Push it.

"Because it's hard. And 'cause right now I can't."

~ Zachary "Zack" Manning

"Mom? I think when I get a little bit older, like when I'm maybe eight or seven-and-a-half, I want to run the 800. And then, when I get like ten or eleven, I'm want to run the 1500, too."

This was Zachary's declaration that he shared so matter-of-factly from the back seat on our way home from track practice the other day. The same kid whose coach has referred to him as "a natural" when it comes to sprinting and also one who was "made for the 100 and 200 meter races." Yep. The same kid.

"Really, son?" I replied. "That's interesting considering how fast you sprint and how much you like the shorter distances."

"I'm still gonna do the 100 and the 200. And the 400 sometimes or like on a relay," he responded. "The 100 and the 200 are my favorite ones, mama."

I glanced into the rear-view mirror and smiled as I noticed his post-track ritual of pulling his shoes off one at a time. "Are you having fun, Zachary? I mean, with track are you?"

"Yes, mama." He made sure to look directly into the mirror when he said that so I'd know he meant it.

"Good."  I was really happy to hear that because that particular day seemed to be an unusually tough practice. The team was running drills and pushing themselves in ways that I don't ever remember being pushed as a kid. And as I sat on the bleachers with the other parents, I was careful to keep my eye on my own little prize out there. Making certain to keep an inventory of his face and body language to make sure it wasn't too much.

But Zachary--or rather "Zack?"  He was in his element. 100%.

I kept watching him and began to marvel at how intensely disciplined he is with sports. It's almost like he has a tiny little "Mick" in his ear--like Rocky Balboa had in his face--urging him to keep going and to not quit. His little face gets so determined and focused and, when speaking to his coaches, he is careful and deferential.

We'd gotten a late start that evening so practice was running a little later than usual. The kids, ranging from kindergartners up to middle schoolers, were starting to get cranky. A few of the smaller ones had already melted down and were whining in ways that were completely age-appropriate. Finally, the coach dismissed the little ones and instructed the seventh and eight graders to do one more 400 around the track before leaving. "And push it!" he added as they took off.

A few moments later, from the corner of my eyes I saw Zack and another little girl on his team talking to each other while finishing the last chug-o-lugs from their water bottles. The other little kids were already over to the bleachers with their parents and preparing to leave. I started gathering my things--an iPad, a medical journal, and People magazine--and getting ready to take off, too. I bent down to tie my own shoe and then slung Zachary's backpack over my shoulder. With a yawn, I squinted my eyes to make out what was taking my child so long to join his departing peers.

And then, this.

Those able-bodied seventh and eight graders had made that final curve and were flying down the track on the last 100 meters of that last lap. It was a beautiful sight . . . really. The work they'd been putting in was underscored in their both their envious muscle tone and the way they floated across that track like gazelles.

"Bring that chin down!"

"Use your arms!"

"Stretch it out!"

"Push it to the end!"

Those were the things that the coaches were calling out to them and you could see those lithe bodies chastening in response. As each crossed the line, they quickly decelerated and leaned over onto their knees in tripod positions to grab as much oxygen as they could.


"You can't tell those two anything, can you?"

At first, I didn't know what this other mother meant by that. But seconds later, I did.

Two little bodies came bounding around the last stretch of the track, faces forward and arms pumping like tiny pistons. One with three pony tails whipping behind her like kite ribbons and the other? Zachary.

The coaches and all of the older kids started laughing and clapping.

"Bring that chin down, Zack!"

"Use your arms, little mama!"

"Stretch it out, y'all!"

"Push it in, y'all!"

And they did. Those two little ones had made the executive decision to do that last 400 meter run, too.

Their faces were beaming when they finished. The coaches and all of the other kids remaining offered them high fives and slaps on the back. And all of it was really endearing. It was.

So on the way home, like always, Zachary (a.k.a. Zack), chattered about the highs and lows of practice. What's funny is, though this was probably the most demanding of the practices I've taken him to, he seemed to be in higher spirits than ever. Almost euphoric.

"So yeah, mama. I'm gonna run the 800 next year. That's two times around the track, you know. And you can't run as fast as you can at the beginning or you'll get tired. Coach said you have to save it up and then push it at the end."

"I see."

"If you run, like super-duper fast at the beginning, you get too tired then you go slow at the end."

"Makes sense."

"And you really have to save it up if you run the 1500, mama. Like really, really, really save it up!"

"Hmmm."

I drove in silence for a few moments and thought about Zachary and this newfound sport. I wondered the things that parents wonder. .  . . like. . .is this too much? Is it fun for him? Am I robbing him of something? Is this worth the time commitment even? I glanced up into the mirror again where I caught Zachary drinking a mini-Gatorade and staring out of the window. His face was content and he looked happy.

Track was something we found because he wanted to do it. "I want to get my wind up for football and basketball," he said to us. That made us laugh, but when he looked hurt by our response, we knew he was serious. This was a calculated plan for him. A part of this innate discipline he seems to possess when it comes to conditioning his body as an athlete.

Even at six years old.

I bit the inside of my cheek and let that marinate for a few seconds. This? The "go hard or go home" mentality? That's something he got more from his father than from his mother. And I smiled at that thought because it's something I've gotten a lot of from him, too.

"Hey Z?"

"Yes, mama?"

"Why do you want to run the 800 or the 1500? You always say that you don't like the longer distances because you like to sprint. Mom is just wondering what made you change your mind and want to run those races, too? The 800 and the 1500?"

"Because it's hard. And 'cause right now I can't."

He took one more swig of the Gatorade, flashed me a big red mustache grin, and went back to looking out of the window.

"Because it's hard. And 'cause right now I can't."

Damn.

***
Happy Friday.

Thoughts to chew on: What limits are you pushing? What are you aspiring to do that's hard and that, right now, you can't? Personally? Professionally? Physically? Period? 

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . as a reminder to push it!



P.S. Zachary told me that it's Zack with a 'k' because that's how you spell "track." Ummm, yeah.