We’ve spent plenty of time on this blog establishing how bad I am at sports. I’ve got a few small issues holding me back– I have the muscle mass of a fifth grader, for example, and my level of coordination suggests an inner ear issue – but I’ve spent my life expecting to turn the corner any day now because I’ve know I’ve got something that sets me apart from everyone else.

I am stubborn. The most stubborn.

This stubbornness has mostly worked against me throughout my life – like when I would choose World War III over eating a single lima bean as a child or refuse to make a Number Two the whole week of junior camp because I did not like the looks of the toilet – but I’ve always been convinced that my refusal to give up would bring success on the sports field where coaches keep saying words like “heart” and “hustle.”

I put this belief to the test in high school as a freshman soccer player during my greatest act of stubbornness when I ran for an hour on a broken leg.

It is important for you to understand a few things about this moment of heroism. It did not come during the playoffs. It did not come during a game when my team needed me most. It was practice. Also, just to be clear, my team absolutely did not need me. It actually kind of needed me to quit so they would have enough uniforms for everyone.

At the time, I didn’t realize that the only way I’d see playing time is if they changed the rules of soccer to allow 50 players on the field at the same time. By the end of August, I had deluded myself into thinking that I was juuuuust about to break out. All I had to do was show the coaches I had heart by finishing the Australian Mile.

What is an Australian Mile you ask? It is neither Australian, nor a mile. Nor, apparently, is it a term anybody else has ever heard of judging by a quick Google search. It was a conditioning drill our coaches would run two or three times during the preseason in which they’d have us jog and then sprint and then slalom and then sprint again and then leapfrog until they told us to stop, just like a real soccer game.

Coach Wolvin started practice the day of the Australian Mile by expressing his disappointment in our lack of effort. “If you walk during practice,” he said, “you’ll be sitting during games.”

This was great news for those of us who were already planning on sitting during games.

By this point in the preseason, my shins were hurting a lot. I weighed about 90 pounds at the time, and my bird bones were not used to running for hours a day. But I was stubborn. I spent all practice that day showing the coaches just how hard I would work if I ever got a chance to play in a game. (This involved a lot of sprinting to balls I’d shanked and flailing as people dribbled past me.) After two hours, my right shin was on fire.

Then Coach Wolvin blew his whistle. “Australian Mile. Two lines.”

We sprinted into line. Before we started, Coach Wolvin stared each of us in the eye. “Nobody falls behind. Do you understand me? Nobody. Falls. Behind.”

We all nodded. He waited an extra second to show how serious he was, then blew his whistle. We started jogging.

“Back of the line to the front! Go!”

The two guys in the back sprinted to the front.

“Go!”

Two more. It was my turn now.

“Go!”

HOTCHIE MOTCHIE.

One step, and it felt like someone smashed my right shin with a hammer. I sprint-hobbled to the front of the line.

“Faster! Go!”

By the time my turn to sprint came again, I had almost convinced myself everything was fine. Perhaps I just stepped in a divot or got bit by a bee or…

“Go!”

WOW.

Things continued going downhill until we got to the next part of the Australian Mile. Then things went off a cliff.

“Leapfrogs! Let’s go!”

Australian Mile leapfrogs are not like traditional leapfrogs. In traditional leapfrogs, you curl up in a nice, safe ball. In Australian Mile leapfrogs, you bend at the waist and pray as a tired kid in sharp cleats tries not to kick you in the head.

In Australian Mile leapfrogs, you bend at the waist and pray as a tired kid in sharp cleats tries not to kick you in the head.

“Go!”

This would seem like a good time to tell a coach about an injury that might cause one to land on an All-Star teammate’s head, right?

“Go!”

I hobbled to the first teammate, launched off my right foot and…

“OUCH!!”

“Sorry.”

I tried the second teammate.

“COME ON MAN!”

“Sorrysorrysorry.”

I paused for a second before the third one. Maybe if I used my hands to plant…

Coach Wolvin blew his whistle. “NO HANDS!”

For the fourth teammate, I launched off my left leg and…cleared him! Barely, but I was over! Then I landed on my right foot.

CRUNCH.

HOTCHIE MOTCHIE.

I continued that way for the next 15 minutes. Hobble-hobble-hobble-CRUNCH-hobble-hobble-hobble-CRUNCH-hobble-hobble-hobble-SORRY!

We continued hurdling and sprinting and slaloming past the 20-minute mark, then the 30-minute mark, then 40 minutes – the longest Australian Mile we’d ever run. At this point, my leg felt like it was dangling from a tendon. Every time we passed the cooler on those last few laps, we lost a player. I was tempted to give up too, but that would mean I’d lose my only advantage as an athlete and I’d never see the field again. Plus, running felt very brave.

At the 45-minute mark, we left the field and started running through the neighborhood. In cleats. This did not feel great. As hard as I tried to keep up, I started falling farther and farther behind. When senior captain Jake Jones saw me fall out of the line, he did something I’ll never forget. He ran back, picked me up like a baby and sprinted to the front of the line.

“YOU’RE STAYING WITH ME!” he said when he put me down.

I like to imagine an elderly neighbor heard the commotion of 25 pairs of cleats running down the street, peeked outside at that exact moment, watched Saving Private Ryan reenacted outside his house and turned around to tell his wife that they were moving.

I kept up with Jake for the rest of the run. We got back to the field, ran two more sprints and finally, mercifully, stopped. I looked at my watch. One hour exactly.

Because I was the ultimate warrior, I did not cry until I got into my mom’s car.

Later that afternoon, my mom took me to the hospital, where the doctor told me I had a stress fracture in my right fibula that had turned into a regular fracture because I’d run on it for…wait how long??!!

That season, I sat on the bench taking stats like I would have had I not finished the Australian Mile. But I sat in my cast with pride because I was no longer known as the worst athlete on the team. I was now That Kid Who Ran for an Hour on a Broken Leg, and that counts for something.

It counts for something, right?

LIFE LESSON #82

Never say die. Unless you’re literally dying. Then definitely say die.