It’s hard to say no to Superman.
When Chris, my younger brother, was 5 years old he wanted to enter a 30-yard dash at “Fun Day” at a City of Dallas summer youth program. It was a project that was designed to give kids alternatives to just hanging out on street corners during the summer vacation. Chris, who insisted that everyone in our family call him “Superman”, had always been fascinated by running, jumping and yes, flying.
Each week that we went to the park he would stand on the sidelines hypnotized as he watched the older kids run in races. And although he didn’t really understand the concept of running a race (so I thought), he somehow knew that the atmosphere of competing and doing your best provided one of the greatest feelings in the world.
For three weeks, he’d run over to me, panting and out of breath with the same question, “Can I run today?”
For three weeks my answer had remained the same, “We’ll see.” That worn-out phrase my parents used on me whenever they didn’t know exactly how to say no with good reason. But on this one day, I finally saw the sparkle in Chris’ eyes. He wanted, no, needed to run in that race, so I agreed to give him his shot.
As one event finished and they geared up for the next one, I found out from a parent that the other two kids in Chris’ race were 7 and 9 years old. They were much bigger and more developed than my gangly 5-year old shrimp of a brother who’d just lost one of his front teeth. Oh, no, I thought. He’s gonna get creamed. He’ll hate me for letting him sign up!
I jogged over to the starting point, thinking that maybe I should pull Mighty Mouse from the race. Maybe encourage him to run with kids his own age. But something in Chris’ spirit told me that age was nothing but a number in his mind.
The official called for the runners to take their marks and I told Chris that I would be waiting for him at the finish line and that I’d be proud of him no matter what happened. I kissed him and sent him to the starting blocks, certain that I was making a big mistake.
A few seconds later the race began and Chris took off as if he’d been shot from a cannon. And just as I’d imagined, the two older kids, one to his left, the other to his right, were leaving him in the dust. All of the spectators were going crazy, cheering for all three kids. I jumped up and down, waving my hands, wearing a smile as wide as Texas.
Chris kept his eyes on me and continued to run his little heart out. Finally, he crossed the finished line, leaping into my arms. “Way to go, Chris,” I said, holding back a fountain of tears. “You were soooo good, baby! You ran so hard, I’m proud of you.”
He hugged my neck so tight I was sure it would snap. With his sweaty face buried in my neck, he kissed me, pulled away and asked excitedly, “Did I win?”
Surely, he thought, he must have won as hard as I was smiling. I laughed but didn’t even think twice about the answer to his question. Instead, I continued to flash my megawatt smile, took one look at the gleam in his eyes and the joy spilling out of his chest, and said, “You sure did, baby. You sure did.” He hugged me again, this time tighter.
I now realize that the discomfort I had experienced prior to Chris’ race had more to do with my own 15-year old athletic ego. I had already been conditioned to believe that winning wasn’t the only thing, it was everything. But at age 5, Chris taught me that winning has many different faces. It’s playing hard and having fun. It’s giving it your absolute best every time you compete. These lessons helped me to land a spot on the Houston Comets’ first WNBA championship team in 1997. These lessons are helping me build a successful career in entertainment as a broadcaster, producer and writer.
I can still see Chris on the sidelines on that blistery hot day. Stretching like he was Olympic gold medallist, Michael Johnson. And there I was sweating bullets because I thought that if he lost, he’d never run again, or worse, that I wouldn’t be able to comfort him.
Chris’ story is one that I share with athletes and parents all over the country. It’s not whether you win or lose, it truly is about how you run the race or how you play the game. That day he received a third-place ribbon for his efforts. In his mind he’d won because he had enjoyed the race and given it his all. It didn’t matter to him that he’d been the last one to cross the finish line. He ran like a winner.
I’m grateful to have been taught such a valuable lesson at such a young age and to know that his example is still with me 20 years later. Chris taught me that on some days, the opponent might simply perform or be better than you. That’s the nature of sports but hardly a reason to give up competing altogether. As a player in the game of life, my goal, thanks to my baby brother, is now very simple: to love what I do, give each day 100% and know that these two things alone, make me a winner – on or off the court.