Survival of the Fittest Hits Home

Back in high school, all the guys wanted to be like Charlie. He was the All-American Boy, captain of the football team, a 3-sport star, “couldn’t-do-anything-wrong” sort of fellow who had the world by the tail and wouldn’t let go.

Life isn’t always about championships. It’s not about sitting on a throne and becoming a royal pain to society. Sometimes, it’s about the 30,000th finisher in the Boston Marathon who checked in long after the crowd had dissipated.
Life isn’t always about championships. It’s not about sitting on a throne and becoming a royal pain to society. Sometimes, it’s about the 30,000th finisher in the Boston Marathon who checked in long after the crowd had dissipated.

You know the guy I mean. He was probably in your class, too, and every other class that followed. He wore his letter on a sweater, acted cool with the girls, and thought he was everyone’s gift to mankind.

I was an exception. I didn’t want to be like Charlie. I was happy finishing last in my track meets, playing on the chess team, and preparing for debates. I enjoyed the last word.

At our 5-year reunion, Charlie drew an entourage. The jocks hung around him like bees to honey. They talked about the glory days and the touchdowns he scored. Charlie got that athletic scholarship and was making some noise in college with his talent.

There was no pro career for Charlie, however destined the opportunity. He suffered a knee injury midway through the season and lingered on the sidelines. By his senior year, he was on the bench, giving way to more agile underclassmen.

Ten more years passed by to the 15th reunion and Charlie had taken up a new sport. He was swinging golf clubs and posting some pretty decent scores. Life had turned dour in more ways than one.

The cheerleading captain he married filed for divorce. His kids became alienated. Last I heard, he had a double knee operation and could barely walk straight while the class nerds his age were running marathons, playing in senior Olympic Games and became a model of health and fitness.

I remember once conducting a casual interview with some golden-agers who turned out for the Senior Olympics, curious as to their lineage in sports. Were they the gifted and talented athletes of their teens? Rather not.

Most all of them never competed in high school sports and didn’t get the competitive urge until they were in their middle ages and beyond. One reason they didn’t participate was because they had nothing to prove. They didn’t enjoy the politics, much less the constant pounding by the coaches.

Finishing last back then was probably more eventful for me than winning because you had nowhere else to go but up. People cheered you just the same, even harder because you finished the race.

I stood at the finish line of a road race one day, snapped a photo of the winner for posterity sake, then waited until 500 runners crossed the tape before the last straggler came across. He was the one I pursued for an interview.

Come to find out, the guy had cancer and wanted to prove something to himself. He was running his own race, content to finish and be counted among the masses.

What’s more, he took home a handsome trophy. They gave him the sportsmanship award for encouraging others along the way.

Life isn’t always about championships. It’s not about sitting on a throne and becoming a royal pain to society. Sometimes, it’s about the 30,000th finisher in the Boston Marathon who checked in long after the crowd had dissipated. Watching the Hoyts year after year is bound to give you a dash of inspiration.

One of the things I really enjoyed about coaching youth sports was impacting the lives of children, including my own. Coaches I know won’t be caught dead leading their kids. Too much pressure, they deduce.  I felt it was a way to stay connected to my sons and spend some time away from newspapering.

Much as I tried to remain partial, it wasn’t always easy. In the end, I believe they respected those moments— and I cherished them. Today, they’re coaching their own kids and I get to watch.

I still play an active game of racquetball at the YMCA, climb a mountain or two every summer with my daughter and friends, and still foster that competitive edge. Life is good, only because I go through great lengths to make it that way.

If it sounds like a reason to boast, it isn’t. Like the saying goes, “If you think you are beaten, then maybe you are.”

We belong to an age called baby boomers. And the best members are those who never boomed as children or teenagers. Feeling 70 isn’t enough. You have to turn the years in your favor.

I never did see Charlie again. He didn’t show up for any more high school reunions. And the ugliest girl in our class turned out to operate a modeling agency and had her picture on magazine covers.

Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.
Tom Vartabedian

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