Unearthing an Earlier Me
Unearthing an Earlier Me
Finding traces of who I once was and lingering life lessons
When The Wild Card comes around in my newsletter cycle, I sometimes feel the freedom to share something a bit more personal than a history lesson or field trip report. That’s the case this week.
When I looked out my window while drafting this, I saw two fresh inches of snow that fell early Monday morning. Despite that, I know is spring—not because we’ve passed by the equinox, but because it is track and field season. Most readers here know me as a writer or historian. But I am also a (former) athlete and (current) coach. I was reminded recently that there was a time when I thought those two identities—the “thinker” and the “athlete”—were bound up together. Read on!
Memory Lane
Thanks to being a natural packrat (something I inherited from both parents in distinct ways) and having a good memory, I knew that in some container in my garage was my college admission essay. This weekend, after a bit of digging, I found it. The essay (if you can call it that) mostly resembled what I remembered writing more than 30 years ago. And the short piece reveals much of the person and writer I was at 17—and some of that has remained.
The Essay’s Structure and Point
The main purpose of the essay, of course, was to help me get into college. And that meant, or so I took the assignment, convincing an admission committee that I represented the sort of student and person the college would want walking across the quad and sitting in its classrooms.
As a 17-year-old, I found almost nothing more important than sports. I competed in three—cross-country, basketball, and track—but I only excelled in track. I was a strong student, but that took far less effort in high school than it would later. So I directed most of my energy in those years toward practice and competition. To good effect. I competed at the state track meet in the high jump as a junior, something I was proud of when I sat down to convince colleges to admit me and something I thought might make me stand out.
My opening line sets up the essay: “Athletes and scholars alike are required to overcome obstacles to reach their goals.” (It’s not the most scintillating lede, but at least it announces my theme clearly.)
Over the next two-and-a-half pages, I explored this similarity.
I explained how the key to success in the high jump was a consistent approach. And I showed how success in academics required a positive attitude going into a project.
I noted how after the initial takeoff there were precious few things you could do to improve other than slight adjustments learned after countless practices. And I suggested that academic achievement came from drawing on all the previous skills learned over the years when completing a task.
I shared how I reached a personal record at the right moment to earn a trip to the state meet. And I discussed how I earned recognition as Language Arts Student of the Quarter after working to improve my writing and editing skills (I was an editor on the school paper.)
As I put it in the essay: “Indeed, practice and persistence allows [sic] improvement and quality to accumulate.” (It’s hard to believe the writing passed muster for my admission to a good college!)
I ended with quick notes about what is required after achieving something—words shared by my older brothers that emphasized character no matter whether you win or lose a competition and the value of always searching to improve no matter how well your work is recognized.
To my eye today, the writing is . . . not good. Even embarrassing. I had a well-worn thesaurus at hand where I found longer, less precise words to use that I thought made me sound smarter, a habit that took me years to break (a topic for another time). Nonetheless, as an artifact, the essay pleases me, because it vividly recalls another time and what I was like then.
Changing Relationships
The relationship between athletics and academics changed for me. Fortunately, I was a good enough jumper to continue competing at my small college, something that allowed me to make memories and friendships, as well as keeping me active for four more years. But academics soon came to dominate my life and time. When I graduated and headed off to graduate school, I left athletics behind for years. Fifteen years passed before I regularly exercised again.
Last year, the year after I left academia, I joined the coaching staff at the high school where my oldest brother has coached since the time I was in high school. For the first time in almost three decades, I spent my afternoons on a track again, and the familiarity of that space brought back something deep in me.
The body can no longer do the things it once could, but the soul remembers common rhythms and feelings. The teamwork. The excitement. The disappointments. The challenges. The accomplishments. The commitment. And the simple fun. A part of me that I long thought dead was merely dormant, ready to be lit again.
And surprisingly, some of the lessons I shared in that college admission essay remain at the ready. I found that some of them I’ve shared with the student-athletes I now coach and teach (and learn from).
Reflecting on High School Me
That essay, unearthed from my garage, illuminated high school me, and that’s a valuable reminder. You forget who you were a little after all these years. You forget how important high school sports are. You forget the need to define yourself at a time when you’re still figuring out yourself. You forget the dreams you had when many decades stretch ahead of you and only a decade and a half stretches behind.
The world looks different at 17 than it does in thick middle age—and, I assume, when you are older still. But perhaps I was wise, for it seems to me that our careful, consistent approach and execution can more likely lead us in the direction we want—on the track or in the classroom or in life. One of the taglines of
, a Nike coach, is, “This is about running. This is not about running.” I think that’s what my essay all those years ago tried to say.I hope you have a box in your garage that you can excavate someday soon. In it, I hope you find an artifact from your earlier self. I hope that artifact gives you a glimpse of the person you were then and always have been.
Closing Words
Relevant Reruns
This is the second week in a row where I moved into topical territory quite different from my usual fare. I cannot think of other newsletters that touch on this theme. And certainly, none of my published work connects with this.
New Writing
All my current writing is still in-progress. I hope to have new pieces to share next week.
As always, you can find my books, and books where some of my work is included, at my Bookshop affiliate page (where, if you order, I get a small benefit).
Taking Bearings Next Week
Next week I return to The Classroom, and I think I’ll have a lesson about an organization that formed just after the Civil War and continues play roles in some of our communities. Stay tuned!
Hi Adam, from far-away, exotic Camano Island,
I recall that "earlier me." Good memories...One of the reasons I'm responding is that I played poker with Coach Knowles a few nights ago. He's doing well. Also, I thought you'd like to know that in May Jeanelle will be guiding in Yosemite N.P. for the Smithsonian. She recently lent me a book that you may or may not have encountered, but that I'd recommend--"The Invention of Nature," by Andrea Wulf. It's primarily focused on the amazing Alexander von Humboldt, but its last few chapters pertain to his influence on others, including Bolivar, Darwin, Thoreau and Muir. At one point, Wulf describes Humboldt's attempt to climb Cotopaxi in Ecuador, a volcano that Jeanelle has summitted. I continue to enjoy your writing. Please let me know when it's time to resubscribe. Carp
I am so glad that you have found the rhythm of sports again. Our athletes, jumpers in particular, are fortunate to have your guidance. The fire burns again!