This Too Shall Pass--And Lead To What's Next

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I was on the stairmaster at the gym, and I had two options for entertainment: look out the glass wall in front of me at people passing by, or watch the reflection in the glass of the big TV behind me. I chose the reflection. It’s always playing ESPN. I can either see snippets of sports games or discussions of commentators sitting in a talking cluster. I like the snippets because I can’t hear a thing from the TV, so obviously, action is more interesting than silent talking heads.

That day, I watched footage of Tyrese Haliburton. This unfortunate NBA point guard for the Indiana Pacers tore his Achilles tendon in the final game of the championship against the Oklahoma Thunder. The TV showed the moment when he went down, his pained face, his transport off the court, and his transport out of the arena. It was sad. I always feel bad for a pro athlete who suffers a catastrophic injury. So much is at stake, and they know it. When a kid gets hurt in a Little League game, they focus on the pain. When an experienced athlete gets injured, they know life has just changed, and they fear discovering just how much.

I’ve never been a top athlete, or even a middle-range one, but I did run for 35 years and nabbed more finisher’s medals — and even some 1st places — than I’ll admit publicly. If you’re part of that scene, you’ll get it. If not, you’ll think I’m a weirdo. I’m not sure I’d argue for or against either.

Regardless, I was well enough invested in the sport that when I injured my knee by just barely hopping on a trampoline, my running career was over. I didn’t know it then, but I came to know it after reconstructive surgery and the discovery that, over time, my knee would more than likely be replaced if I kept up the distance running. I’m a big fan of an original knee, so I hung up my running shoes for good.

Unlike Tyrese, a massively successful professional career wasn’t being affected, but like Tyrese, I knew sadness.

You can put so much of yourself into something only to have it all come crashing down one day.

You work on your shot since grade school, shooting hoops for hours upon days upon years. You work your way up the ladder of the basketball hierarchy, from youth sports to high school team, then college, then into the pros — each step overflowing with hours of practice, learning, and effort. But you love it passionately, of course. There is no other way, at least not at that level. Passion is what makes such an extended, high effort possible. At least it makes it feel logical.

In my case, you run the perimeter of the athletic fields in high school for field hockey practice with joy because that daily warmup is your favorite part of practice, unlike what it is for the rest of the team — a gnawing thing to suffer through. This leads you to the realization you might like cross country better than hockey, so you switch, and you’re so happy you did. Then, in college, the same thing happens with crew practice. It dawns on you that you love to run.

The miles add up, and you move to trailrunning where the miles of beautiful scenery and chats with running buddies become a life gift. Running is always an effort, but you get used to it and your mind doesn’t see it as a gnawing thing, as folks will insist, but a mechanical daily habit that sometimes is extremely hard — usually during the summer heat and climbing steep mountain sides — but otherwise, it’s a meditation.

Soon, shooting hoops or running trails is simply something you do. Other aspects of the sport become more of the focus: strategy for winning championships, or how to pace a long race. I know nothing about basketball, let alone at the professional level. I’m just surmising. But I do know that as the mechanics of the sport and your fitness level become a fact of yourself, other pieces of the sport will surface as your goals. This is like anything that you spend time and effort on. It gets easier, but then harder because you set harder goals for yourself. Once you achieve those, you’re pushing further again, like anything in life.

As this happens, the joy, interest, and satisfaction build. The activity that began as a childhood pastime turns into an identity, and it fills you up with meaning and gratitude.

The question is: if you knew you’d lose it all one day, would you invest yourself in it anyway? You can’t truly know the answer until you’ve lost it all. But the longer you invest, the more you realize you’ll lose it one day.

I was able to see older runners back out of the sport, mostly due to injury, but sometimes due to shifting life goals. At the time, I dreamt of being a ninety-year-old at a 5K race that would allow me to hobble my way to the end. That idea was alluring to me, but I knew it was a long shot. I knew my last day of running could always be the day in front of me.

And this was okay with me. I said many times: I had more than my fair share of running. I knew my share included many happy times, good health, life experience, and a friendship with grit that was worth gold (or stock, etc.) Engaging in anything will give you gifts you’d not have gotten otherwise — either positive experiences or wisdom by way of the hardships.

Another way to say it: if you engage in something, it will give back — and it will end.

This doesn’t soften the blow Tyrese Haliburton suffered when his Achilles went snap. Transitions are hard. It looks like he plans to make it back onto the court, but not next year. He’ll take a year to rehab. Then, one day, like any player, he’ll be off the court for good. Who knows when that will be?

I’ve asked myself numerous times since my knee reconstruction, Was it a good run? Was it worth it? All that effort?

Yes.

All those beautiful mountain views, the friendships, the things I learned — it was a fabulous run. More than that, I’m grateful for what replaced it — writing. One thing leads to the next, and combined, they’re worth more than we can measure. That’s because they make us who we are, and how could you measure such a thing?

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Enjoy the rest of your week, friends.