“His pleasure is
not in the strength of the horse,
nor his delight in the legs of a man;. . .” Psalm 147
The
athlete in me is well into the fourth quarter, clock ticking down. The game has
slowed dramatically. 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 of machines and work up a heavy sweat, the blessed livery of a
gym rat at any age. I lift weights, even though “buff” is a pipe dream.
Basically, that’s what’s left for an aging four-sport jock, once the high
school’s “Athlete of the Year.” Years
ago, I lost the gold cuff-links that came with that great honor.
Years
ago, I met a nice, young kid, a senior in high school, who expressed an
interest in majoring in English when he gets to college next year. He was
thinking about enrolling at the college where I taught, and my job was to sweet
talk. 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, he told me. What he
really wanted was to coach.
Could
have been me a half century ago.
Great
kid, sweet kid—I’d love to have him enroll, whether or not he ever pulls on a
jersey or majors in English. His passion is basketball, he says, eyes ablaze.
He wanted
to play ball in college, but he knew making the team would 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 didn’t.
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, ex-jocks who said they felt as
if bright lights had gone out of their lives without the steady rhythms of
after-school practices. I went through
that myself—delirium tantrums from lugging no more gym bags. For thousands of
kids every year, not making the team means losing some valuable component of
identity.
He said
he knew all of that. He said he thought
he was prepared.
But wow!
—does he want to play. Basketball, he told me a half dozen times, is his
passion.
Verse ten
of Psalm 147 is a gift for highly-juiced jocks, a reminder to a million
wannabee all-stars that there’s more to life than being MVP. Much more. I tried
to tell him as much, but some lessons get learned only by experience.
That
morning, when I left the gym myself, 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.
But God
doesn’t care. The psalmist says He takes no delight in the legs of man, whether
or not they’re as sharply defined as a thoroughbred’s.
That’s
good to hear, especially when my knees sometimes feel like a nest of hooks.
Neither the size of our engines nor the thrust of our calves means anything at
all. We’re loved, even when we’ve no more horsepower than a VW bus.
Met a kid
once who told me basketball was his passion. Someday, like all of us, this
little verse will bring him comfort, as it does me, an old man who long ago lost
his prized cufflinks.
It’s good
to be reminded—at 18 or 71—that God doesn’t much care about all of that. Some people might, but he doesn’t. Bless his
holy name.
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