He gently closes his eyes, and for a minute, there is an eerie silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he will be able to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he can feel the tension grow in his upper neck and back.
This trail has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked by the feeling approaching in his belly.
He walks out into the fierce 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 dirt and sand underneath his feet.
There's a small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what is to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his opponent.
There he stands, that monstrous figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body sparkling with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the weapon he holds. A body meant for one thing - Annihilation. His roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The supreme and noble men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dirt underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the sharpened blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body rouse memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the enemy across from him, it comes over him. A rushing feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He grips the handle and let's out a cry that will always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. He's been dreaming again. He takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the beautiful 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 grandest 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 attain something that you have been brooding about doing. It truly sounds bizarre initially, but it happens. It is what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of basically being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge must never be put out. We must not play little. The credit is paid to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those that look on a critique that same man for the things he is doing. Always focus on that. Do not be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our story, and make it just that much more fun.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he will be able to feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he can feel the tension grow in his upper neck and back.
This trail has been walked by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be choked by the feeling approaching in his belly.
He walks out into the fierce 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 dirt and sand underneath his feet.
There's a small beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, anticipating what is to come.
The warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his opponent.
There he stands, that monstrous figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body sparkling with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as sharpened as the weapon he holds. A body meant for one thing - Annihilation. His roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with expectation. The supreme and noble men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the unavoidable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his hard stomach sinks...but for a second. He kneels down, grabs a small handful of the dirt underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sieve through his fingers. He runs his hand gently along the sharpened blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The scarring on his body rouse memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the enemy across from him, it comes over him. A rushing feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He grips the handle and let's out a cry that will always be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open fast. He's been dreaming again. He takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the beautiful 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 grandest 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 attain something that you have been brooding about doing. It truly sounds bizarre initially, but it happens. It is what keeps us from being great. That tiny fear of basically being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge must never be put out. We must not play little. The credit is paid to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to those that look on a critique that same man for the things he is doing. Always focus on that. Do not be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our story, 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
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