From Self-Loathing to Self-Discipline: A 38-Year Comeback

The year was 1987.

A gallon of gas was $.87. “The Simpsons” debuted on T.V. “Dirty Dancing” and “Fatal Attraction” dominated the box office. U2 released the hit, “With or Without You.” We saw the first appearance of the GIF picture format, changing internet culture forever. The Iran-Contra affair scandal unraveled in the U.S. The World Health Organization (WHO) launched a global program to combat HIV/AIDS. Ronald Reagan famously called on Mikhail Gorbachev to “tear down this wall” in Berlin, and Mike Tyson became the undisputed heavyweight boxing champion – a full ten years before the famous “Bite Fight“, when he bit off a chunk of Evander Holyfield’s ear in the third round.

Although I was aware of many of these headlines at the time, I wasn’t overly concerned with any of them. As a teenager growing up in a rural, small town, midwest community – where hard work was a way of life, neighbors still waved at each other, gossip flowed faster than the river, and time moved slower; except during tornado season – I had much more pressing issues fighting for my attention. Discovering myself (and girls) consumed me. One of the pathways toward that self discovery was sports. In my little hometown in the heart of the Midwest, much like most of southern and midwest America, football and faith reigned supreme.

Youth sports in 1987 wasn’t like it is now, where a kid can play the same sport year round as part of an organized team or league. In 1987, club ball wasn’t even a thing. Each sport had a season, and that was it.

And when it wasn’t football season, it was basketball season.

Now’s probably a good time to mention, I hate running.

I may have run three three half-marathons in my adult life, but I hated every single step.

My first recollection of my hatred for running was in about 1985-’86. Shortly after we first moved to Missouri, my mom encouraged me to play soccer for the city rec league. When they came up short a coach, Mom jumped in and coached our team. I’m not sure she did this as willingly as she let on at the time, but I’m pretty sure she knew if she didn’t coach I wouldn’t have a team to play on.

Not sure if you know this, but you run a lot playing soccer. Like really, nonstop.

Soccer was clearly not the sport I would thrive in.

Basketball isn’t much better…running up and down the court, seemingly nonstop, was NOT my thing. I’m sure I only tried out for my 8th grade school team because I was either trying to fit in, or impress a girl.

The year was 1987.

Notably, my memory is a bit fuzzy after 38 years. If, by happenstance or fate, this note finds its way into the hands of someone from that 1987 8th grade basketball team who has a different recollection of these events, please forgive me. The reality of memory is that we all remember events through the lens of our own unique perspectives, past experiences, and individual personalities.

My experience was (and still is) a hatred for running, so my memory of these events is filtered through that perspective.

As I recall it, my 8th grade basketball coach, Coach C, was a fan of the “suicide sprint”. I think in today’s PC, woke world, it’s called a “line sprint/drill“, but I’m not woke…or politically correct.

It’s a suicide.

Fortunately, we only ran suicides when,

• we had a bad practice.
• we had a good practice.
• we ran the play wrong.
• we ran the play perfectly.
• someone half-assed it.
• everyone went all out every time.
• we lost a game.
• we won a game.
• someone failed a test in class.
• everyone aced the test in class.
• the day ended in with the letter “y”.

I’m pretty sure it was the only cardio we ever ran…something about “games are won and lost in the last 5 minutes. When the other team is gassed in the final minutes, you won’t be, boys!”

After a particularly pitiful game day performance, I think we stayed after the game and ran suicides until everyone puked. Not the first kid to puke (it was me), but I’m pretty sure everyone puked before Coach C called it a night.

On the one-year anniversary of the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion, I vaguely recall running suicides for the entire practice because, “they died for you…the least you can do is run for them.”

I was about halfway through the season when I tore the achilles tendon in my heel. I was sidelined for the rest of the season, and I swore I’d make all those suicides up.

The season ended, and I never played in high school, so they’re still there – just waiting to be run. Best guess, before factoring 38 years’ of interest accrued, I probs owe them 1,200 +/- suicide sprints.

Thirty-eight years later, at the ripe young age of 51 – with a busted back and an arthritic knee – I’ve started paying my 8th grade basketball team back by running those suicides. Two weeks ago, while leading a F3 workout, I ran 12 suicides. Two days ago, I ran 14.

Only 98% to go.

Why, on God’s green earth, would I just now finally feel so inclined to do this?

At first, I didn’t have an answer for that. It just felt like another thing I could do to keep accelerating my fitness and strengthening my mindset for embracing the suck. Intentionally doing hard things has become my new adrenaline fix. Forcing myself out of comfort and into physical pain and suffering is my new normal. I’m desiring a level of comfort in being…uncomfortable.

On deeper reflection, though, I discovered that much of my life has been about starting something and not finishing it. I have a pattern of committing to some form of self improvement, then giving up when it gets hard and finding an excuse for why it’s okay.

More often than not, I’ll jump feet first into a project, only to fizzle out over time. It’s part of why it’s taken me 34 yeas to finish college (I did finally finish that this year, by the way – I will graduate in May). I have so many unfinished projects on my plate or to-do list right now, it’s overwhelming. It baffles the mind, really.

When I trace backward through the course of my life to find where that started for me, I land on a middle school basketball court in 1987. On the bench, watching my teammates run their asses off while I sit, steeped in self-loathing and wallowing in a pool of self pity while drinking from a fountain of guilt, shame, and disgust.

It’s a sore sight and a damn pathetic image really.

Not any more.

The year is 2025.

It’s no longer 1987, and I refuse to continue allowing that experience to subconsciously drive my psyche, covertly scheming under the surface and behind the scenes of my life to derail me and prevent me from becoming the best version of me – to keep me from fully stepping into the man I am called to be.

That’s of the devil, and it’s a spiritual warfare that I am no longer cowering from. No, it’s time to tackle it head on.

It’s time to finish what I started back in 1987. Maybe the harder thing isn’t running 1200 suicide sprints, but instead is continuing to live in the past, letting that memory of a defeated 15-year old boy with no self-confidence continue to shape who I am today. Maybe the easier choice is choosing to take my power back and shattering that image to pieces by tightening up my shoelaces and getting after it.

Maybe – just maybe – by honoring my word and keeping the promise I made to those teenage boys (including most importantly the one in the mirror), I’ll also unclog the pipeline of my life that will allow me to move forward.

Later this year, when I finish what I started back in 1987 and get these 1200 (now 1,174) suicide sprints done, maybe the process will have unlocked something in me that will strengthen the mindset that says, “don’t just keep the promises you make to others, but first keep the promises you’ve made to yourself.”

I’m worth that.

And so are you.

Love,

Dad