He gently closes 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 is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he walks to the threshold, he can feel the tension grow in his higher neck and back.
This trail has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked by the nervousness growing in his belly.
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 beneath his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that monstrous figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the weapon he holds. A body created for one thing - Elimination. His roar echoes across the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the dirt below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body bring back memories of gaffe, 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 swiftly. 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 podium.
He's prepared.
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. Much of the time, that approaching opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to literally accomplish something you have been brooding about doing. It really sounds bizarre initially, however it occurs. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of basically being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play small. The credit is paid to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those that look on a criticise that honest man for the things he is doing. Always focus on that. Honestly, do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our story, and make it just that much more special.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he walks to the threshold, he can feel the tension grow in his higher neck and back.
This trail has been journeyed by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked by the nervousness growing in his belly.
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 beneath his feet.
There is a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, forecasting what's to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his adversary.
There he stands, that monstrous figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body glistening with scratched up steel. Piercing eyes as sharp as the weapon he holds. A body created for one thing - Elimination. His roar echoes across the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. The rich men men look on with curiosity in the security of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inescapable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the dirt below him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the sharp blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body bring back memories of gaffe, 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 swiftly. 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 podium.
He's prepared.
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. Much of the time, that approaching opponent across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to literally accomplish something you have been brooding about doing. It really sounds bizarre initially, however it occurs. It is absolutely what keeps us from being great. That small fear of basically being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge must not be put out. We must not play small. The credit is paid to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those that look on a criticise that honest man for the things he is doing. Always focus on that. Honestly, do not be fearful of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our story, and make it just that much more special.
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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