The symptoms said I was nearly dead. My lungs needed oxygen and
there was no way to fill them fast enough.
Whether I rested my hands on my knees or clasped them behind my
head, I was out of breath either way. Migraines were frequent. Bald
patches were forming on the inside of my calves where hair used to
grow. I had trouble walking in a straight line, like I had downed
10 drinks too many, though I hadn’t even had one.
My legs would cramp without warning, sending my body into
temporary paralysis, and at times my vision would blur, like when
you close your eyes real hard and then open them to the
sunlight.
Taken out of context, these are symptoms of a man on his last
legs. Indeed, I was using mine in a way I haven’t since high
school.
All you former high school athletes, harken back to those
glorious four years with me, when we all used to be, well, golden
gods.
We all played our respective sports and played them often,
fine-tuning our bodies regardless of the pain that came with it.
Even those who didn’t try were getting a little exercise by
feigning more effort than they now get playing Xbox and making
three runs to Puzzles every night.
There we stood, proud and tall.
And now here we sit, trying to catch our breath from the midday
walk to class, victims of a cold equation: so many high schools, so
few colleges.
Yes, only the hometown heroes have enough of what it takes to
make it at the college level, leaving the semi-stars to fend for
themselves.
And let’s face it, we haven’t done a great job of
fending. With no one to coach us and no teammates to work out with,
getting a workout in is no longer a guarantee, but only a slight
possibility. The truly motivated are slowly separated from those
who were just looking to busy themselves in high school, and
unfortunately it looks like I’ve ended up in the discard
pile.
My life, sans cross country and track, has become
one-dimensional. Gone are the days when it didn’t matter if I
got a C on a test in English because I had a meet later that night
and I was going to kick some behind. Maybe even a lot of behind, if
it was one of my “on” nights.
Now I screw up on a midterm and that’s all I have. No
chance for redemption, crawled up in the corner of my room, sucking
my thumb.
It’s been so long since self-validation, folks. Remember
all that ambition we used to have? Was it the loss of ambition that
allowed us to abandon our sports, or was it abandoning our sports
that chased away the ambition?
And those grades that keep rolling in, dropping slightly with
the end of every quarter, undoubtedly could have been better had
sports still been around to keep that ambition alive.
And now, sitting here writing this with a beer on my desk and
six weeks removed from my last run, I can’t help but think
back to the glory of those high school days when we looked a little
more fit than we do now, before we had lost one major dimension
from our previous selves.
And those spring days when I would stretch for every stride, out
of breath, my shoes scraping against my calves and tearing off the
hair there, and cross the finish line, unable to stand.
Man it hurt. Man it felt good.
And so, a gentle plea to those incoming freshmen currently
touring our campus, or anyone considering giving up the life of an
athlete: Do not subject yourself to a life of idle, flabby,
one-dimensional stagnancy. Remain a golden god.
The opposite sex will take notice.
E-mail Johnson at ejohnson@media.ucla.edu if you need
someone to run with to Puzzles.