My Sickness

Few people would call it a good trait, or blessing even. Anymore. It was even perhaps a standard for All-Americans. Instead they'd, you'd, call it a sickness. My sickness. This disease which is sometimes and always should be contagious, is winning, but you, they, seem to be immune.

I know everyone wants to be a Winner!. But lately I've noticed most people want it handed to them, without working towards winning. And when they lose, they are nothing but contempt with their 9th place ribbon. Most people simply lack the intestinal fortitude to compete against an opponent that is superior in aspects of their competition. But, it's OK Jr., we've got a 9th place ribbon for you, nice try.

We've made losing as important as winning. And well, losing has been before too. Yet not the same, we've somehow changed the complexion of it. It used to be winning, was the most glorious thing, and still is. Losing is important too, because it can teach you the pain of not winning, the unglamorous kicked in the nuts sick to the stomach feeling of not coming out on top. But we've changed all that now. It's ok to be a loser we've said. When did OK become something you should be contempt with being? Would you want to be OK in life? That's a C average. It's just OK.

"Bob did a great job on his report, but Jim's was just OK."

"Did you ace your test?"
"No, but I did OK. I got a 76%!"
"Good son."

"Was he good in bed?"
"No, he was just OK."

Yesterday we had the second of our platoon PT relay races. I currently have a swollen twisted ankle that I injured nearly a month ago, and has yet to heal. My other ankle I slightly rolled and is sore, but not swollen. I haven't ran in nearly a year, so my cardiovascular fitness is in the dumps. So at this point, only one thing is certain, I will not lose.

As the relay race began, a simple sprint to the end and back of a dirt and rock lot no longer than half the length of a football field, would be followed by a duffel bag carry, and a buddy drag. I already found my ankle screaming and pleading with me not to run on the loose rocks that were assuredly under my feet. I took off sprinting as fast as I could, because I'm not going to let my team or self down, and because we were already behind. The rocks slipped from beneath my feet on several if not all of my steps, I was running hard. I caught up to the enemy, the opponent about half way down, and not quenching my thirst of desire, started running harder to try and build a lead for my team. My ankle and lungs however were nothing but objective. The ankle battery sent artillery shell after artillery shell screaming at my will, hoping to crush and defeat it. My lungs fought off stab after stab of hot air as it sank its best sword into my lungs and throat. I ran harder.

After tagging my partners hand, I threw some water down the gullet to try and cease the fire that was rising in my already dry throat. I got ready again, and took the duffel bag, already a few body lengths behind my opponent again. I caught an surpassed them, as my ankle and lungs battled me a second time, but to much of their chagrin, I prevailed.

The last event is always the toughest.

This is not only because you are already tired, but is also due to the fact that much more is 'on the line,' as well as in this case a buddy drag is not an easy task by any means. This is one of the methods that we learn for carrying an individual off of the field of battle. You are behind the individual, put your arms underneath the buddy's arm pits connecting your hands in the middle of his chest. You walk backwards as he lays limp in your arms, sagging and dragging his ankles in the dirt. It's hard to breath while clenching your arms together, as well as holding up the body weight. Not to mention the burning in the muscles in your legs, from having to take very short, fast backward strides. It's kind of like an event at a company picnic, but harder and evil.

When I started to drag my buddy, my teammate, we were nearly a half a lap behind. My lungs still burning, ankle still in protest, and once again behind my opponent at the start, it was the same old song and dance. I performed it how I had before. Despite the now deep burning sensation in my legs and the arms from dragging my 180 pound friend, and even now with my mind yelling at me silently to stop, I had to catch up. I kept pushing myself until I was finally even with the other, and then pushed myself harder. It's this intestinal fortitude that's made me a winner, a competitor, an American.

Possibly you and I are the same. We will be self detrimental to have the chance to win. We thrive in winning, in playing on a team, to competing. That little voice in my head, that one that tells me I can't quit, that I can't give up, has always been louder than the influences of any of the outside conditions or obstacles. But we probably aren't the same.

I know there are more like me out there, with this so called disease, this weakness. Because the ability to not accept defeat as a standard is more than we can bare. I am the stock broker who leaps from a building after failing his clients, himself. I am the Samurai who commits Hari Kari after being embarrassed on the field of battle. I'm who you tell can't do something, and will do it just to prove you wrong. I'm of a dying breed. I don't believe in equality, that 1st and last are the same, and it only matters if you have tried. Because someone tried better if I'm in 2nd, so what do I have to do to take 1st? It's not enough to just 'try' your best. 9th Place means you tried your worst, so how about lashing instead of ribbons.

For me, I hope even in defeat, even in loss of victory, that the only upside is that I absolutely gave it my everything. That I'm now on the sidelines showing my guts to the trash can, or getting IV fluids, or being carted off by paramedics. So that the victor, the enemy I faced and lost too, will pray to never face me again out of uncertainty I've placed in them. As well as the certainty I have placed in them that I am the fiercest competitor they have ever seen. If you do beat me, I'll be back...

For Blood.

Maybe I was born in the wrong generation. Maybe instead of this all inclusive, it's OK to be a loser, and so-what if you're a winner, they're losers anyway mentality generation, I would've been better suited with my grandpas generation. If I told him I lost at something, he'd probably say something along the lines of, "Faggot," in my direction. To him, winning was the standard, the only standard. The winners kept food on the table, and didn't think anything was entitled to them without hard work. Losers were sent to boarding schools, and disowned, the way it should be.


So my sickness is not a disease, and my weakness is a strength. And one day, maybe I'll have inspired you to compete and work your way toward victory against me. Maybe I will even do my 'best' and 'try' my hardest and do OK against you. But for now, here's your 9th Place Ribbon, affectionately written down it, the word WINNER. Because to beat me, you're going to have to be better, work harder, and want it more, and that's not possible.



"Show me a good LOSER, and I'll show you and IDIOT." -Leo Durocher, Great American.