the important thing - part 1

Patty: Herb, there's no disgrace in losing to this team.

Herb: Yeah, I know.

Patty: The important thing is, you got this far.

Herb: The important thing? [Pause] The important thing is that those twenty boys know in twenty years, they didn't leave anything on the table. They played their hearts out. That's the important thing.

-Miracle

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I guess in the aftermath, I know that what's important isn't necessarily winning or losing. And that you can't help circumstances, whether they be injuries or refereeing or whatever. Jr says that I was robbed in the last match, and who knows, maybe he's right. Even a few months ago, I would have been satisfied with just that - with knowing that despite the fact that I lost, that I had pleased them. But now that they've forced me to fight for myself, that means that I have to be pleased with my own performance. And even though I still value their opinion greatly, and even though him articulating what I speculated but didn't want to say for fear of sounding like a sore loser makes me feel validated - it still doesn't change the outcome.

They (whoever "they" are) say "it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all." I guess in the end, the cheesy saying is true. I suppose it's better to have given it your all and be heartbroken than to not know how much heart you really have.

Love is an interesting thing. Particularly with the atrocious Hallmark holiday coming up and decorations everywhere, I think we're oftentimes fooled into thinking that it's this warm and fuzzy feel-good thing. That it's about red hearts and gifts and holding hands and being romantic...

But it's not.

True unconditional love is about none of those things. It's about sacrifice. Enduring. That when you see someone or something for who or what they really are - nothing changes. It's easy to love someone or something when everything's great. But the question is, how much do you love it when everything sucks?

It was easy to love Taekwondo when I was on a winning streak. When things seemed to fall into place, when I'd come back from a tournament with a medal to pass around, when I have the most popular class at the dojang and the color belts ask me when I'd be teaching, when Scottie and Adolfo and James would sit on the side and cheer for me when I sparred and do the Panda Dance to make me laugh, when Sabs would tell me they're proud of me and glad to have me here, when I'd come into the dojang and Daniel's face would light up and he'd come and give me a big hug and a kiss hello, when I could come in and kick hard and train hard and hit the pads well and know that I've got something special.

Who wouldn't love something if it was always that good?

But it's not always that good. In fact, sometimes it downright sucks. Sometimes it sucks when it's the end of a long day and all you want to do is sleep but you have to go train. When you tear your knee and don't know when it will get better but you have to do intense physical therapy just to have half a chance. When the competition dates are so close together and when it all rides on one tournament after another until you're cut. When you can't get enough sleep at nights between all the therapy and training and work and teaching so you're always fatigued. When no one comes to the dojang to support you and train with you because they "don't feel like it". When your coaches seem so far away and distant and don't care about your pain, when they verbalize it and then don't understand why you're upset. When you go to a crucial competition and you give it your best shot and put your heart out there on the line despite all the odds - and fail.

When it's all said and done - was it worth it? Does it continue to be worth it?

Absolutely.

I think that one thing I realized from this whole ordeal is that love is not about what feels good. It's about what happens when it feels absolutely awful. That one rainy Sunday night (and of course it had to be rainy and gloomy and cold) after Liza had gone back to Boston, James was still in Maryland, Sabs hadn't replied to my questions of whether they'd be coming in to help me, and Adolfo decided to just stay home even though James had repeatedly told him to go and hold for me - I had taught for 5 hours and my last student had just left. And I sat there in the dojang, by myself on the mat, and thought "well...what now?" It was 5 days until I was scheduled to leave for Colorado, I still couldn't kick with my right leg, and the only way I could kick at all was by having a solid target and no one was there.

So I just turned up the music, started doing jump rope drills, went through some ladders, and then just started shadow sparring in front of the mirror. I worked out by myself for nearly 2 hours, and despite the fact that it was one of the loneliest times of my life - somehow it was OK. Because when it all came down to it, despite my knee and all the relational issues with everyone else - being barefoot on the mats in front of the mirror and just moving was what it was all about. That even if no one was there for me and no one was pleased or disappointed by how I did - it wouldn't matter.

Maybe this is what Sabs were talking about with everyone having to find their own journey. And I'm still trying to figure mine out as I go. I remember walking home with Jr one night, and he told me about his knee problems. In the end he said this: "if I could go back and do it all over again - I wouldn't change a thing."

Yes, there are consequences to what we do. When I'm 40, I will probably also have arthritis in my knees and not be able to spar hard more than a few times a week - if even that. Let's factor in that he's a man and by 40 I'll have gone through childbirth some number of times so it'll be even harder for me to stay in good TKD shape. I will probably go through many more arguments and misunderstandings with Sabs, and disappointments with teammates. I will endure more losses, some legitimate, some not. And I know I will have many many more bad kicking days when it seems like nothing is going right.

"Christina, at the end of the day, all of this was a great experience. Through the injury, you have started to develop a new set of weapons for your arsenal. By intelligently pushing through the pain, you have found and exhibited great inner strength, and my brother and I have learned to more intelligently coach and train you. Through the breakdown in communications with us, all of us were able to learn a thing or two about effective communication, and how to optimize our relationship. I know it was a long and difficult and frustrating month, but in the end you persevered and I am very proud of how you fought, and am happy even though you didn't medal because you were a fighter out there. You know that that's always meant more than where you place on the bracket sheet."

I wonder if that's what Herb would have said if his team had lost.

Some accomplishments can be measured by medals and trophies and team spots and points scored. And then there are those that are measured by hardships and pain and other intangible things. But if it means I've become stronger and more versatile and have earned their respect - then it wasn't a waste. Like I've always said - you learn a whole lot more by losing than you do by winning. And learning isn't supposed to be easy.

In the end, truly loving something is being able to look back, in spite of pain and heartache, and to be able to say "if I could go back and do it all over again - I wouldn't change a thing."

That's the most important thing.