Quitting is never an option: Islay Smiths' Story; By Cosette Brockbank

Islay Smith sprints down the sideline, her cleats digging into the grass of the Lone Peak High School soccer field. The October air is crisp, the crowd a blur of cheers and banners. She’s an outside back, a defender with a knack for shutting down attacks, her movements precise, almost effortless. But beneath the fluid stride, there’s a secret she carries: every step sends a jolt of pain through her hip. It’s been that way for two years, ever since the injury that nearly ended her soccer career. Yet here she is, in the 2025 state championship game, chasing a dream she refused to let die.

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Islay grew up in a house buzzing with energy—eight sisters, all Lone Peak Knights, all soccer players in their own right. The Smith name is a quiet legend in Alpine, Utah, not for flash or fanfare, but for grit and loyalty to the game.

At four, Islay was already out there, a tiny figure with a ball, mimicking her sisters’ moves. Soccer wasn’t just a sport; it was her language, her way of carving a place in a big family. By high school, she’d honed a quiet intensity—calm on the surface, fierce underneath. As a defender, she loved the unsung work: stopping a striker cold, setting up a counterattack, feeling the team’s rhythm shift because of her.

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Then came the winter of her sophomore year. A game, a bad tackle, and Islay hit the ground hard. Her hip screamed. She limped off, thinking it was just a bruise. Weeks passed, then months. The pain didn’t fade. Doctors ordered tests, and the diagnosis landed like a punch: hip dysplasia, torn labrums in both hips, bone damage. Surgery was the fix, but it came with a cost—a year-plus recovery that would wipe out her junior season and likely end her senior year, too. Worse, it would almost certainly close the door on college soccer, a goal she’d chased since childhood.

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Islay sat with the news, her world upended. “It really hurt me, honestly,” she recalls, her voice soft but steady. “I was pretty sad about it. My whole life was turned upside down.” Soccer had been her compass—practices, travel teams, the dream of a college scholarship. Now, at 16, she faced a choice: undergo surgery and likely retire from competitive play, or push through the pain, knowing each game could worsen the damage and rule out college ball anyway.

She chose the pain. Physical therapy helped enough to keep her on the field, but it was no cure. Every practice was a test of will. Every game, a gamble. Her teammates didn’t see the struggle; Islay didn’t let them. “She never complained,” her coach says. “Never asked to sit out or do less. She just showed up and worked.”

To the crowd, she was the same Islay—quick, composed, a wall on defense. Only she knew the cost of each sprint, each slide tackle.

By her senior year, Islay was a cornerstone of Lone Peak’s varsity squad. The team was good—state-title good. In the semifinals, Islay stood on the field, heart pounding, as the final whistle blew. “Hi, I’m Islay Smith from Lone Peak High School,” she said to a camera, her smile wide. “We’ve won semifinals, and I’m so excited to play the finals and really prove we’re the best team in the state.” Her hip ached, but the moment drowned it out.

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The championship game was a blur of sweat and adrenaline. Lone Peak battled, Islay anchoring the defense, her quiet focus steadying the team. When the final whistle sounded, they’d done it—state champions. Islay stood amid the chaos, teammates screaming, crowd roaring. A reporter thrust a mic her way. “So, Islay, you are state what? State champions!” she shouted, laughing. “It feels so good. All our hard work paid off.”

Then her voice cracked. “I’m gonna start crying,” she said, the weight of it all hitting her. “This is my last season of soccer, and I get to play with these girls. I couldn’t be more grateful. It’s amazing.” The tears came, not from pain, but from something deeper: the realization that she’d done it. She’d played through two years of agony, not for scouts or scholarships, but for this—for her team, her sisters in cleats, the lifelong friendships forged on the field.

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Islay’s story isn’t about the scoreboard. It’s about resilience, the kind that doesn’t shout but simply endures. “I can confidently say Islay is one of the best defenders in the state,” her coach says. “But she’s more than a soccer player. She’s going to leave a massive mark on this world.” Islay won’t play college soccer; her hip won’t allow it. But as she walks off the field, state championship medal around her neck, she carries something no injury can take: the quiet courage of a girl who refused to quit.