On This Most Auspicious of Moments…
….permit me to give thanks to a man who changed my life.
Picture it. Senior year of high school. You stand upon an asphalt track, the circle of your earthly purpose, and you survey the field. Standing amongst the best athletes from around the state, you slowly create fists with your hands. You are calm, still…and nothing can tear you away from what is about to happen. There are three brothers who join you in this endeavor. Together you form a team and you all are the best. First leg, freshmen. Second leg, junior. Third leg, sophomore. Anchor leg, senior.
The announcer steadies the crowd and instructs the runners to take their positions. Your veins are still burning with adrenaline from the preliminary round in which you, and your team, missed setting a record by .01 seconds. You make a fist with your left hand…slowly…staring at it, for within seconds it will be full of cold steel. And you will finish the race. And you will be a champion.
The gun fires. Twice. Panic. What has gone wrong? Judges run up to your teammate, the young freshmen who has grown so much. He looks guilty. The crowd begins to murmur and it becomes clear…he fell out of his blocks. It is over. You are disqualified.
No!
They allow him to reset. Whew. The gun fires again. Once. And they’re off. You watch each stride with a sick anticipation, making sure that the cold steel within your friends’ and enemies’ hands do not touch the ground. And it doesn’t. From freshmen to junior, junior to sophomore, and now…it is your turn. You take one last look at your friend, your very good friend, running towards you…alone. You all are so amazing.
And you run. You run…alone. Turning back you see him still so far behind–you left him as if he were standing still. Your lead is evaporating…victory is still a possibility, but the record will be left for another day. You stop. You just stop and turn to save the day. “Just hand it to me!” Yet the cold steel that you imagined within your hand never finds you. All you remember is seeing it in the air and grabbing at it…not once, twice…but three times. And seeing it hit the asphalt track and roll into oblivion.
And you are me.
It is over. We are disqualified. The race that was never meant to be. The team that was never supposed to win. A state championship…destroyed. A chance to have our names etched into the state record books…gone. I just cried, and cried, and cried.
After the track meet, we went to eat…the team, parents, and our coach. Sitting amongst friends I felt so treacherous. As the oldest, I shouldered responsibility for the entire affair, begging parents to forgive me for robbing their sons. They tried to soothe me, blaming life…blaming chance…blaming everyone but me. But I knew…I left him, and then I couldn’t catch his throw…
When the meal was over my coach and I were left sitting at the table alone. He asked me what was wrong, as if he didn’t know. My eyes swelled with tears again. I told him how I was never good at anything…how I trained and worked so hard to become worthy. Burying my head in my hands, I hid from him, ashamed. In a soft, but stern voice he demanded that I looked him in the eyes. After staring at me for a moment, he grabbed my left hand and, taking out his pen, wrote the most wonderful message on my arm.
I looked at it harshly, deeply. It contradicted everything I had lived for. It told me that the hours I spent working, and running, and sweating, and dying were not important. It stole from me the very purpose for which I had existed for so long. It simply read, “It doesn’t matter.” He told me to look down at his message every time I felt sick or guilty about what happened. He told me to remember, remember that I am going to do amazing things in my life and achieve greatness…and that this moment, right here, right now…is completely insignificant.
The man who drove my passion. The man who created a monster out of me…a 190 pound mass of muscles and arrogance…the man who taught me how to always win, and lose with dignity. The man who loved me for my unwavering loyalty to my teams and my sports…was now telling me how little it all mattered.
I stared at that scribble on my arm the entire ride home. I thought of state records, and medals, and glory, and vindication….of validation and respect, of the girl I wished to impress most…of my Mom and Dad, of my Coach, of former coaches, of friends…enemies…of everyone who doubted me, of that cold steel rolling….
And I always remembered…that it doesn’t even matter.
Thank you Coach Boles. Thank you for creating a monster and taming him. Thank you for always believing in me, for knowing that the puny 140 pound child that stood before you would one day rise to the challenge of Gods and destroy men. Thank you for teaching me more than sports…of life, death, and the world beyond. Thank you for making me understand what it truly means to be a man. But most of all…thank you for letting me go.
Although I will always carry the curse of that day…the what-ifs and the possibilities…I will never forget what you did for me…
Thank you for relinquishing my pain.
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