Victory for the righteous
As is bend trying to stretch out my rapidly aging muscles I can feel the heat radiating up from the blacktop. It is a day like any other, August in Oklahoma, the air feels like a wet mop stifling my body. I can feel all the old injuries I have suffered, like an old friend they remind me of times in the past. I finish stretching, my body already saturated by sweat induced by the 105 degree heat index.
“Why the hell am I out here?” I ask myself. I’m sure I could find a better way to spend my lunch hour than suffering in the mid day heat. I ask the question but I know the answer, it is the same reason I used to trudge through two-a-days in 20 pounds of pads on the football field. The reason is I need it, I need to compete, I need to put myself up against other people in competition.
It is part of who we, as ingrained in our genetic code as my hair and eye color, it is what drives us. As we evolved our genetic code morphed through millions of years to give us what we needed to survive. As prehistoric beings we need this code to allow us to continue to go out everyday and risk our lives hunting to acquire food to sustain life. Back then life was a daily struggle for survival, a kind of kill or be killed mentality that kept us safe, nourished, and able to continue our lives. Now life is much simpler, if we are hungry we go to the store or restaurant. We don’t have to fight off wild animals around every corner (unless of course you live in New York), but that part of our code has not gone away. It is still there, under the layers of comfort and mass conformity, the most primitive human desire to compete and survive.
I walk out onto the courts and pick up an artificial rubberized sphere. My hands explore the texture, as I have felt it thousands of times before. My eyes lock on the rim, in one complex ballet of motion I shoot the ball into the basket. It is amazing how the mechanics of the human body can accomplish such a thing. How the eyes, muscles, senses all come together to allow me to send the projectile on a path to fall into a basket ten feet high and fifteen feet away. I repeat the process over and over again, building upon the muscle memory I have acquired over the years.
The combatants gather on the court, at this point the mood is social. Chatting about life, complaining about work, and some good hearted trash talk; the gathering takes shape. Someone takes the lead, gets the events going, “Pick’em up” he says. The soldiers are split to their respective squads, each one sizing up his destined assignment. The mood begins to shift to one of competition.
The game begins, each person working a part of a team with a common goal, victory. Like parts in a massive machine, each person has his own job in the grand scheme of things. We run, jump; shoot the ball in a dance of coordination tainted by chaos. The competition begins to take us over, once social friends we now see each other as enemies on the field of battle. Each man is now trying to inculcate our will on the other. By now bodies drenched in sweat, move fluidly about. As the temperature rises the competition becomes increasingly ferocious. Muscles flex, bodies collide, and like a full scale war each person will not give their ground. We struggle for breath as our hearts pound in our chests. It becomes a test of who wants it more, a proving ground of each team’s will.
With each battle a victory, but the war is far from over. As the end approaches warriors become exhausted and tense, yet still refuse to give up at any cost. As the last shot flies through the thick air it is as time stands still. It floats down into the basket with the familiar sound of the ball ripping through nylon. The winning team erupts in celebration of victory; the losers hang their heads in defeat. We all know there will be another battle, but for the time being the devastation of loss cuts through our souls like a knife.
To the victors go the spoils, and we continue on to the next chapter.
“Why the hell am I out here?” I ask myself. I’m sure I could find a better way to spend my lunch hour than suffering in the mid day heat. I ask the question but I know the answer, it is the same reason I used to trudge through two-a-days in 20 pounds of pads on the football field. The reason is I need it, I need to compete, I need to put myself up against other people in competition.
It is part of who we, as ingrained in our genetic code as my hair and eye color, it is what drives us. As we evolved our genetic code morphed through millions of years to give us what we needed to survive. As prehistoric beings we need this code to allow us to continue to go out everyday and risk our lives hunting to acquire food to sustain life. Back then life was a daily struggle for survival, a kind of kill or be killed mentality that kept us safe, nourished, and able to continue our lives. Now life is much simpler, if we are hungry we go to the store or restaurant. We don’t have to fight off wild animals around every corner (unless of course you live in New York), but that part of our code has not gone away. It is still there, under the layers of comfort and mass conformity, the most primitive human desire to compete and survive.
I walk out onto the courts and pick up an artificial rubberized sphere. My hands explore the texture, as I have felt it thousands of times before. My eyes lock on the rim, in one complex ballet of motion I shoot the ball into the basket. It is amazing how the mechanics of the human body can accomplish such a thing. How the eyes, muscles, senses all come together to allow me to send the projectile on a path to fall into a basket ten feet high and fifteen feet away. I repeat the process over and over again, building upon the muscle memory I have acquired over the years.
The combatants gather on the court, at this point the mood is social. Chatting about life, complaining about work, and some good hearted trash talk; the gathering takes shape. Someone takes the lead, gets the events going, “Pick’em up” he says. The soldiers are split to their respective squads, each one sizing up his destined assignment. The mood begins to shift to one of competition.
The game begins, each person working a part of a team with a common goal, victory. Like parts in a massive machine, each person has his own job in the grand scheme of things. We run, jump; shoot the ball in a dance of coordination tainted by chaos. The competition begins to take us over, once social friends we now see each other as enemies on the field of battle. Each man is now trying to inculcate our will on the other. By now bodies drenched in sweat, move fluidly about. As the temperature rises the competition becomes increasingly ferocious. Muscles flex, bodies collide, and like a full scale war each person will not give their ground. We struggle for breath as our hearts pound in our chests. It becomes a test of who wants it more, a proving ground of each team’s will.
With each battle a victory, but the war is far from over. As the end approaches warriors become exhausted and tense, yet still refuse to give up at any cost. As the last shot flies through the thick air it is as time stands still. It floats down into the basket with the familiar sound of the ball ripping through nylon. The winning team erupts in celebration of victory; the losers hang their heads in defeat. We all know there will be another battle, but for the time being the devastation of loss cuts through our souls like a knife.
To the victors go the spoils, and we continue on to the next chapter.