Olympic Dreams
The centennial Olympics in Atlanta were a testament to the beauty of the human form and spirit. My wife, young daughters, and I watched the spectacle at home, transfixed by dramas that shone through the manipulation, jingoism, and commercial gush of the television coverage. Young men and women—many mere children and a few actually older than myself—running, leaping, throwing, swimming, rowing, riding, shooting—10,000 living out the dreams and hopes of six billion.

Why do they do it? Why do they deny themselves the company of their families and friends, put off other dreams, and forego the everyday sedentary and gastronomic pleasures of life? Why do they ride on broken legs and leap onto injured ankles?

I learned the answer long ago at a place with the prosaic name of Bullfrog Creek. It was my high school junior year and I had decided to take up cross-country running. As a skinny kid--6 feet tall and 150 pounds--I kind of looked like a distance runner and hoped I was therefore perhaps halfway there. I wasn’t much good, though, and heard “suck it up, Follman!” so frequently that “suck it up” became my informal first name on the junior varsity squad.

The first meet was at Bullfrog Creek. Our star was a fellow named Parker, a quiet, handsome senior with milk chocolate skin and a Herculean physique. He should never have been a distance runner at all--he was far too muscular and thickly built--but nonetheless he could cover three miles in 15 minutes. He faced an even better runner in this meet--Rabbit Jackson. Rabbit could run a 4:15 mile and had beaten Parker many times.

The three-mile course wound its way through Bullfrog Creek Park, with the JVs going first. After staggering home in 23rd place (my best finish that year), I wrenched myself from the cooler to watch the end of the varsity race which had started while the JVs were still out running. The course was such that you couldn’t see the runners until they were about 500 yards from the finish. They stayed in sight from there on except for about 75 yards near the end when the route dipped into a swale filled with trees.

At the 500-yard point, Parker and Rabbit shot into view. They were together, there was no one anywhere near them, and they were already sprinting. Our assistant coach was a former Olympic distance runner. He raced over to the pair to shout encouragement to Parker. He could not keep up. It’s a mistake, my teammates and I said to each other. They were going too fast and “the bear,” as we called it, had to be climbing all over Parker’s back. But the two did not slow down and neither would give an inch.

Increasing their speed, the pair slanted down into the trees and out of sight for ten unbearable seconds. The small but knowledgeable crowd--everyone was either a runner, a coach, or the parent of a runner--rushed toward the chute, the funnel-like finish area that narrows near the line so only one person can cross at a time. Then they reappeared, still together, and both were in great agony. Into the chute as one, and then inch by inch Parker edged ahead and finished first.

My teammates and I raised a great shout. We went to grab Parker and hold him, to slap him on the back and congratulate him; to have the reflected honor of wearing the same uniform. He didn’t stop. He staggered over to Bullfrog Creek itself and threw up into it.

Perhaps I had sensed it before, dimly, but at that moment I understood with perfect clarity both what makes a great athlete and why I would never be one. Coaches and models in deodorant commercials talk about giving 110% every day. What a lot of hooey. Giving more than 100% means giving more than you ever have before—giving more than you think is in you, feeling pain and fear surge up to overwhelm you but pushing on to find either unknown strength or the darkness of collapse. Parker gave more than he or anyone else knew he had that day, and in doing so he allowed us to glimpse the boundlessness of human courage.

This does not happen every day, except during the 17 days of the Olympics. That is why they do it, and that is why we are transfixed by it.