| Another Kind of Hero |
| By Zach Emerson October 2000 |
| A cold wind blew the golden leaves across the hard ground. They made a rasping sound, like a death rattle. It was a sound that matched his breathing, harsh and grating and painful. The sweat was frozen in crystal crusts at the end of his hair that flopped each time he took another stride. His feet fell heavily, jarringly on the ground. He wore sneakers that were tattered and shredded from the millions of small pebbles which he had run through. His sweatpants were gray. It was a color that matched his complexion. His arms flopped with exhaustion like the flowers that sway when giving in to the first cold winter wind. He was what most would consider a lost, hopeless cause. For there is no winner or loser. It's not even a game. To others it looks as if he is doing something for no reason. No one can see him. He could break a world record that no one would see. Pointless. His legs screamed at him to stop. His scorched lungs pleaded for rest. Even his socks seemed to fly at half-mast around his ankles...soiled flags of surrender. Still, he runs. In the autumn of our dreams, we are all quarterbacks. We are cunning and graceful and when we step into the huddle everyone bends forward eagerly. The crowd rises expectantly because they know we will deliver the victory just as the clock blinks down to zero. Ah, but that is the autumn of our dreams, not the winter of our reality. You want to know about reality? Then go watch the other autumn sport. It is called cross-country. Watch it and you will know what they mean when they speak of the loneliness of the long distance runner. Cross-country runners don't get championship rings, MVP trophies, offers to endorse deodorant, or fancy cars. Cross-country runners get shin splints, blisters on their feet, runny noses, watery eyes, and painful cramps. They also get a special kind of self-satisfaction that few of us are ever privileged to experience. It is not from winning, it is merely from finishing. It's going out there on a chilly dark afternoon to stand on a starting line. It's running through puddles and muddy spots. It is up hills and down hills, all the while telling lies to your legs. It is the ability to keep runnning when others pass you, sometimes right before the end. Don't they have a chest that's on fire? Don't they ever get the dry heaves? Aren't their minds also saying the whole way, "Why don't I just stop and walk for a little ways?" Who cares anyway? There's no crowd, no cheerleaders, just hard ground and ugly ol' trees barren of leaves. Some guy driving by in a car, honking his horn, grinning like a clueless idiot. The ability to keep running is having the guts deep inside to still give it your all. That, my friends, is reality. People get all caught up in flash, slam-dunks, power play goals, and home runs. Sometimes they get the notion that what happens to some over the hill, drug addicted, millionaire baseball legend, ranks right up there in importance with the Dead Sea Scrolls. So, they tend to dismiss things like cross-country as a "minor" sport. Besides, who the hell knows how to read a stopwatch past the 4-minute mark anyway? The only time they care about running is once every four years at the Olympics. So in our fantasies, the hero is the guy who scores the winning touchdown. But, that is not reality. Reality is the kid you'll see when you are driving by an abandoned park or past a snowy track. He's the kid with the stocking cap and the sweat-stained shirt, loping along for no apparent reason. His eyelids flickering wildly, in a hypnotic trance of pain and determination that can be seen contorting his face. Maybe he will not be able to put into words exactly why he runs. Maybe he will mention something about "gutting it out" or "pushing through the pain barrier" or running on because he has this "internal drive" to discover just how much he is capable of (or not capable of). That can be the harshest kind of reality. Anyone who is willing to confront it, then he is, in the truest, purest sense, not just an athlete but another kind of hero. |
 |