Sunday Morning Meds--"the legs of a man"

“His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse, 

nor his delight in the legs of a man;. . .” Psalm 147:10

The athlete in me is well into the fourth quarter; and even though the clock is ticking down, the game has slowed. Rarely, do we miss a day at the gym. Once the last tomatoes are out, we get our exercise inside, sadly—or else walk outside somewhere, if the wind isn’t brutal, which, these days, it often is.

Inside, I get on a couple machines and work up a sweat, the blessed livery of a gym rat at any age. I lift a few weights, even though “buff” is a pipe dream. Basically, that’s all that's left for an aging four-sport jock, once Oostburg High School’s “Athlete of the Year.”  Sad to say, years ago I lost the gold cuff-links that came with that great honor. 

Not so very long ago, I met a nice, young kid, a senior in high school, who expressed an interest in majoring in English when he got to college. He was thinking about enrolling at the college where I taught, and my job was to sweet talk.  As it turned out, his passion was basketball—that’s what he told me. English was okay for a major, but history or math would do the job too. What he really wanted was to coach.

Could have been me a half century ago. 

Great kid, sweet kid—great kid to have here, even though he didn't major in English and didn't play ball. No matter. Back then, his passion was basketball, he told me, eyes ablaze.

He wanted to play ball in college, but he knew making the team would be no cakewalk.  He told me a hot shot from his small, Indiana high school came here a few years ago and didn’t even make the team—so he said he was prepared. He was and he didn't.

           

That day, I told him I’d seen guys emotionally hamstrung when suddenly they didn’t have to turn up for practice every afternoon of their lives. I knew ex-jocks who felt bright lights go out once the rhythm of after-school practices ended. I went through that myself—delirium tantrums for gym rats. Once you don't make the team some identity just plain dies.

He said he knew all of that.  He said he was prepared.

But my word, did he want to play. Basketball, he told me a half dozen times, was his passion.

Verse ten of Psalm 147 is a gift for jocks, a reminder to a million wannabee all-stars that there’s more to life than being MVP. I tried to tell him as much, but some lessons get learned only by experience.

Not long ago, I spotted a lanky grade-school kid shooting free throws. When he went after the ball, his long legs arched a bit like a pair of fine parenthesis, the sure sign of speed and wholesale athletic gifts. Good for him.

But God doesn’t care. The psalmist says He takes no delight in the legs of man, whether or not they’re sharply defined as a thoroughbred’s.

And that’s good to hear, especially when my knees occasionally require cortisone. Neither the size of our engines nor the thrust of our calves means anything at all. We’re loved, even when we don't make the team. 

Once upon a time, I met a kid who told me a half dozen times that basketball was his passion. That was more than ten years ago. I'm guessing this little verse will bring him comfort, as it does me, an old man who long ago lost his prized cuff links.

It’s good to be reminded—at 18 or 68—that God doesn’t much care what's in a trophy case.  Some people might, but he doesn’t. 

Bless his holy name.