He gently closes his eyes, and for a minute, there's silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the threshold, he can feel the stress grow in his upper back and neck.
This path has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the feeling looming in his abdomen.
He walks out into the blinding 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 gravel and sand below his feet.
There's a small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting 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 looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body sparkling with hard steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the quiet crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his gut sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dirt below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body evoke memories of error, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure 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 squeezes the handle and let's out a cry that will be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. 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 speakers podium.
He is finally 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 greatest arena. Most of the time, that fierce enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to literally achieve something you have been thinking about doing. It truly sounds unusual initially, but it really happens. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of basically 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 little. The credit goes to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a critique that honest man for the things he attempting. Always remember that. Do not 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 starts to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the threshold, he can feel the stress grow in his upper back and neck.
This path has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked out by the feeling looming in his abdomen.
He walks out into the blinding 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 gravel and sand below his feet.
There's a small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting 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 looming figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body sparkling with hard steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the blade he holds. A body meant for one thing - Elimination. His bellowing roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the quiet crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The noble men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his gut sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dirt below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body evoke memories of error, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the figure 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 squeezes the handle and let's out a cry that will be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. 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 speakers podium.
He is finally 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 greatest arena. Most of the time, that fierce enemy across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the specific act, but fear to literally achieve something you have been thinking about doing. It truly sounds unusual initially, but it really happens. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of basically 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 little. The credit goes to the man who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a critique that honest man for the things he attempting. Always remember that. Do not 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
