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What's your Motivation?

By Dan Klinkhammer, 09/18/13, 12:30PM CDT

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A fantastic article in the WSS Newsletter

 

This is an article from our upcoming September Newsletter and it's a fantastic read.

WHAT'S YOUR MOTIVATION?
By: Dan Klinkhammer - MYAS/WSS Executive Director

I was five years old when my brother Ted was born in 1957. He was born with spina bifida and was paralyzed from the waist down. The doctors told my parents it was doubtful that he would live through the night. Three days later they said he wouldn't make it to the end of the week. A month later they said he wouldn't survive another month. Ted passed away 26 years later from a kidney infection. He was a brave kid. A tough kid. A never say die kind of kid.

I'll never forget the first time I saw my new brother. He was lying on his side in a bassinet. He couldn't lie on his back because he had developed a large (softball size) fluid deposit where his spine was severed. It was ugly. I couldn't bear to look at that reddish-purple bubble on my brother's back. That was probably my first real recognition about how unfair life can be to some people. Doctors eventually removed the fluid deposit - the first of 13 operations he would undergo over the next 10 years. Surgery for this, surgery for that. It was just never-ending.

Ted never actually lived with us. His medical needs were way beyond the care that we could give him. He became a ward of the state and spent his life in a variety of special care hospitals and foster care homes. Twice a month, we'd pack up the whole family and make the 100-mile trek to Madison, Wisconsin to visit him. I hated those trips, not because I didn't want to see Ted but because we always had to leave him there and my mom would cry most of the way home.

During the summer of 1966, the doctors said Ted was healthy enough to spend a couple of weeks at home with us. That was great news and the entire family pitched in to make him feel welcome and comfortable with his new surroundings, neighbors and friends. We pushed that wheelchair all over town. Wherever we went, he went. Everybody loved him because he was always smiling and laughing and never complained about anything. Only once did I ever hear anyone say anything derogatory about Ted. The kid up the street, with a brain the size of a walnut, referred to him as a "retarded gimp." Long story short, I'd still be beating him today if the whole neighborhood hadn't been there to pull me off of him. Enough said.

One afternoon we took Ted to the sandlot baseball field behind the elementary school, and that was the only time I ever heard him complain about anything. He told us that he wished he could play. So we let him play! We parked his wheelchair in the batter's box and told him to swing away. He looked puzzled and asked us how he would "run" the bases. This kid was the ultimate optimist. He hadn't even hit the ball yet and he was wondering how he'd get to first base.

We told him we'd push him in his wheelchair if he hit the ball. All the outfielders had moved way in toward the infield, thinking that his best hit might go the distance of a bunt. What they failed to realize was that people confined to wheelchairs who have use of their arms develop unusually strong upper body strength. Three or four swings later, Ted connected with that baseball and drilled it over the first baseman's head and down the line past the right fielder. The ball rolled all the way to the blacktop parking lot with the right fielder chasing it while my younger brother Jim and I pushed Ted's wheelchair as fast as we could.

Then the inevitable happened - as we tried to round first base we tipped the wheelchair over and we all went for a good tumble. I was worried that Ted had gotten hurt. Jim was more concerned about his scraped elbow, but all Ted cared about was getting to second base. He looked me right in the eye and started yelling, "Drag me! Drag me!" So Jim and I each grabbed an arm and we dragged Ted to second base with a "lay down double." It was a magic moment for him and for me. That was also the moment that the guilt of being able-bodied hit me like a brick.

I didn't know it at the time, but Ted had just given me the motivation to be the best that I could be for the rest of my life. I did feel guilty that God had blessed me with two good arms and legs. I felt guilty that I could climb trees, ride a bike, mow the lawn, throw a baseball and run up the stairs. Ted couldn't do any of those things, but I always thought that if he could, he would do them better and more enthusiastically than anyone else.

I can't begin to count the times that I called on Ted's strength to get me through. I think that my high school coaches would have been surprised if they knew I was standing at the free throw line with the game on the line thinking, "I need to make this one for Ted." Or running down the sidelines of the football field thinking, "I'm gonna score this one for Ted."

Later in life I called upon Ted's strength to get me through some tough times in Vietnam. I always wanted to be brave and pull my share of the load because I had a younger brother back home who would savor the opportunity to serve his country and wouldn't back down from anything. Ted was my inspiration to do the right thing and do it the best that I could. He's been gone for 30 years now, but I still feel like he's looking over my shoulder.

Talent, preparation, physical ability and mental readiness are all key components of an athlete's success. But in my opinion, motivation is the difference between good and great. Motivation is the ingredient that gives you that little boost of energy to finish the race in first place instead of second. It isn't your talent that makes you practice longer and harder. It isn't your physical ability that gets you up at 5:00am for an extra workout. It's your motivation. Once you figure out what motivates you, everything else falls into place and makes a little more sense.

Not everyone has someone like Ted in their lives, but there has to be someone or something that makes us want to be the best we can be. Find it and it will last you a lifetime! Yes, I dragged my brother to a safe place once, but he's been dragging me to safety ever since.