Out on The Bluff, away from the academics, away from real life, under a big reddish-orange dome, tucked into the corner of a small and crowded ­office, sits a chair that has borne much weight.

I first encountered it on a recruiting trip to the University. I sat down, awed by the witty Cockney legacy that is the program’s language; the Chair initially was my shelter from the intimidation of the very life I longed for. I nodded my head at every sentence spoken as I tried to grasp that the University of Portland would be my future.

Then, when I was a freshman, the Chair itself seemed intimidating and not at all inviting — I was too aware of its legacy. I tried sitting in the next chair over, but that didn’t work, so I planted myself hesitantly back in the Chair, and so began my long journey with it…

I sat there as I was told to lead, I sat there as I was asked questions I was afraid to answer, I sat there as I was forced to face weaknesses in my play. So many times, sitting in the Chair, I just wished I could learn the lesson without physically being present. The Chair was humbling; to me it began to seem like the Pilot ­soccer program encapsulated, an idea and a legacy so much bigger than I was. Sometimes it seemed to me that the Chair was asking me questions, stripping me down to the bone, trying to build me back up into a better person.

I didn’t say much, in my first year in the Chair. I just absorbed. My second and third years in the Chair were different, though. Like every Pilot player I grew all too familiar with the line Come in and have a seat, a phrase which always seemed to me should be followed with horror-movie music. But what happened to you in the Chair wasn’t a scolding, and it was never really awful; it was just a blunt and humbling learning experience, the kind of experience where you feel so bare, so naked, so exposed, that you know nothing you can say can protect you, and anything you say will just make it worse.

I remember once being in the Chair and crumpling down into the cushion, my head getting lower and lower, my chin almost meeting my knees, while the lessons Stand up for yourself! and List your strengths and weaknesses! flew overhead — and then suddenly these words came jumping out at me: Look at you! You couldn’t look any less confident right now! By then the Chair was my rock, holding me as I struggled to lift my trembling body into a confidence it would carry for the next three years. That day was a benchmark for me and the start of a new relationship with the Chair. I began to perceive it as less intimidation and more challenge. I can take it! Make me grow! Give me the Chair!

In the Chair I slowly found the inner strength to put myself out there, to respond honestly from my heart and not worry about people’s reactions. As awkward and uncomfortable as I was when I first sat in the chair, soon my confidence became natural. I realized my time in the Chair was less about questions and answers and more about my ability to critically evaluate situations and respond confidently.

The Chair, I finally saw, was about growing up.

Soon when I was in the Chair there were no questions at all, just conversations about the game and about life. By my senior year the Chair was a refuge, a place where I could speak my mind, voice my opinion, and share my thoughts without second-guessing or worrying what anyone else thought. I could sit there and sort out my future plans, talk about my frustrations, or talk freely about my life.

The Chair held me for four years, and I grew up in it, in its honest wooden frame, on its pilled pink cushion. I learned to be emotionally bare, to face my weaknesses and do something about them, to push beyond my comfort zone. And finally, no longer held safely by the Chair, I emerged into the real world.

Out on The Bluff, away from the academics, away from real life, under a big reddish-orange dome, tucked into the corner of a small and crowded office, sits a chair that has borne much weight…