team in the world for over a decade. And I believe it was all so I could be there, behind the scenes, during our fight for Equal Pay. To learn how to organize, to unite, to lead in the name of justice.

So, Football, to you I say: thank you. Thank you for getting me into those rooms. And in return, I promise — I won’t leave.

Dearest, Darlingest Fans (The End)

I love you now.

For a long time, I didn’t want to be famous. I didn’t want to be stopped at dinner with my family. I felt used for a picture or an autograph. The iconization pulled me out of my own body and made me worry about how I looked from your eyes.

But now, when I look up into all of your faces, I feel at home. I see a tapestry of my 15-year career reflected back at me. I see a community of people that I helped build and that have helped build me. I see people that know me. That read my writing. That listen to me yap on The Re-Cap Show. I see people that curse any coach that doesn’t start me, for goodness sake!

Sometimes when I see you at the end of the game, I look up and wonder: where did you come from? It still feels unreal for you to be wearing my kit and shouting my name.

Christen Press thanks the fans for their career-long support. (Jayne Kamin-Oncea / Imagn Images)

You’ve filled stands, crossed continents, held up signs both clever and ridiculous, shouted my name, and sometimes shouted at me too. You carried me when I was tired, celebrated me when I was flying, and reminded me — again and again — that I was never doing this alone.

You’ve been my chorus, my critics, my community. You were the voice in my ear when I ran to warm up, the collective gasp when a shot bent wide, and the roar when it didn’t. You’ve been relentless in your love, even when I fell short of our expectations. I haven’t forgotten “Dogs for Christen.” IYKYK

And somehow, you always seemed to know more than I was trying to share. You caught shadows in photos, drew conclusions in comments, and believed in Tobin and me before we ever said the words ourselves. You even changed the course of my career. #BringCP23toLA wasn’t just a hashtag — Angel City signed me because of you. And oh so sadly, I’ll retire without fully knowing if it was “CP two-three” or “CP twenty-three.”

I’m one of the last of a generation — the ones who lifted the 2015 and 2019 World Cups, who stood arm in arm in the fight for Equal Pay. Leaving has been hard because I know what it symbolizes: an era closing. But I hope you see it as the beginning of another one, too — one you helped build with your voices, your faith, and your relentless belief in what this game could be.

Christen Press is one of the last U.S. players from the 2015 and 2019 World Cup double to retire. (Quality Sport Images / Getty Images)

Thank you — for the letters, the chants, the awkward selfies in airports, the thoughtful gifts celebrating Bob and my love of “Wicked”, the words that reached me when I needed them most. Thank you for making me feel seen, not just as a player in a jersey, but as a person trying, failing, learning, and beginning again.

You taught me that being someone’s favorite player isn’t about the goals. It’s about showing up — again and again — even when it’s hard, even when it’s messy, even when it hurts. And in return, I hope I gave you belief, courage, joy, a sense of possibility… and some pretty nice goals to celebrate!

I won’t leave this game believing I was ever the best player in the world. But I will leave feeling like I was one of the most loved. And that is the gift you gave me, one I’ll carry forever.

So this is my wave to you: thank you for everything.

You are a part of me, always.

With Love,
CP23

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