Death of a Rival

A man I never knew is being buried today. I didn’t get a chance to know him, but I had quite a bit of contact with him—violent contact, on a high school football field. The same age as me, we faced off over three years as starters for our respective teams. I have never been hit harder in my life than Taylor Pniewski hit me. He figured in many of my circle’s “Pniewski hit me so hard . . .” football war stories. Taylor and I split each others helmets open. We caved in face masks. We shed blood together in a ritual that bonds rivals as well as teammates. I never knew him but I will remember him until I am the subject of an obituary.

On most high school teams, there is at least one guy for whom you must account and adjust. I was one of those guys for my team. So I always drew that guy from the other team. For Ledgemont High School, that was Taylor Pniewski. He was all of 5’8”, but about that wide as well. I remember him being so much faster than he looked, and that blocking him was akin to pushing a dump truck. When I was on defense, he neutralized my quickness and forced me to beat him on even terms. He changed my goal from domination to don’t-embarrass-myself. He forced me to dig deep for strength I didn’t know I had. He beat me and forced me to forget my defeat by the next play and try again. He gave me the chance not to quit when confronted with what seemed an impossible task—beat Taylor Pniewski the next play. Not the entire game, not for a series, but one play, beat that one guy whose nose was twelve inches from mine, one time. Then I could think about the next play.

I thought about that lesson today as I struggle to write my second novel. I have three long starts on the second book that have all petered out by page 100. I have been forced to set them all aside and figure out how to proceed. I have to figure out how to get one page at a time and keep going, no matter how confusing and impossible the task seems. I don’t have to write an entire novel today. I have to write a good sentence and then another and another, and maybe get a page at the end of the day.

And it won’t be a perfect page. There will be some blood and sweat on it. But I will have pulled off that one page because people like Taylor Pniewski helped me see I could do it if I refuse to quit. Guys like Taylor taught me that even if I am beaten this time, and the time after that and the time after that, I can triumph on the next if I just get up off the ground, scrape the mud out of my eyes, and know that I can succeed.

That is how people accomplish things. They accept that there is no success without trials, no wins without losses, and they keep going. They get smacked down and they keep going. The get told they aren’t smart enough or old enough or experienced enough or talented enough and they keep going. By doing so, they often , in the words of Henry David Thoreau, “. . . meet with success unexpected in common hours.” Taylor Pniewski was one of my important teachers of that lesson. I didn’t know him, but I would never be who I am without him. Rest in Peace, my rival.