The Race Is Not To The Swift

I could have been an athlete. I was really good at foursquare when I was in elementary school. I ran fast. Could dodge the heck out of a big rubber ball. Was never chosen last on a team. I even learned to go backwards on roller skates with my Girl Scout troop. I had potential, but no one saw it except me. Instead, we went to church and I focused on the piano. But music was never my first love.

Rob was.

Rob was an athlete. It’s the reason I first fell in love with him. Until I saw him hurl a ball and run the bases like the boss he was, I nearly dismissed the quiet, small-statured blonde guy who told me he was from Florida. Florida? Nobody comes from Florida. Its entire population is made up of old guys in ugly shorts on golf courses. You retire to Florida, you aren’t born there.

I was mistaken. Just as I was mistaken about that inconspicuous ball player I fell for. It was his strength and determination that I admired. I’d never seen anyone as humble and confident as Rob. It’s a winning combination that stole my heart.

I wanted to be athletic like him. I love watching baseball and wondered if I could up my own game. Rob bought me my first ball glove and tried to teach me how to develop a throwing arm like his. I played on a women’s church team for one season and threw like a girl, sending an outfield catch soaring as far as second base instead of reaching the pitcher where I was aiming. I caught fly balls against my stomach instead of in my new glove and struck out more times than I ever connected my bat to the ball. Finally, I realized I was better at keeping score in the stands than playing on the field.

You gotta know your strengths.

There aren’t many sports I enjoy watching, but when it comes to an Olympic year, I’m all in. Rob and I both were. From the opening ceremonies until they extinguished the flame at its close, we, like you, loved seeing people push themselves to achieve the impossible. Their wins were ours and we felt their defeats as well.

This morning that was the story for Brody Malone, the USA team leader in men’s gymnastics all-around finals. This is why I love the Olympics. When I turned on the TV today, I didn’t know a single man on that team. By the time the brief competition was over, I was in tears. I guess the glory of sports is supposed to belong to the winners, to the players who have a great day and never fall off of a pommel horse or miss a grab on the high bars.

But I think the glory goes to those who give it their all and still come up empty-handed.

Fifteen months ago, Brody’s knee was destroyed when he fell from a high bar during competition. After enduring three surgeries, there was doubt as to whether he would ever walk normally again. Fifteen months ago it looked like his career was over. Today he competed in Paris as the leader of an elite team of gymnasts. Today he had a bad day, but he’s still walking. His medal chances are in question, but he beat the odds to even be there. The sportscasters said he could have been the face on a Wheaties cereal box, but now someone else’s name will be memorialized instead of his.

I disagree.

I don’t want to discount all the pain and sacrifices the other athletes on his team have endured. I just want to point out that Brody Malone showed us what courage looks like. He’s still the team captain and will finish his race, but it's unclear whether he will get to stand on the podium with his teammates. I know that’s hugely disappointing to him, but that’s not why I was in tears today. I don’t know how to say this because I’m not in his league and it seems brazen for me to make a comparison. But I lost all my dreams after working for them my entire life and I know what it feels like to be down. To watch the world race by, achieving all their goals, celebrating all their victories, while you can barely stand up on your feet again.

That’s what I was thinking about as I watched his Olympic dream fade with every low score that was posted. Sometimes you fall. Sometimes you lose it all and watch helplessly as your dreams evaporate. Sometimes, no matter how hard you work at learning how to walk again, beating all the odds, there will be days when you find yourself on the ground once more and your biggest win is simply standing up.

No, I’m not an athlete. I’m the furthest thing from one. I cheer for Team USA every couple of years from the comfort of my living room and wonder at the enormous price each one has paid for years to make it this far. I don’t think I could have done it. But then again, you never know what you can do or what you can survive until you have no other choice.

It’s not the end for Brody Malone. And as I pay close attention to the stories of defeat in these Olympics even more than the stories of victory, a little flame sparks in my own heart reminding me that I will learn to walk again, too. It’s going to take time. It means I’ll have to pace myself. But however long it takes, I know Rob would be proud of me.

Maybe I have the heart of an athlete after all.

With thanks to Tom Driggers for the great photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: Olympic Spirit | Within the Olympic rings of the Olympic fou… | Flickr