The finish line

Today I finished my athletic career at a track meet filled with nostalgic tears. Because high jump is the first event of the meet, I had plenty of time to reflect on what ending the season meant to me.

At first, I was upset. It takes a very specific person to be a high jumper, someone who can accept the fact that every meet ends in failure because that is how the event is run. The only way you can stop jumping is if you miss, and I did.

But, after getting some food into my system, I came to the conclusion that it was not this meet that I should be thinking about but the past 4 years. Sure, I could have held my take-off a little longer or thrown my head back a little sooner today, but those are habits I learned over the course of high school. There was no sense in being mad at today's meet- at the crappy weather or the extra 150 meters between my events- because there have been countless practices where I chose water breaks and conversations over work. If I really wanted to qualify for state, that is something that would have come out of 4 years of practices, not just one meet. When I watched my best friend qualify for state in the 100 hurdles, I knew she earned it in every off season practice, every carbo-load, every extra water bottle and pep talk. Those are things I just didn't put in and no matter how badly I wanted to do better, I didn't deserve to. I wasn't mad at myself for today. I was mad at myself for a lifetime of bad habits.

But, as the meet continued and the realization that when I took my spikes off I would never put them back on set in, I changed my mind. My team cheered for our last 4X400 and took our last victory lap and then huddled together in the middle of the track for a group hug. I looked down at our feet, at the limbs that we took so seriously to define our track experience and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was staring right into the eyes of a junior on the team. We stood there, arms around each other and my heart was full.

Every warm up I slacked on I spent talking to these girls. Every practice I whined through I did it with these girls. Every pizza-bing and skipped stride and slower-than-usual pace, everything that kept me from state-qualifying heights, I did with these girls, my teammates. And that is better than any medal. I've gotten medals before and I lose them every time. These girls won't get buried in my Adidas bag or tossed behind my desk and, if they do, I have memories to wear around my neck.

I am so thankful for everyone who helped make my track experience what it was. I leave the season with no regrets a heart throbbing more than my shins.