Ruby Lindsay

The physio looked at me this morning and said, “You could squeeze out another year if you really wanted to.” But that’s the thing—I don’t know if I do. My body’s tired, sure, but it’s not just that. It’s the noise in my head, the feeling that the fire’s cooled. I’m 36 now, and this is probably the last year I’ll lace up as a professional footballer.

I started playing in the suburbs of Brisbane, Australia, barefoot mostly, against boys who didn’t like being outplayed. My first proper boots were secondhand and half a size too big. I wore two pairs of socks to keep them from slipping. My mum worked nights and drove me to training before her shift. My dad thought sport was a hobby, not a career. I think I wanted to prove him wrong more than I wanted anything else.

I got my first contract at 19, moved to Melbourne, shared a flat with three other players and a fridge that never closed properly. The pay was terrible, the travel constant, and I loved every second of it. Then came the call-up to the national team camp. I remember holding my phone, heart thumping, trying not to scream in front of the grocery store clerk. I wasn’t a starter, not at first. I warmed a lot of benches. But eventually I earned minutes—then starts—then wore the armband once in a friendly against Japan.

There were lows, too. Two ACL tears. One in my right knee at 24, the other in my left at 31. The first nearly broke me. The second nearly made me quit. I spent months doing rehab while the younger players flew past me in speed and energy. And then there was the World Cup squad I didn’t make. I was fit, ready, and they still picked someone else.

Still, I stayed in it. Played in Germany for a season—cold, disciplined, unforgettable. Came back home and helped my club win the league last year. Maybe that was my moment. Maybe that’s the high note I should go out on.

I’m not sure what comes next. Coaching? Maybe. All I know is, when I walk out for our final match this season, I’ll take a moment to feel the grass under my boots, hear the crowd, and let it all soak in. One last time.