What it's All About
Standing at the cross country finish line on a Kennesaw Friday night...waiting...for all my runners to come in. After number seven finishes and walks through the shoot and grabs his water, I almost walk away.
But then...
Off in the distance, perhaps 300 meters or so from the finish line, there's this kid, this awkward, gangly, beautiful kid...
And he's all alone out there because the other runners have already finished and looked at their watches, dried themselves off, hugged their parents.
But then...that kid.
At the 300-meter mark, he starts sprinting for all he's worth - he's all arms and legs and elbows and determined teeth and flying hair. He's alone, but really, he's not, and he's last, but really, he's not. And as he passes by me, he has this look - this oh so determined look - to get across that sacred, coveted line.
He does so - sort of smiles - pumps his fists in the air for second - only for a second. He gets his water while his teammates come up, said teammates with miles on their face, said teammates who deliver hugs, fist pumps, high fives, repeat all of the above.
"If I was that kid's father, I'd cry every time he crosses a finish line," a parent says.
A-men brother, though I still have to watch some more...at what I'm seeing and at what I wish I'd see so much more.
Upon research, this is a medicated, isolated, socially awkward kid. When the group is standing here, he's over there if you catch my drift. But upon further research, he shows up every day, gets there early, runs his miles, is noticed often by no one.
But did you see the way he just finished this race?
Anyway, I felt - almost guilty watching this - me a private school educated kid with all the advantages, all of my teeth and limbs and hair and the social skills to drift in and out at will. A kid who really, but not really, knows what a bad day is. Yes, maybe, but probably not.
I walk away from the finish line, though my spirit does not - it doesn't want to. Because I am one of many who gets carried away with winning, one of many who has the ego of the prize, who wants to wear a ring like a medal and flex it like a muscle.
But on this day - this night actually - when driving down the road and trying to condense three races and 32 kids in my head and down to seven or eight paragraphs, I can still see that kid - you know the one - that awkward, gangly, goofy, beautiful kid.
And there's a thought - only one - that boxes out all the others as I close my door on Hilderbrand Drive.
I hope there's a set of parents out there - right here, right now - that are wiping tears of joy out of their eyes when they're driving that sacred kid home.