For my countless fans who have reveled in my accounts of soccer, shooting, and the Super Bowl XLII Champion New York Giants, and who have already read and memorized my profile, you already know about my obsession with sports (and penchant for dressing like the Unabomber). Perhaps it’s better to say it’s an obsession with “athletics.” The “sports” debate is never-ending, but even I know that running is an athletic endeavor, not a sport. Anyway, of my many athletic obsessions, lacrosse is the most over-arching and severe. I have changed flights, ditched school, ignored illness, and infuriated loved ones for the sake of making a game on time. Over the course of any given year, I’ll play in up to nearly 10 different “seasons,” not including a variety of tournaments and one-off games. I’m not sure what it is about the game, but I’ve always gone above and beyond for the sport. This is often necessary in New York City when trying to play a game that requires a large field, 20 people, and a lot of liability.

Lacrosse often gets a bad rap—and sometimes deserves it—but is also widely overlooked. It often surprises me that the game is not more popular in the US. It has all the makings of an American fan-friendly sport: it is fast-paced, high-scoring, and violent (we’ve already lost two players this summer to broken bones). Lacrosse is also steeped in tradition, created by Native Americans and Canadians as training for war. That said, New York is the concrete jungle. It has avenues with consecutive traffic lights, not tracts of pristine land. We are hemmed in by water; and it is that very fact that first brought people to New York. The rivers and harbor were—and are—ideal for shipping and transportation but are often overlooked now. Visitors to our fair city are more interested in the museums and shows and restaurants, and rightfully so.

However, in the past year, in my quest to play, I have been fortunate enough to be introduced to some fairly unique settings. Usually, lacrosse players in New York are cast aside, relegated from the masses to avoid mixing a game that requires a full-cage helmet with those not wearing one, and, I’ll be honest, no one cares enough about the game to put us on a field where people can watch. Despite being pushed away from the obvious places like Central Park (where they don’t allow “collision sports”), we’ve enjoyed some beautiful venues. I would know; my college field was a veritable Eden.

In the fall, we played in East River Park, a mostly artificial turf strip mere feet from the tidal swell of the East River and with a looming view of the Williamsburg Bridge.

This spring, the league moved to Inwood Hill Park, a lovely and very natural park at Manhattan’s northwestern tip. It’s a fair schlep to get there for anyone not living within Washington Heights, but the park is an amazing feature. On Saturday afternoons, little league games are in full swing (sorry) and families and fans watch on all fields. Playing fields are tucked away, abutted by water and path-striped hills, and framed by the arch of the Henry Hudson Bridge (I’m a sucker for bridge views).

Finally, this summer, I play over in Hoboken, NJ. I admit to a New Yorker’s prejudice and snobbery against New Jersey, but I can’t keep up the façade any longer. Hoboken is pretty cool. The town itself has a great neighborhood feel and the walk to the field from the PATH station provides some of the best views of Manhattan. Central Park is my backyard, but I’ve discovered some great new spots in the city of which I’d never known, and all it took was a series of violent contests. New York has more incredible and unique parks than you can shake a stick at. (Again, sorry for the pun).