The Olympic Flame is now extinguished until next time. Athletes, parents, coaches, trainers, celebrities, TV personalities and viewers like you and me have gone back to our version of normalcy. For a few weeks, we escaped to the competition, listened to stories about athletes we were meeting for the first time and our familiar favorites. As much as I enjoyed watching the races and games, it is the human-interest stories that grip me, stories of hardship, challenges and dedication.
The odds of making an Olympic Team are minuscule. And for every athlete who makes it to the podium, thousands do not. While you and I go to work every day at a civilized hour, we hear about 4am wakeup calls, 8 to 10 hours of training every day, just for a shot at making the team. Some work part time. Most have no social life and we marvel at how they do all this on three hours of sleep, day in and day out.
Then there are the stories of the equally dedicated grandparents, siblings, parents and friends. These are the encouragers, along for the ride, providing an enormous investment of time and money for coaching, all from the quiet background.
We know of hundreds of stories of superb athletes who put in the same hours and dedication but were kept from the Games because they could not recover from injuries or illnesses in time. Pain is part of the deal. They ask of their bodies and their minds seemingly impossible challenges. We sit in the stands or at home and cheer for them, for they experience something the rest of us can only dream about.
When they pack up to go home, after the cameras are off and all the paparazzi head to new assignments, I think of all those regular folks out there who go through tough times in the Arena of Life. They will still deal with those painful hardships next week and next year. They are heroes, too.
The Man in the Arena
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the dower 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 or defeat.”
Theodore Roosevelt
It all takes on new meaning for me when I think about those who quietly deal with their own incredible challenges. They are the people driving by you, or the people at the grocery store you don’t talk to, but you notice. Perhaps you are even drawn to them by some energy field that you allowed to penetrate your heart. They don’t seek pity, but it is always nice when we can lift them up by simply acknowledging them in a graceful way. We never know what’s behind their eyes.
My friend Tim was a dedicated father, husband and businessman, married to the woman of his dreams. They worked together in their agency and built teams of people they helped become successful. He was punctual. Kind. Always encouraging. Even when he suspected an ill remark had been made at his expense, he always gave that person the benefit of doubt. He was popular, not because he asked for it, but because people simply wanted to be around him. I was one of them. Tim had a boundless sense of humor, even when there was nothing left to laugh about.
Before I knew he had been diagnosed with Prostate Cancer, we used to play golf together at every opportunity. He was so dedicated to the game, constantly researching the best new clubs to buy and always talking about taking lessons from some new teacher he had met. Whatever we were doing together, the conversation eventually made its way back to the game of golf, the courses we had tried and the characters we had met.
Tim’s ability to concentrate was remarkable, except when he was about to tee off. I could easily rattle him, in a friendly way, and there were occasions where I took advantage. I could break his concentration simply by saying something like, “Uh… Tim… You hit that shot where you’re pointing and you will be 40 yards to the right of the pin when all is said and done.”
With appreciation, he would step back, make his adjustment and be happy for the assist. Except I would do it a second time, and Tim would, as anyone might, tense up and hit a poor shot.
The striking thing about his simple gamesmanship was that Tim never fired back at me. Not once in the many years we played together. He was too much a class act. Without saying a word, his natural absence of malice lifted my game and my professional demeanor. I respected him so much I stopped the attempts to get to him. He took all the sting out of it because he loved people more. Besides, if we could just get the damn ball somewhere toward the green, it was a very good day for both of us.
Tests came back and Tim was advised to start treatment immediately. Chemo and Radiation was the cocktail prescribed. Tim kept up his work and social calendar, and never complained about any of it. The four of us still went out to dinner together, but I started to notice how gingerly he would seat himself. If I asked him, he would confirm he was fine.
A consummate gentleman and snappy GQ dresser, he was guaranteed to always scope out what tie I had chosen if we met at a chamber mixer. One time, I arrived wearing two very similar but different brown shoes, a result of my getting ready that morning in the dark. I thought about driving back home to fix things, but then I thought about having some fun with Tim, given his fastidious nature.
I said hello to several friends and helped myself to coffee. It wasn’t long before Tim came over to say hello. He looked me up and down, from head to toe. I could tell he noticed the shoes but said nothing. He moved on to talk to someone else, but returned three times, never bringing up the shoes. That was Tim. He loved me that much. But he also reached a point where he finally said, “Dude, are you wearing two different shoes?” I started laughing.
Tim, like so many other silent heroes, endured the worst possible reactions to the treatments, but never shared. It wasn’t until after he transitioned that his wife told me about all the nights he slept on the bathroom floor, trying not to disturb her while dealing with horrendous pain. Grace prevailed, even in the worst of times.
Every Day Victories
Tim’s last request of me before he went into the hospital was to play one more round of golf at our favorite course. I set it up for the following Monday. Tim was really excited to get out there once more, although he was growing weaker by the minute.
After four holes, I told him I was really hungry. He said it would be ok to go back to the clubhouse for a sandwich and beer before taking him home. He was spent, but ever cheerful and positive. I could see that the afternoon sun and warm breeze felt so good to him and after a while I realized he was avoiding looking directly at me. I respected that and didn’t push. He was playing his last round. We both knew it, but it wasn’t brought up.
A few weeks went by before things started heading downhill quickly. He never left the hospital but welcomed many visitors and did his best to stay awake and alert. Even when we encouraged him to sleep, if there was anyone in the room he could acknowledge, even for a moment, Tim would do his best to make them feel loved and appreciated. Finally, after several of us assured Tim that we would take good care of his wife and family, he made his transition. It was ok for him to go on “home.”
That was Tim Collins, the toughest man I ever met.
Love you, Tim.
…dr
