He shuts 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 climbs up to the threshold, he can begin to feel the strain grow in his higher shoulders.
This trail has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation growing in his stomach.
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 small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what is to come.
The heat of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with hard steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the weapon he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with lust for the coming moment. The noble men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dirt underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body rouse memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A sweeping 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 always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open quickly. He's been dreaming again. He relaxes and takes a deep breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is now 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 arena. Most of the time, that looming figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to literally achieve something you have been considering doing. It really sounds strange at first hearing, but it occurs. It's what keeps us from being great. That small fear of really being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play little. The credit is allocated to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that same man for the things he is doing. Always focus on that. Don't be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars define our story, and make it just that much more unique.
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 climbs up to the threshold, he can begin to feel the strain grow in his higher shoulders.
This trail has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the sensation growing in his stomach.
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 small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what is to come.
The heat of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with hard steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the weapon he holds. A body intended for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with lust for the coming moment. The noble men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a handful of the dirt underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body rouse memories of gaffe, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A sweeping 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 always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open quickly. He's been dreaming again. He relaxes and takes a deep breath, slides his hands over the polished old wood and grips the sides of the lectern.
He is now 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 arena. Most of the time, that looming figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to literally achieve something you have been considering doing. It really sounds strange at first hearing, but it occurs. It's what keeps us from being great. That small fear of really being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play little. The credit is allocated to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those who look on a criticize that same man for the things he is doing. Always focus on that. Don't be terrified of falling in the dust. Our scars define our story, and make it just that much more unique.
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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