THE RACE
by: D. H. Groberg
"Quit! Give up! You're beaten!" They shout at me and plead.
"There's just too much against you now; this time you can't succeed!"
And as I start to hang my head in front of failure's face,
My downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
A children's race, young boys, young men--how I remember will.
Excitement; sure--but also fear. It wasn't hard to tell.
They all lined up, so full of hope. Each thought to win that race.
Or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
And fathers watched off the side; each cheering for his son.
And each boy hoped to show his dad that he would be the one.
The whistle blew--and off they went, young hearts on hopes afire.
To win and be the hero was each young boy's desire.
And one boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,
Was running near the lead and thought to win, "My dad would be so proud!"
But as he speeded down the field, across a shallow dip,
The little boy, who thought to win, lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself, his hands flew out to brace,
And 'mid the laughter of the crowd, he fell flat on his face.
So down he fell, and with him hope--he couldn't win it now.
Embarrassed, sad, he only wished to disappear somehow.
But as he fell, his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,
Which to the boy so clearly said: "Get up and win the race."
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit--that's all,
And ran with all his might and mind to make up from the fall.
So anxious to restore himself--to catch up and to win--
His mind went faster than his legs--he slipped and fell again!
He wished then he had quit before, with only one disgrace.
"I'm hopeless as a runner, now. I shouldn't try to race."
But in the laughing crowd he searched, and found his father's face.
That steady look, which said again, "Get up and win the race!"
So up he surged to try again--ten yards behind the last--
"If I 'm to gain those yards," he thought, "I've got to move real fast."
Exerting everything he had, he regained eight or ten.
But trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
DEFEAT! He lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye.
"There's no sense running anymore. Three strikes--I'm out! Why try?"
The will to rise had disappeared. and hope had fled away.
So far behind, so error prone--a loser all the way.
"I've lost, so what's the use," he thought; "I'll live with my disgrace."
But then he thought about his dad whom soon he'd have to face.
"Get up," an echo sounded low, "Get up and take your place.
You are not meant for failure here. Get up and win the race."
"With borrowed will, get up," it said. "You haven't lost at all.
For winning is no more than this--to rise each time you fall."
So up he rose to run once more and with a new commit,
He resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn't quit!
So far behind the others now--the most he'd ever been.
Still, he gave it all he had and ran as though to win.
Three times he'd fallen, stumbling. Three times he rose again,
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.
They cheered the winning runner, as he crossed the line--first place.
Head high and proud and happy--no falling, no disgrace.
And even thought he came in last, with head held low, unproud,
You would have thought he won that race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, "I didn't do so well."
"To me, you won," his father said. "You rose each time you fell."
And now when things seem dark and hard and difficult to face,
The memory of that little boy helps me in my own race.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
"Quit! Give up! You're beaten!" they still shout in my face,
But another voice within me says, "Get up and in the race."
