August 15, 2024

Time. All I have been able to think of is time. How much time do I have until my next meeting? How much time will it take me to make coffee? Will I be early enough to that formation? How long is it until the start of the track season? How long will it be until my fibula is healed? When can I start throwing again? When can I start training again? How slow will I be running when I go on my first run? Worrying for the future looms over me.

My worry for the past haunts me. Have I done enough the past three years to be an All-American this year? Have I wasted my time in training? How have I not gotten any better with the hours I have put in? When did things take a turn away from progress an into middling mediocrity?

“Attention all Spartans: there are five minutes until assembly for lunch formation.” I hear the Plebes drone in the hallway, “there are 282 days until graduation for the class of 2025.” It’s everywhere I go, all around me. Time has me strapped to a chair. It beats me and harasses me. It interrogates my darkest fears and tightly kept regrets. Without my own public admission, I might be able to spin it another way. “I wasn’t an All-American because it’s too hard at my school,” “I didn’t set the academy record because I got unlucky with injuries,” “I had to stay at a lower body weight for the Army:” all of these are weak excuses.

Time, however, won’t accept those excuses. I sink deeper into the chair with every blow. Sweat covers my entire body, blood streams from my cheekbone. I hear his clock softly tick by on the wall. As long as he has had me trapped here it has been a steady presence. During some bouts of torture, the tick of the second hand drifts out of my conscious mind and I forget it’s there. Now, it is louder than it has ever been. Each tick like a gunshot in my ear that makes my brain pound. After more of this interrogation than I am able to handle, all I can muster is a whisper. Lowly, I confess “I haven’t done all I can.” “I didn’t train harder than my opponents.” “I didn’t attack every training session with maximum effort.” “I didn’t sleep enough.” “I got distracted on my phone too often.” “I didn’t stay on top of my schoolwork.” My brutal interrogator has flipped the script on me. Now I am to blame for all my shortcomings and failures. My insecurities have been brought to the light

What has become of the once confident man? What has defeated him? He once seemed to work tirelessly with fervor and passion. All the while, he was self-sabotaging; cutting himself off at every impasse and holding himself back from his greatest potential. Only now has he realized that he is to blame for all his shortcomings. Only by the brutality of time.