He gently closes his eyes, and for a minute, there's silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there's a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he starts to feel the tension grow in his broad shoulders.
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 approaching in his abdomen.
He walks out into the blinding white 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 rocks and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what's about to come.
The heat of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his competitor.
There he stands, that giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with hard steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the weapon he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes across and out of the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but just for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dust underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body evoke memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent 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 swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He relaxes and takes a big breath, slides his hands over the beautiful old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is now prepared.
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. Most of the time, that approaching enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to literally achieve something you have been considering doing. It truly sounds bizarre at first, however it happens to many. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of actually being a light out in the world for many to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit goes to the individual who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that honest man for the things he is doing. Always remember that. Don't be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully outline our journey, and make it just that much more fun.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there's a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he starts to feel the tension grow in his broad shoulders.
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 approaching in his abdomen.
He walks out into the blinding white 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 rocks and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what's about to come.
The heat of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his competitor.
There he stands, that giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with hard steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the weapon he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes across and out of the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but just for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dust underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body evoke memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent 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 swiftly. He's been dreaming again. He relaxes and takes a big breath, slides his hands over the beautiful old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is now prepared.
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. Most of the time, that approaching enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the actual act, but fear to literally achieve something you have been considering doing. It truly sounds bizarre at first, however it happens to many. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of actually being a light out in the world for many to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit goes to the individual who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that honest man for the things he is doing. Always remember that. Don't be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars beautifully 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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