Saturday night, I was couch deep and watching Oklahoma’s game against Southern Methodist. I expected victory—sure, we’re the University of Oklahoma—but existential questions I did not expect. Then, I watched this epiphanizing play:
The point of football is to get the leather ball across the thick white line (aka endzone). The how is trench warfare. Number three for Oklahoma, Jalil Farooq, wants in his depths to get the ball across the white line. With the ball, he will stop at nothing. And as a byproduct, while seizing the endzone, he enters a dimension customarily reserved for acid trips and FKJ concerts.
In the wake of this witnessed transcension, now atop my couch after screaming a “LET’S $%&$%#@ GO” loud enough to scare the neighbors’ kids, a daring challenge leapt at my heart:
How bad do I want to be in the endzone?
I like a mantra in question form. Something available, top of mind, that can jackhammer through the layers of temporary, blinding, daily rationalizations for copping out. A good mantra clarifies the field of play, revealing why I play the game. This question was that.
An evangelical man since Saturday night, I’ve employed the mantra all week. When I review my long odds at solvency in furniture refurbishment, I ask, “Ryan, how bad do you want to be in the endzone?” When I think about leaving a piece of grass unmowed in my new side hustle, I ask, “Ryan, how bad do you want to be in the endzone?” When I consider what’s required to become a good writer, I ask, “Ryan, how bad do you want to be in the endzone?”
God willing, I will always want it bad enough.
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As a kid, I left no doubt. The game I played was football. And my heart, soul, and head encapsulated by a helmet disproportionate to my small body, ached for the endzone. Why? For this:
The football is pinned between my eight-year-old forearm and pectoralis muscle, eyes searching for dominion and finding nothing but a wall readying to punish my presence. Behind their fortress, I see green grass and orange pylon. I imagine a gap large enough to enter with abandon. So, I take the toss sweep and wrecking ball their wall, meeting hard resistance and seeing stars, but with chugging legs, I feel the wall crack, their grips loosen as my teammates and I churn, until suddenly my legs run unimpeded, jarring free my nylon jersey from the tug. Now I’m uninhibited and sprinting through bliss. I merge into oneness with the stadium lights, God, and The Big Dipper, as yard lines, hashes, and numbers pass under me, getting smaller, until I cross the thickest white line. With providence seized in my heart, my eight-year-old self knows not that sex will be the only thing approaching this feeling for the rest of his life.
So yes, that’s why I wanted in the endzone. Self-explanatory really. But how about now? Where is the endzone? Is there an endzone?
The childhood games never ended. The field is bigger. The rules have changed. Mistakes are more steeply punished. But the games continue independent of our awareness. What’s our role in this? We choose the endzone and how bad we want it, with the whistle only blowing when our time’s up.
When I neglected to choose an endzone, the universe chose for me. The game goes on. The clock rolls. Ignorantly, I played the game with passivity, watching my endzone transform into acceptance by the tribe and achievement hunting. Next thing I knew, I was scoring touchdowns in medical school, but despite my high-percentile board scores and class rank, the band wasn’t playing. And no celebratory embrace with my teammates came.
Unfortunately for us, the universe doesn’t play fair. These were fake touchdowns, called back by holding penalties. They don’t count. They feel good for a second, then the crowd boos, and the points are erased from the scoreboard. Back at the line of scrimmage, I found myself further from the endzone. It was a strange game. I don’t recommend it.
This year, off of medicine’s pseudo-touchdown treadmill, I have been forced to play toward what I really want. No longer can I accept half-hearted rationalizations like “I want to take good care of my patients” or “I want to learn as much as I can”. No, for how I invest my days, I must own motivations with depth. Because I’m working toward a new endzone, whose sacred domain I hope to tread:
Being myself and loving deeply.
When the whistle blows, I want to be standing in that endzone.
As of now, all I see is a wall of defenders. For life. But you know, I trust my teammates and with the ball in my hands, I’m never afraid to cutback.
The ball has, is, and will always be in our hands. And only one thing matters:
How bad do you want to be in the endzone? When the whistle blows.
From eight years of inauthenticity, I learned 32 lessons I’ll never forget. Get the whole list today by joining my weekly newsletter, HERE.
(Photo Caption: Costa Rica, 2018, celebrating the end of medical school but in my heart, realizing another touchdown was coming off the scoreboard.)
