Cheering for Matthew

By Matthew H. Steilberg

I’m sitting there on the bleachers at the big track meet with so many other proud and nervous parents waiting for our child’s race to start. Looking across the field, I could see Lizzie pacing back and forth waiting to be called to the line and then hear the crack of the starter’s pistol. As a former track runner myself, I’m instantly connected back to the feeling of anxiety-driven cotton mouth and my legs feeling like heavy slabs of hanging beef. I’m almost feeling that way RIGHT NOW. Who’s more nervous – Lizzie or me?? I’m going to say that I am but I don’t know for sure.

Then the gun sounds and the competitors are off and running. The good thing about the start of a race is that once it starts, the nervousness ends for them. I wish I could say the same for the parents!

My daughter is a sweet and polite young woman so I can’t help smiling to myself when I watch her avoid bumping into the other contenders as their four-lap/one-mile race settles into full gear; most are using their elbows to carve out running room, but not my daughter – she lets others find their place and then finds herself in the back of the pack. So much for the payoff of manners, right?

Nevertheless, she doesn’t stay back there for long because Lizzie is fast. As she completes the first lap, she finds herself in 5th place of at least 15 who are in the race. Best of all, I can see that she is running very comfortably and evenly. She even smiles to me as she goes by the first time around. I want to cheer loudly but I also remember that I’m not to embarrass her, so I shout a few encouraging words and continually glance at my cell phone stopwatch. Halfway through the race, she is on track to easily beat her personal record of 5 minutes 40 seconds for a mile. My anxiety is turning into confident excitement.

Then the bell lap comes, the final lap of every race that drives everyone’s adrenaline right back up – runners, parents, and even non-affiliated spectators. To my delight, Lizzie is picking up speed and passing more of her competition. I think to myself "she listened to my coaching! She left something in her tank to finish the race with strength!" I let myself think this, even though she’s likely not thinking about my advice – but thinking she is lets me participate even more in her race.

I’m perfectly overjoyed as she crosses the finish line in 3rd place overall, 1st for her school, and with a new personal record of 5:27! Over 10 seconds better than her previous best effort. Her last lap was even her fastest. I’m so proud! I’m sure there are other proud parents in the crowd but I can’t imagine any prouder than I am. After all, she’s only in 9th grade!

Making my way to the track, I share the big news with Lizzie and see her smile grow as wide as the river. We hug and we celebrate. Is there a better feeling than a parent seeing their child when they are proud of themselves?

I think to myself, "Ok God, thank you. This is the BEST track meet I’ve ever been too." I’m so glad I left work early for this.

If only I knew that this track meet was about to get even better for me.

….

As a former track running nerd myself, I hung around to watch the boy’s mile competition that followed Lizzie’s race; after all, the top runners in this race will easily run faster than five minutes for the mile and I’m eager to see such a performance. Just like Lizzie’s race, I can see that everyone’s nervous – including me! And I don’t even have a runner in the race! 

Little did I know that very soon, I would have a runner in this race.

The gun goes off and off they go, elbows flying and all. As with many races, a breakaway leader pack of three fast runners soon emerges and they are easily on pace for a 4:30 mile or faster. Wow! I find myself watching them closely as they draft from each other and push the pace. I can’t wait to see who wins and what their time is. Everyone’s cheering on this lead pack. But something starts to bother me.

I suddenly find myself watching a different runner, one who's painful to look at. It’s the kid who’s in last place.

And he’s not in last place by a few feet, he’s last by 20 yards or more with the gap widening. I feel for him. He’s a small little guy, probably weighing less than 100 pounds. I think about how he feels – in pain, both physical and emotional. I’ve been there. I’ve finished last in a race and it hurts.

I lose track of the lead runners, my eyes are on this young man and his facial expression. I am hoping he doesn’t give up, because I’ve seen this happen as well. What if he just stops and ducks behind the bleachers? Who would blame him?

But I don’t want him to do this. And he does keep running.

The bell lap sounds as the leaders fly by and yet this little boy in last place is still at least 200 yards away from his final lap. I am glad to see he’s sticking with his race. He won’t give up – and he shouldn’t. As he finally comes to the line I hear his teammates alongside the track cheering for him. "Go Matthew, you can do it!" I hear them shout. I smile – a track team always pulls for everyone.

And then it hits me that we share the same name. We are both Matthews. In fact, now we’re one Matthew. I’m now a participant in this Matthew’s race just like I was with my daughter’s only perhaps on an even deeper level. I feel passion in my heart as I ache for him to succeed. I want him to do well. I feel badly that he’s so far behind and I know he knows it.

The words now come shooting out of my mouth as well "come on Matthew, you look great! You can do this! You’re going to finish strong!" I find myself pulling harder for him than I think I was for Lizzie, if that’s even possible.

I keep cheering for Matthew.

Then he crosses the finish line with little ceremony; the officials are actually already getting the track ready for the next race. And he blends in to the crowd of other participants. I barely see that his teammates are there to pat him on the back and welcome him home.  Now I’m happy. I want him to be proud of himself; I don’t want him to be ashamed of finishing in last place. He ran a brave race.  He should run again.

And then something happened. I hear a woman’s voice call to me from a few bleachers up. "Thank you for cheering for my son" she says. I turned around and saw her sitting there with her husband. "He really needs that encouragement" she added.

I could see her eyes were a little damp.

"When I heard his name was Matthew, I knew I had to cheer for him" I said. We formally introduce ourselves to each other and I soon learned Jim, Carolyn, and their son Matthew are very new to Richmond, having recently moved to town from Atlanta where we Steilbergs also once lived. We enjoyed sharing both Atlanta memories as well as some things they should look forward to here in Virginia. I really liked both of them, and of course I’m already a big fan of their son.

I learn their "Matthew" is a 7th grader (so now his size makes sense!) and he’s in this new school trying to "find his place" in the social order. Those of us who have moved kids from one state to another know very well that this is NOT easy to do. While this Matthew loves baseball, Carolyn tells me that it’s been the track team that has been the most welcoming by far of her son. They tell me that Matthew has a track coach who is really great and cares a lot for him, even though he never scores any points to help the team win. He is a part of something with this team, even though he frequently finishes last. This team has welcomed him to their family. "He loves this team" she says. "It’s all he talks about when he comes home."

I smile because I’ve known all my life that while the basketball, football, and baseball teams always seemed to have the "cool" kids and are popular around school hallways, it was the cross-country and track teams that had more of the "we stick together" team members. We tracksters never got to date the cheerleaders but we always took care of each other and had fun together.

I have been their Matthew – wishing I was skilled at the popular sports but seeming relegated to the ones no one much cares about. I also knew what it was like to finish last when you desperately wished you could beat just one other runner. Finishing last hurts.

But this team had welcomed their son, as all track teams seem to do.

…

I spoke with Jim and Carolyn for 20 minutes or more before we agreed it would be a lot of fun for our families to do a cookout night together, especially because they were looking for a new "friends" community themselves. We exchanged numbers and I headed away to find Lizzie who was still reveling in her fast race.

Carolyn thanked me once again, passionately, for cheering for her son and helping make him feel special -- which reminds again that mothers are a special group of angels. And when they experience someone else showing love to their children, they feel supported in their own love and commitment, which is a good feeling to have. Someone else cares.

She’s thanking me but I all I can do is think to myself that I’m the one who benefitted from her son’s race today.

This Matthew…their Matthew…brought a lesson back to me today. This Matthew reminded me of why we cheer for those in the back of the pack, why we should keep our eyes on them even more than the leaders. There are always plenty who cheer for the lead runners...but perhaps our greater gift is what we realize from cheering the slower ones who run their race with great courage.

So let’s all keep cheering for the Matthews in the world; I'd forgotten the gift it gives – and receives.