He shuts his eyes, and for a minute, there's silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he will be able to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the threshold, he can feel the tension grow in his broad neck and back.
This path has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation growing in his abdomen.
He walks out into the fierce light, eyes blurred and senses dulled.
There's that deafening sound of the crowd and the pinging in his ears. He feels the crunch of the dirt and sand beneath his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting what is to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his competitor.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the harsh blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Elimination. His loud roar echoes across and out of the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with lust for the coming moment. The noble men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the mud beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it comb through his fingers. He runs his hand carefully along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scars on his body evoke memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure across from him, it comes over him. A rushing feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He seizes the handle and let's out a cry that will be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. He's been dreaming again. He relaxes and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He's finally ready.
He speaks
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt
Our lives are the greatest arena. A great deal of the time of the time, that approaching enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to truly accomplish something that you truly have been considering doing. It really sounds bizarre at first hearing, however it happens. It's what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of really being a light out in the world for many to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play little. The credit goes to the individual who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that very same man for the things he does. Always focus on that. Do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our journey, and make it just that much more fun.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he will be able to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the threshold, he can feel the tension grow in his broad neck and back.
This path has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He makes an attempt to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation growing in his abdomen.
He walks out into the fierce light, eyes blurred and senses dulled.
There's that deafening sound of the crowd and the pinging in his ears. He feels the crunch of the dirt and sand beneath his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting what is to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his competitor.
There he stands, that looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the harsh blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Elimination. His loud roar echoes across and out of the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with lust for the coming moment. The noble men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the mud beneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it comb through his fingers. He runs his hand carefully along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scars on his body evoke memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure across from him, it comes over him. A rushing feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He seizes the handle and let's out a cry that will be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. He's been dreaming again. He relaxes and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He's finally ready.
He speaks
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt
Our lives are the greatest arena. A great deal of the time of the time, that approaching enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to truly accomplish something that you truly have been considering doing. It really sounds bizarre at first hearing, however it happens. It's what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of really being a light out in the world for many to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play little. The credit goes to the individual who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that very same man for the things he does. Always focus on that. Do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our journey, and make it just that much more fun.
About the Author:
Evan Sanders is the author and creator of The Words Of Encouragement a website devoted to bringing audiences encouraging blogs, life changing quotes, videos and other content to help others follow their passions and purposes. Interested in learning more about Theodore Roosevelt? Here are some amazing Theodore Roosevelt Quotes
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