He gently closes his eyes, and for a minute, there is deep silence.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he can begin to feel the tension grow in his broad neck and back.
This trail has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the nervousness looming in his stomach.
He walks out into the blinding white 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 gravel and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting what's to come.
The gentle warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his opponent.
There he stands, that giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Elimination. His loud roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. The supreme and noble men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the mud underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body rouse memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A sweeping feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He squeezes the handle and let's out a cry that'll be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open quickly. He's been dreaming again. He relaxes and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the beautiful old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He is now 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 greatest arena. Most of the time, that fierce figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to really accomplish something you have been brooding about doing. It actually sounds unusual initially, but it happens. It's what keeps us from being great. That small fear of actually being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit goes to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a criticise that very same man for the things he attempting. Always recall that. Honestly, do not be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our story, and make it just that much more special.
As he walks out into the tunnel, he can feel the ground shaking.
The walls are dripping and there is a nasty soiled musk in the air. His heart pounds.
As he approaches the arena, he can begin to feel the tension grow in his broad neck and back.
This trail has been traveled by many and only returned on by few.
He attempts to breathe deep, only to be gripped by the nervousness looming in his stomach.
He walks out into the blinding white 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 gravel and sand below his feet.
There's a beed of sweat dripping down his brow waiting to fall, expecting what's to come.
The gentle warmth of the sun on his back relaxes his shoulders. His eyes refocus.
Out walks his opponent.
There he stands, that giant figure. As dark as a moonless night. Body shimmering with decorated steel. Piercing eyes as pointed as the blade he holds. A body created for one thing - Elimination. His loud roar echoes throughout the arena.
As the nervous crowd watches, their hands are cold and impatient with anticipation. The supreme and noble men look on with curiosity in the safety of their pews. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable clash.
As he watches his enemy, his stomach sinks...but only for a second. He kneels down, grabs a chunk of the mud underneath him, stained with sweat and blood, and lets it sift through his fingers. He runs his hand softly along the pointed blade, and grips the soft bending leather. He rises, and faces the figure across from him.
The thick scars on his body rouse memories of inaccuracy, and as he stands there, staring into the dark eyes of the opponent across from him, it comes over him. A sweeping feeling runs through his veins and into his fingertips.
He digs his feet into the ground.
He squeezes the handle and let's out a cry that'll be remembered for ages.
He charges.
...
...
His eyes snap open quickly. He's been dreaming again. He relaxes and takes a concentrated breath, slides his hands over the beautiful old wood and grips the sides of the speakers podium.
He is now 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 greatest arena. Most of the time, that fierce figure across from us is fear. Fear not only to perform the explicit act, but fear to really accomplish something you have been brooding about doing. It actually sounds unusual initially, but it happens. It's what keeps us from being great. That small fear of actually being a light out in the world for people to see and for many to judge cannot ever be put out. We must not play tiny. The credit goes to the person who is trying and failing. It is not paid to people who look on a criticise that very same man for the things he attempting. Always recall that. Honestly, do not be afraid of falling in the dust. Our scars outline our story, and make it just that much more special.
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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