A man who doesn't know his purpose is easily abashed, even more so, is he who believes he has none at all. Not a purpose to a means, but an eternal one, that may stand against all the encumbers that life demands. A Stalingrad, which refuses to fall.
When I take the field, I'm surrounded by men whose chains are in Christ, whose fray isn't the height but the fall. These are my brothers, these are my friends and here, together, we learned what home could be: one purpose made whole by many.
It's not a place, it's a thoroughfare. Because the journey is often sweeter than the destination. If I were to imagine a moment of victory, I wouldn't see the hoisting of the USA south conference trophy, nor nightly celebrations; I see the ceiling paint of the Cloverdale gym at 6:30 a.m. while lying in a pool of sweat, or, I hear the shout of coach Fox, saying, “You've got another one in you!” as my knees began to buckle and my calves shook in the squat rack.
After all this time, we have not regressed. No one has looked on past who he is and merely hoped for more, yet, while he was able, he worked – that is the Goodyear way, that is the way to success. Our purpose isn't to win a championship, but to win the day (as of now we are unbeaten), and to honor God in doing so.
Nevertheless, we run as one, an iron linkage forever unbroken; one heart fixed to a cause. So that no matter what the day shall render, we keep our eyes laid upon the way – and wings, unturned.
