Yes, a sports metaphor, or two...

In case you're unaware, I played football in both middle and high school. It was one of the most grueling and trying sports I've ever endured. Physically, it pushed me as hard as I could go. Mentally, it gave me a new perspective.
This post should be considered a continuation of "Pain". I've detracted from the one-word titles for this one because it's a very personal metaphor I'm going to relate.
I played on the line, all 145 scrawny pounds of me. I might have weighed in at 150, soaking wet with all my gear once my muscle had become lean. Playing on the front line is a challenge. The job of any lineman is to keep his quarterback safe. He IS the front line, the first defense for the offense. He HAS to hold his place, or if necessary, move his opponent out of the way, drive him to the goalpost if necessary.
The one drill I remember for getting us to drive and push, both consistently with each other and constantly to the end of the play, was the sled. Five colored dummies were attached to a steel frame made to slide with relative ease, provided that we pushed together and at the right height. The coaches often stood on the frame to add to the challenge. Sometimes we had to push the sled and three coaches. They were often right there near us yelling and screaming that we couldn't give up. We had to keep going. I pushed that sled my share of miles through the 6 years that I played football.
I came to realize that I often confront challenges, trials, pain, anguish, temptation or tribulation the same way I approached the sled. I push against it. I shove. I line up, look it in the eye and drive for all I'm worth. Admittedly, I've done this enough that my emotional or spiritual cleats are worn almost flat. Occasionally they slide. Many times I fall. Whenever I fell while pushing the sled, I got back up. Seems like I face many giants in my life. I'm pushing for all I'm worth. The Lord has assigned some coaches to encourage and to push me. They're mean sometimes. Other days they're tough as nails. They push and yell and scream for me to keep going, but not once have they told me to give up, to quit. It hurts. I cry out in pain and agony sometimes. But I REFUSE to quit. I've not failed, EVER, until I quit.
The following clip comes from the movie Facing the Giants. I couldn't help but feel Brock's pain and frustration as he cries out "I can't! It hurts!" and I couldn't help but feel the encouragement from his coach. I carry a special relationship to this scene. Brock wears my number and he carries Jeremy on his back. I cried, because I've been in that kind of spot. The coaches were pushing, yelling at me to keep going. I felt the tears of relief and accomplishment as he reached the endzone. Christ is the head coach on my football team. He's there along side me, always walking with me.


I also ran distances in high school. As a freshman my track event was the mile. As a sophomore and a junior running 2.5 to 3 miles was conditioning for wrestling. As a senior, I ran cross-country. Running is a grueling and testing sport in it's own right. The physical training is requisite; the mental drive is tantamount. This poem relates a race to life.

Get up and Win the Race
‘Quit’ Give up, your’re beaten!‘ they shout at me and plead.
‘There’s just tto much against you now, this time you can’t succeed.’
And as I started to hang my head in front of failures face,
My downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
And hope refills my weakened will, as I recall that scene,
And just the thought of that short race rejuvenates my being.
A children’s race. Young boys, young men, I remember well.
Excitement, sure, but also fear; it wasn’t hard to tell
They all lined up so full of hope. The thought to win that race.
Or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
And fathers watched from off the side, each cheering for his son,
And each boy hoped to show his Dad, that he would be the one.
(The whistle blew).
To win, to be the hero there, was each boy’s young desire.
And one boy in particular, his Dad was in the crowd,
Was running near the lead and thought. ‘My Dad will be so proud.‘
But as he sped down the field across a shallow dip,
The little boy who thought to win, lost his step and slipped,
Trying hard to catch himself, his hands flew out to brace,
And mid the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.
So, down he fell and with him hope. He couldn’t win it now.
Embarrassed, sad, he only wished to disappear somehow.
But, as he fell, his Dad stood up and showed his anxious face.
Which to the boy so clearly said, ‘Get up and win the race!‘
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all,
And ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
His mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.
‘I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.‘
But, in the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face,
That steady look that said again, ‘Get up and win the race.‘
So up he jumped to try again, ten yards behind the last,
‘If I’m to gain those yards,’ he thought, ‘I’ve got to run real fast.‘
Expanding everything he had, he regained eight or ten
But trying so hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
‘Defeat!‘ He lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye.
‘There’s no sense running any more, three strikes, I’m out, why try?‘
The will to rise had disappeared, all hope had fled away,
So far behind, so error prone, closer all the way.
‘I’ve lost so what’s the use?’ he thought, ‘I’ll live with my disgrace.‘
‘Get up‘, an echo sounded low, ‘Get up,’ it said, ‘you haven’t lost it all.
For winning is no more than this: to rise each time you fall.“
So he rose to win once more, and with a new commit,
He resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit,
So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,
Still he gave it all he had and ran as through to win.
Three times he’d fallen, three times he rose again.
They cheered the winning runner as he crossed the line, first place,
Head high and proud and happy; no falling, no disgrace.
But when the fallen youngster crossed the finishing line, last place,
The crowd gave him the greater cheer for finishing the race,
And even though he came in last, with head bowed low, unproud,
You would have thought he won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, ‘I didn’t do so well.‘
‘To me you won.‘ His father said. ‘You rose each time you fell.‘
And now when times seem dark and hard and difficult to face,.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all,
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall,
‘Quit! Give up you’re beaten!‘ they still shout in my face,
But another voice within me says, ‘Get up and win the race!‘
-Author Unknown -