Tired, But Wired: The Rise of a Next-Gen FOSO Middie

By the time most pre-teen kids are still yawn-stretching and wiping the sleep from their eye holes, Sky Hawk is already halfway through his morning run. The chill of dawn clings to his breath, the rhythmic thud of his sneakers cutting through the quiet. Just another offseason workout for a kid who refuses to settle. Cross-country wasn’t his first love, but his race times are fast enough to qualify for Nationals, and besides, it builds the engine that fuels his true passion: lacrosse. You won't find Hawk anywhere on his birth certificate, but it is his nickname motivated by countless battle-hardened heartbeats that tell a coming of age tale.

College Coaches from the winningest schools will tell you, the legs are the mouths that feed the wolf. “Running hurts,” he admits. “But when the fourth quarter hits and everyone’s dragging, that’s when it pays off. That’s when I’m wired.”

Hawk’s the definition of a Next-Gen FOSO (face-off, stay-on). And a true FOSO is a rare breed indeed. They have the strength and lightning reaction time of the FOGO's (face-off, get-off) niche; but they also possess the endurance, speed, and play-making ability of the finest of middies.

Hawk’s a grinder too, and in every sense of the word. His height and build may be average, but his grit is supersized, and he wins with quick hands, relentless energy, and a mindset stitched together by thousands of live reps. His teammates joke that he’s a predator, powered by raw meat and tunnel vision, but truthfully, Hawk’s drive comes from something quieter, a genuine love for the game and the comradery and friendships that grow around it.

When the invite to join the 2033 Red Hots and play in The Circuit (hosted by Nike), a National Youth Lacrosse tournament arrived, to say he was excited wouldn't do his exuberance justice. Then came the nerves. National spotlight. Cameras. The best players from every corner of the country and beyond. But the game is still the game, and by go time, everything slowed. He wasn’t thinking about scouts or rankings. Just the ball, the whistle, his teammates' adoration, and the space between wanting it and getting it.

3-0 on the weekend. The toughest game of tournament day came down to one final play. Rain poured down. Eighteen seconds left on the clock. Score tied at five/five. Hawk crouched at midfield. Fist and fingers pressed against the tape of his stick. Hands light. Grip taunt. The whistle sliced the air. He countered, raking the ball clean, scooped it mid-stride, and took off down field. Leaving his defender chasing, he passed the rock to his teammate who cradled once and feverishly pitched it back to Hawk. Shoulders low, cleats pounding the turf. One dodge. Two defenders, a step into daylight, he ripped the shot heard round The Circuit.

His shot screamed into the bottom of the net before the goalie could blink. Referees’ arms upright and raised! Goal! Goal! Goal!

Shot clock reset. Game clock within the last two minutes of the horn, paused too. Then, with 13 seconds remaining, he steps back up to the midfield line to take what would be the final face-off of the game. Double rake and scoops the ball. He’s all wheels to the sideline in the waning seconds as the timer rolls to zeros. Get your Goalie! Game's over.

The roar of the crowd hit like a title wave. Cameras flashed, interview questions queued up, but Hawk only smiles, wide-eyed, exhausted, speechless. “I just love playing,” he said later, sitting on a folding chair, pads soaked and jersey still streaked with turf stains. “I was tired, but I was wired. That’s when I feel most alive.” What defines Hawk isn’t that goal, nor the medals on the wall of his bedroom, trophies, or even the accolades. It’s the humility afterward: the insta messages he sends his teammates that night and over the next few days bear gratitude and compliment for how well they played.

He quietly returns to morning runs the following week. Because for Sky Hawk, cross-country miles, cold mornings, and late-night wall ball sessions are just the price of entry to something bigger: being part of the fastest sport on two feet, the greatest game on earth, and a family and community that never stops moving forward. He plays with heart. He plays with unabashed determination. And, he plays to put Midwestern lax boys on the map.

This is just the beginning. The start of something beautiful. Poetry in motion. Lacrosse is life. He is a warrior, and the blood of champions flows through him, but he’s still chasing. Still tired, still wired, still running towards his dreams. 

- Mike (Lax Dad)