PASSION & PATIENCE

By Brandon Petersen

The locker room at the Great Park Stadium was heavy with silence.

Westcliff had just been blitzed in the opening half, Eastern Oregon putting two quick goals on the board before most fans had even settled into their seats.

Cleats scraped against the floor. Water bottles hissed open. The players sat in scattered groups, heads bowed, their usual chatter absent.

Before head coach Randy Dodge even stepped through the door, one voice rose above the uneasy quiet.

Finn Pock's.

He didn't shout, but he didn't need to. There was an edge to his tone that cut through the fog. He told his teammates what he saw: that they weren't playing for one another, that they were sleepwalking through a game against an opponent that wanted it more.

He reminded them that the name on the front of the jersey meant nothing without fire in the men wearing it. That if they were going to walk back out onto the field, they owed it to each other to fight.

By the time Dodge walked in to deliver his own remarks – which sounded a whole lot like the ones Pock had already laid out – the team was primed and ready to receive the message.

Westcliff didn't win the match. But they didn't roll over, either.

They came out in the second half and fought for each other in a way that showed what kind of team they still could become. It was gritty, desperate, passionate soccer — the kind of response only a leader could spark.

The proof was evident: Dodge had clearly lit a fire under their collective behinds, but before he did, he received an assist from a vocal leader.

This year, that leader – especially for the back line – is Pock.

To understand where that fire comes from, you have to start half a world away, in a small German village called Neuses, 30 minutes outside of Frankfurt.

The town is quiet, tucked among other little villages that share one town hall, one heartbeat. It's the kind of place where everybody knows everybody, and where children's lives are often defined by soccer pitches and family routines.

For Pock, that heartbeat was his mom, Claudia.

When his parents split while he was still ia youngster, it was Claudia who carried the weight. She worked, she drove, she sacrificed. She became not just mother but anchor.

Pock will talk about his teammates, his friends, his coaches — but when he talks about Claudia, his voice catches. The words slow down.

"She's my world," he says. "I catch myself if I haven't called her in a few days. I feel bad, because everything I have… it's because of her."

Germany is located a few time zones away from California – no matter. Claudia stays up until the wee hours of the morning to catch the Westcliff livestream. If she can't make it live, she catches up on the replay. After years of helping develop Pock in person, she is now his biggest fan across the pond.

"She's my biggest supporter," Pock says, and it's not just a line. It's the truth of his life. There's family on his dad's side too — half siblings who are still young, just ten and eleven.

Pock is their "big bro," the one they text every now and then, the one they run to see when he's back in Germany.

But it's Claudia who raised him, who instilled in him the drive and loyalty that have become his trademarks at Westcliff.

For a long time, Pock didn't know college soccer in America was even an option. His world was small, comfortable, tucked into that German village life.

It wasn't until his U19 coach mentioned the possibility that he began to consider it.

"I'd never been away from home," he recalls. "But I thought, you know what? Let's give it a shot." Offers came from Kansas, from Nebraska — places that felt impossibly far and foreign.

But when a message popped up from Coach Ivan Todorovic, a Futsal coach at Westcliff, something shifted.

California.

Irvine.

He pulled up Google Maps and stared at the screen.

Sunshine.

Coastline.

A world away from Neuses. That was it. That was the leap. Futsal was the initial connection, but once Pock landed in Irvine, Randy Dodge was waiting.

Westcliff Soccer wasn't just a team; it was a brotherhood. And as a sophomore in 2022, Finn was thrust into the spotlight — a starter on the back line for a squad that would win the Cal Pac tournament and earn a berth at nationals.

It was a dream start.

Then came the nightmare.

Lasty year, Pock went down with an injury that ended his season just as it began.

Instead of defending the back line, he was defending himself against doubt. What if it never healed right? What if he never got back to form? What if his time at Westcliff ended before it truly began?

The Warriors pushed on without him. They fought and even managed to win a share of the Cal Pac regular-season title. But the postseason was unkind.

An early tournament upset knocked them out of nationals, a bitter end to what had once promised so much.

For Pock it was torture.

"It was tough," he admits. "Especially because I felt bad for those guys I'd been playing with for two years already. I knew it was their last year. And I couldn't be out there with them."

But if Pock wasn't on the pitch, he made sure he was everywhere else. He was at practices, in the locker room, on the sideline. He became a second coach, a motivator, a voice.

If his body wouldn't let him lead with his play, he would lead with his heart.

That year changed him. He grew more vocal, more reflective. He learned to see the game differently, not just from the middle of the back line but from the outside looking in.

He began to recognize that leadership wasn't about volume — it was about presence. And he began to change himself, too.

"I started reading," he says with a shy laugh. "I cut down on social media. I wanted to spend more quality time with quality people." It sounds simple. But in the loneliness of injury, it was survival.

If his sophomore season was about proving he belonged, and his junior year was about surviving, his senior year has been about claiming ownership.

There is no more Janis barking orders, no Jonas showing him the ropes.

Finn Pock is the voice now.

The emotional leader.

The one who gathers younger players after practice to run extra sprints, to take more shots, to show what it means to grind when nobody is watching.

"I feel it's my responsibility," he says. "Because I know the reward is worth it. When you give everything — every last inch — and then you win? There's nothing like it."

That's Pock's gospel: work, sweat, sacrifice. Earn the reward, don't expect it. It's why he's the first one in the locker room to demand passion when the team is flat. It's why he's the one teammates look to when they're rattled. It's why he believes this group, despite early-season losses, is on the verge of something bigger.

Because he's seen it. He's lived it.

For two years, Pock lived with fellow Germans Janis Hinterleitner and Jonas Jansen. They were more than roommates; they were brothers, cultural touchstones in a foreign land.

They spoke the same language, shared the same jokes, helped one another through the challenges of life far from home. When those two graduated, it left a void.

Now, Pock's roommates are younger. Matthew. Benson. Theo. Mateo. Different personalities. Different backgrounds. But once again, Pock sees himself as big brother.

The roles have flipped: once he was the one being shown the ropes, now he's the one setting the example.

It's not just about soccer anymore. It's about life. About teaching these new roommates — and new teammates — how to navigate adversity, how to stay grounded, how to enjoy the journey without losing the hunger.

"It's a family here," Pock says. "And I want them to feel that."

If there's one thing that gnaws at Finn, it's complacency.

He can forgive mistakes. He can forgive a bad touch or a missed tackle. What he cannot forgive is a lack of hunger.

"When I go on the field, I'm shaking," he says. "I've got my music, my energy drink, I'm ready to throw up. That's how much it matters. And I need everyone to feel that."

It's not bravado. It's conviction.

It's what separates him from the players who take games for granted.

Pock has seen how quickly the game can be taken away — one bad step, one unlucky moment. He knows there are only so many chances, only so many matches.

"You might get 20 games in a good season, maybe 14 in a bad one," he says. "You can't waste them. You've got to treat every single one like it's the last."

Next up is Stanton.

Pock knows it won't be easy. They're young, hungry, eager to prove themselves.

"But we're seasoned," he says. "If we play our game, if we're ready, if we're hyped — I believe we can win it."

It's not cockiness. It's belief.

And beyond the season?

Pock doesn't yet know.

He's finishing his business degree. Maybe he'll return for a final year of eligibility.

Maybe there's soccer back in Germany, or somewhere else in the world.

Maybe there's life beyond the pitch.

For once, he's not obsessing over it. "I'm just enjoying it right now," he says. "It's a good time to be alive."

At the end of the day, Finn Pock will be remembered for his defense, for his toughness, for his leadership.

But the real legacy is deeper.

It's the mother who never stopped believing.

The siblings who look up to their big brother from half a world away.

The teammates who found their fire because he demanded it.

The room that fell silent, then stood taller, because he spoke.

That's what leadership looks like. And it's why Finn Pock's voice matters.

It's a voice forged through family, successes, setbacks and most importantly – loyalty.

That's why his fellow Warriors pay attention when he speaks.

Finn Pock's words carry the weight of sacrifice and presence. They aren't just the voice of a teammate — they're the voice of a brother.

And that's why they matter.