I Quit
I gave up before I gave it my all.
by Todd Casbon, as told to Christy Heitger-Casbon
As I peeled the sweaty, grass–stained clothes from my aching body, I thought about the last three exhausting weeks at football camp. By the grace of God I'd endured agonizing two–a–day practices loaded down in huge pads and melting in the hot August sun. When I ran, I felt like I'd pass out. When I stopped running, I was sure I'd throw up.
I wanted to feel the glory of a winning touchdown, but instead I went home every night bruised, battered, sore and stiff. I was sick of being hit, shoved, pushed down, beaten up. I'd had it. I decided to quit. Nervous about making my big announcement, I slowly made my way over to Coach Walker's* office door and knocked.
"Yeah!" Coach yelled, his voice raspy from years of shouting.
I stepped inside.
"Whatcha need, Casbon?" he asked as he scanned the newspaper that was sprawled out across his desk.
I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. I didn't know how to ease into it, so I just blurted it out.
"I quit," I said.
Seemingly unfazed, Coach kept his eyes glued to the sports section.
"Why?" he asked in his familiar gruff tone.
"I'm not having any fun," I said lamely.
Coach closed the paper, adjusted his tattered baseball cap, and looked me straight in the eye.
"Cazzie, do you think anyone is having fun right now?" he asked.
I just shrugged.
"Son," he said, leaning in toward me. "These practices prepare you for the games. That's when the fun begins."
Yeah, right, I thought. Like I'll ever make it into a game. I never ran any play right. No matter how clearly the coach explained everything on paper, once I got on the field and the ball was snapped, the chaos of guys scattering every which way completely confused me.
Coach Walker placed his hand on my shoulder and said, "I'll make ya a deal. Stick it out this year and if you don't wanna come out again next fall, I won't hassle ya about it."
It sure didn't seem like a "deal" to me, but since no one ever won an argument with Coach Walker, I agreed.
When I got home from school, I hurled my book bag across the room and kicked my dirty Nikes high into the air.
"What's with you?!" my brother Scott asked as he jumped out of the way of a flying shoe.
"Why can't God let me shine in one stinkin' sport?!" I complained. "Is that too much to ask?"
I told Scott about the "deal" Coach had struck with me, and Scott smiled.
"I'm glad you're not giving up this time," he said, tossing me a Nerf football.
"When have I given up?" I snapped, purposefully nailing him in the thigh with the Nerf.
"Uhhh, baseball, basketball, piano." Scott said. "Want me to go on?"
"I just haven't found my thing yet."
"And at this rate, you never will," Scott said. "You can't do great at something the first time you try it."
"First time?! I've been at this for three weeks!"
"Some of the guys on your team have been practicing for years. Of course they're better than you."
"Thanks a lot!" I said, rolling my eyes.
"Listen, anything worth having takes effort," Scott said. "Like your good grades. That doesn't happen by accident."
"That's different," I said. "It's not painful to study."
"Wanna bet? I think it's way harder to study day after day than it is to take an elbow to the ribs. Hey, I don't blame you for hating the drills and stuff, but is there anything about football that you like?" Scott asked.
I thought for moment.
"Well, I have kinda gotten into weightlifting," I said. "I've been lifting with this guy Matt from the team, and even after just a couple of weeks we're getting stronger."
"So try focusing on the progress you're seeing," Scott suggested. "You won't reach your goals instantly, but every little bit gets you closer."
That night after dinner I went to my room to think. I wanted to figure out why excelling at a sport mattered so much to me. I think part of it was because my dad was a high school athletic director and I really wanted to make him proud. And then there was my ego. I knew that the jocks got tons of attention.
But even as I craved praise and popularity, it bugged me that I was so consumed by such superficial things. I thought about what Scott had said and realized that even though I wasn't a great football player, staying on the team had benefited me in several ways. I'd gotten into better shape, I'd discovered that I liked lifting weights, and I'd become really good friends with Matt.
I sat down on the bed and began praying.
Lord, sometimes I can't always see what's right in front of me because my thoughts, words and actions are driven by my own selfish needs and desires. Forgive me, God. I'm so grateful for the gifts you've given me. Please help me see your plan for me.
There were still plenty of times that season when my body ached to quit, but on those difficult days, I prayed for strength—not just the physical kind, but also inner, spiritual strength to carry on. Finally, toward the end of the season I made it into a couple of games. One, in particular, was really great. We were playing at the high school where my dad worked, and with five minutes left on the clock, Coach Walker put me in at running back. I just had one play, but it was awesome. I caught a 13–yard pass for a first down.
My heart raced with excitement when I heard my name called over the loudspeaker. I looked up into the bleachers and spotted Dad with a huge smile on his face. I'll never forget that amazing moment. If I'd quit when I felt like it, it never would have happened.
Sometimes when I'm overcommitted or totally stressed out with life, I still have to pull out of certain activities. But I no longer have the same knee–jerk response of wanting to quit simply because I'm uncomfortable. And though I never came to know the glory of a winning touchdown, I now know how great it feels to stick with something and see it all the way through to the end.
*Names have been changed
Copyright © 2006 by the author or Christianity Today International/Ignite Your Faith magazine.
