Spectator

October 24, 2016

Greetings from where I cheer,

It was just cold enough to make me wish I’d worn a hat.  Standing in the sun was comfortable, but any time in the shade reminded me that autumn had finally taken hold.  The trees were already weeping color, puddles of orange and red pooling around their trunks.  I stood in damp grass watching other people run.  I came to show support for my son, but I found something else waiting for me in the exchange.

I am not a spectator of any measurable caliber.  I don’t watch sports on TV, not even the ones I care about.  I don’t have a particular athlete I admire, or a favorite team or league.  I don’t engage in Fantasy Football, or bet on March Madness, or wear any team colors to show my pride.

Even running.  I might watch the video of a dramatic finish to an Olympic mile, or showdown sprint at the end of the triathlon, but not much beyond that.  And go watch a race?  Not very likely.   I know how selfish it sounds, and that’s because it is.  I am nothing if not a work in progress.

I have often stated my admiration for people who show up to watch a marathon, often a three or four hour event where you might see your friend or loved one for a few seconds, during which they will just as likely to be either be hallucinating or throwing up.  People who line up for this with their cowbells and their ‘Go Dad!’ signs, have earned a special place in heaven.

The dynamics are only slightly improved at a college cross country event.  But somehow it transformed into something beyond what I envisioned; it changed and it changed me.  Again.

The runners bounced nervously around the place they would line up, still talking, joking, trying to bleed off a little of the pent up energy that boiled in them.   The look of determination on their faces, some calm, some anxious, some trying to laugh off the prerace jitters. 

The teams surged together and flowed away, gathering and scattering like clouds of starlings.  Knots of young men, their school colors pulling them together, warming up, trading a few words.    Synchronized high steps, prancing away from the starting line, repeating rituals.  Then clustered together in solemn huddles, barely audible words passed among the acolytes before they run to line up.

I felt a familiar twinge, the little prickle of anticipation that I know is followed by a moment of calm and then the chaos of the release.  And then running.

The teams lined across the green, hundreds of hearts beating, eyes focused on something far out of sight, posed for a moment.  Arms and legs staged as if they were already moving.  And then the gun.  They took off as one organism, so fast I was surprised at that they were past me before I could even look for Sawyer.  The pack swirled into the distance, the form already changing into the funnel that would pour into the race.

I already know how we are going to feel being part of this, it comes back to me right then.  Their energy becomes ours, we are transported by it, and pulled into their experience, their desire.

The runners disappeared and for a moment we could be a polite gallery waiting for golfers to appear.  And then we all scamper off to find where on the course we can see the teams as they wind through the race. 

They were flying across the grass, legs churning, muscle and sinew and tendon propelling them, their faces were masks of determination.  In the second mile they were sweating in the crisp air, fighting for position in the pack as they surged past us, up small hills, around tight corners.  They passed by in swarms of color, teams mixed together on the pallet of the race, now bound by speed not schools.

The people along the course were screaming encouragement.  Shouting names, hoarse, desperate and sometimes incoherent entreaties: ‘Goooooo maaargghrrooo…’  It was like hearing some Gaelic war cry.  I searched for something I could add to the noise when my son blazed by, legs and arms churning, devouring the grass in front of him.

We hustled to the next place, following the crowd, trusting that someone knew where we were going.  Then crowding around the wide place, craning our necks to see into the trees where the white lines disappear, knowing they must come this way.

I could already feel what it is.  The kinship of runners for certain, but more.  

There is a moment, like just before the train rushes into the station, this moment when the air rushes out and then some energy takes its place.  And then they are there.  Surging past us, churning the grass, arms pumping, gasping for air, fighting against the forces of nature to become faster than the last step.

They were running for their own reasons, it is what they are reaching for; each of them; to compete, to beat the clock, to prove something, to challenge themselves, to finish, to win.  They own this primal moment, this pure animal experience. It is on their faces, in the look as they fight the body’s urge to give in, and they do not give in.  We see it and it changes us.

I knew it even as it was washing over me.  It is passion.  It is the thing in every human endeavor of any significance, that connection we find when we seek ourselves at our best.  When it takes us it seems we are invincible, that we will never tire, never give up.  When we see others in that place, we are inspired by its existence, drawn to it, swept away by it.

It is not just team loyalty or school pride or the hope that our son will succeed, it is this attraction to the passion the runners own in this experience.  We are drawn to it because we know it is what we are made for.  It is what is put in us by our Creator to drive us toward what we are at our best.

You see it in the teacher who loves what she does.  You see it in the parent who sacrifices anything to know their child will be better for it.  You feel it from the nurse who does not leave your father’s side.  You watch it in the artist who agonizes over the last stroke of the brush.  It is in every door opened, every nail hammered, every encouraging word, every loving touch, every perfect sentence.

There amidst the changing colors, under a timeless blue sky, in the company of heroes, we feel it.  We are called by it.  The runners flow by us, and we call back to them, so they know we saw them and we felt what they had brought out of the grass and the sweat and muscle and every breath that they drove in and out.

Passion.

Hope this finds you feeling it,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith