“My heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest!” Eric yelled out as he stopped short of the finish line.
“What?”
“My heart! It’s never felt like that before! That’s why I stopped!”
We were running laps after his indoor baseball practice. I was frustrated with his sprints during conditioning at the end of practice. He had run near the back of the pack, with some of the slowest kids on the team.
While I don’t put heavy expectations on his performance in games, I expect effort on the things he can control, like being in good shape. I know he’s only 10, but it’s difficult to be a leader and push your teammates when you’re bringing up the rear.
So, after practice, as his teammates packed up their equipment to leave, I walked Eric up to the 200-meter track located on the second floor of the facility. We were going to run four laps together, sprinting the last 50 meters of each lap.
I couldn’t believe it when Eric quit at the end of our second lap.
I took a deep breath and paused before responding.
“OK, let’s call it a day.”
And then I couldn’t help myself.
“But you need to get yourself in better shape. This is ridiculous.”
Eric quickly turned his head, shooting daggers my way.
I’ve always had the tendency to push myself hard and then transfer those same standards onto others, sometimes unfairly. I’ve been too harsh at times, especially back in my 20s and 30s when I was almost wholly consumed by my job.
But in our ever softening culture, it’s difficult for me to tell anymore. I feel like I have to keep pushing or risk getting sucked down into a sinkhole of mediocrity.
I didn’t want to give Eric another “Back in my day…” lecture. I wanted something with more teeth.
I thought back to when I was a kid and remembered the Presidential Fitness Test, a program that President Reagan had revitalized in the early 80s.
The standardized test measured fitness in events such as pull-ups, sit-ups, shuttle run (speed/agility), sit and reach (flexibility), and the one-mile run, based on your age.
Score above the 85th percentile in each event, and you earned the coveted blue Presidential Fitness award patch. I remembered getting my patch in fifth grade, the same age as Eric.
When we got home, I searched online and found those old fitness standards from the 80s.
I dug deeper and found a chart listing the one-mile run times for 10-year-old boys by percentile, giving us more intermediate targets to shoot for.
I showed him an old picture of 10-year-old me holding my Wildcats duffle bag emblazoned with the blue fitness patch — proof this goal was within reach.
I assured him that if he ran every morning, he would see big improvement within a few months.
I faced some grumbling in those first mornings. I started waking up earlier to finish my own workout first, freeing me to focus entirely on Eric during his run.
After we got Eric at the right level and he realized his heart was not actually going to jump out of his chest, we decided he would move up 5 percentile points every week going forward.
Beyond the fitness gains, we enjoyed our time together, talking and sweating while blasting Johnny Lawrence 80s rock (my choice) and Johnny Cash (his choice).
Eric was less winded during his baseball practice conditioning. I could see him gain more strength and confidence on the field, a direct result of him feeling good about his progress during our morning workouts.
On his fifty-seventh morning run, Eric crossed the Presidential standard time of 7:57.
After a private chat with the admissions director, Eric headed to another room with a writing assignment while I spoke with the director.
As we jumped into our car to head home, I asked Eric about his interview, asked what he had written about.
“Well, he gave me a couple of different options… I decided to write about my hero.”
My thoughts flashed to his Yankee favorites like Derek Jeter and Aaron Judge. We had recently binge-watched Michael Jordan in The Last Dance and then went down a Kobe Bryant rabbit hole. All were possibilities.
I smiled at his minimal response and nudged him, “So, who did you write about?”
“Dad, I wrote about you.“
It caught me completely off-guard, hitting me straight in the heart. It was one of those neat, unexpected surprises that seem to happen less frequently as I get older.
Eric went on to explain how he had written about us waking up every morning the last two months to work out together, how he was proud of his new mile time.
I love how I no longer have to micromanage his daily run. With late night travel baseball games, he hasn’t been waking up as early every morning. But he makes sure to carve out time to run every day, knowing the longer he waits, the less likely it will happen that day.
And he understands that making him run isn’t punishment, but that it makes him feel better and helps him, both on and off the field.
This new discipline has spread beyond running. Now he tackles his summer reading the same way, working through a chapter of The Ranger’s Apprentice every day.
Eric’s initial anger at me has long since passed, replaced by the joy of seeing him take another step toward responsibility and manhood.
But more than that, it taught me a powerful truth. We often create our own walls — physical, mental, and spiritual barriers that seem unbreakable until we test them. Just as Eric discovered his pounding heart was a signal of growth rather than danger, we all need someone to help us push past the limits we place on ourselves.
Sometimes the greatest gift we can give our children isn’t comfort, but the confidence that comes from conquering something that once seemed impossible.
—
This article is republished with permission from Midwest Sense.
Image Credit: Pxhere
