Talking about growing up in the 80’s wouldn’t be complete without mentioning sports. Sports were a huge part of my life, as they were for most kids back then. What did I play? I’m glad you asked. I played Little League and Pony League baseball. And throughout Middle and High School, I ran track and cross-country. I wrestled. And I played football. Was I any good at any of these? Well, I’m not so glad you asked that question. I was what you would consider consistently below average in all of the aforementioned athletics.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed playing sports, but my motives were out of whack. Instead of playing for the love of the game and eating my Wheaties and training 24-7 to be the best I could be, I tried out for teams to try to impress girls. I figured being an athlete (no matter how poorly I performed) would make up for what I lacked in looks and personality. And I would do anything to stack the deck in my favor.

Now, I’m a firm believer that everyone gets lucky from time to time. I believe it because I’ve lived it. They say everyone has their ’15 minutes of fame’ and mine came in the fall of my 8th grade year. I just managed to make the final cut of our Middle School football team that year and worked my way up to third-string offensive guard. For the record, there was no fourth-string. Most of the players that didn’t start on offense or defense received the opportunity to play on special teams. My athletic prowess didn’t even afford me that opportunity. I didn’t see action on the playing field all season. In fact, my mom never even had to wash my uniform because it never got dirty.

Then came my big break. As fate would have it, before the final game of the season, one of our special team players broke his arm, so I was called upon to start in his place. And our final game was no ordinary game. Not by a long shot! We got to play our cross-town rival, with whom we’d be merging with as both Middle schools funneled into the same High School the following year. It was the end of a bitter rivalry and the best of all…we got to play on our future High School’s field…at night…under the lights…just how football was meant to be played.

The other team won the coin toss and elected to receive. That meant that our team would kick off to them. It also meant that I was about to step foot on to a football field for my first time. I lined up on the far left of the field with my team. The butterflies in my stomach felt like pterodactyls. Our kicker sent the ball into orbit and the game was underway. I took off sprinting, not really sure of what I was doing. I soon realized that the return man from their team had received the ball and was cutting up my side of the field. Then he juked a few of our players. Then he came right towards me. He wasn’t attempting to juke me. He was planning on running right through me.

I contemplated ‘pulling a hamstring’ and letting him by, you know, to avoid bodily harm. But then I remembered this was my one moment in time to try to be the athlete I had always pretended to be. Before any logic had a chance to sink in, I found myself running directly toward the return man. I was the only thing standing between him and the end zone. Seconds later, our bodies smashed against one another. I had lowered my head just a little more than he had and was able to wrap him up and pile-drive him to the dirt out of bounds to save the touchdown!

I felt like Rudy as all of my teammates pulled me off of the ground and started celebrating with me. It was one of the greatest feelings of my life! And I never wanted to forget it. And as I look back on this time, I apparently didn’t want others to forget it either. The tackle was all that I talked about for the next few weeks. Sure, other guys on the team may have had good games too. A few of them scored actual touchdowns. One had a 40-yard run. Another couple of guys had recorded QB sacks, but really, how could any of those compare to a special teams tackle?

That’s why it boggled my mind that after a day or so, nobody wanted to talk about my play any more. How could they have forgotten the magnitude of this game-changing moment that soon? I remember being angry and a little hurt by this lack of respect being shown to me. Then, once I had cooled down, I realized something else. Nobody else felt the need to talk about his game performance like I did. The plays had been made and it was time to move on. Football season was over, but instead of dwelling on what they had done, all my more-athletic friends were concentrating on the next season. Whether they were playing basketball or wrestling, that was their focus now.

It was a hard lesson to learn, but looking back, this is when I first realized that it’s our actions, not our words, that truly define us. I could have bragged and embellished that tackle for years to come, but it wouldn’t have made me more of an athlete than my teammates, who didn’t feel the need to talk about their accomplishments. They simply went out everyday, whether it be in a game or in practices, and performed. They let their actions speak for themselves. While I was busy telling everyone what a stud I was…they were showing it.

And this age-old concept is as true today as it’s ever been. To quote one of my pro wrestling heroes from the 80’s, “If you’re going to talk the talk, you better walk the walk.” We can talk all day long about what we’ve done, or even worse, about what we’re going to do. But those are just words. And words are quickly forgotten. But actions…we remember them so much longer, sometimes forever.

The athletic gene must skip every other generation in my family, because my son excels in sports. The bragging gene must skip every other generation too because he never brags. Not even to us, his own family! He is in the middle of a flag football season right now and has had multiple 4-touchdown games already. And this is in part because he loves the game and works hard at it. But as soon as the final whistle blows, he won’t talk about his gameplay unless prompted (usually by me).

And that’s refreshing to witness. Not just as a father, but as someone with a history of bragging, and ironically, not much to brag about. So remember, in life, we have two options. We can tell others who we are. Or we can show them. One reputation is fleeting, while the other can last a lifetime and influence more people than we can imagine. I’ll leave you with the motto of an old fraternity brother of mine who saw right past my silver tongue and demanded more out of me (Thanks Matt Newman)… “Deeds, not words. Deeds!”

So if you ever run into me on the street and I start telling you how great my next book is going to be, please remind me of this blog and kindly ask me to show it to you when it comes out.

Deeds, not words. Deeds.