Mental aspects of athletics are as challenging as the physical

  Dylan Hernandez As Hernandez finishes
this column a few minutes before press time, his editor is having a
panic attack. Hernandez can be reached at [email protected].

Had I been given an ounce of athletic talent, I’d still be
playing sports. I don’t doubt that. Up until the time I left
for college, I’d played sports my entire life. Quitting
wouldn’t have crossed my mind.

But when I look at it now, I’m glad I’m sitting here
in front of a computer, eating greasy chicken wings instead of
running intervals out on the track or doing sprints on the soccer
field.

I’m reminded of this every time I interview athletes and
hear about how they have to take care of their bodies, go to sleep
at a certain time, and do an “x” amount of sit-ups
every night.

I was especially reminded of this a few nights ago when I
foolishly challenged my younger brother Estebes ““ who’s
a freshman here at UCLA ““ to a race in the mile out on the
Drake Stadium track. There, I was reintroduced to “gut-check
time.”

Over the weekend, I got in a mood to feel like an athlete. I get
these kind of impulses whenever I start watching too many sports
programs on TV.

My brother didn’t particularly like the idea of racing,
but being a good, subordinate younger sibling, he went along with
it. After he didn’t make the UCLA soccer team in early August
(he got to the final cut), he stopped training intensely and gained
15 pounds. Still, he wasn’t fat and he was going out for a
couple of runs a week.

Estebes and I met out on the track at midnight. As we did a
warm-up jog around the track, he looked over at me and said,
“Man, I hate this feeling. This is why I’m not in
sports anymore.”

Evidently, he wasn’t as detached from his days of
competition as I was. I wasn’t nervous at all.

In my mind, I had my ideas of how the race would unfold: both of
us, having no sense of pace, would jog for two laps. Estebes would
try to make a move on the third lap, but I would stay with him and
out kick him over the last quarter.

It all seemed so perfect.

I wanted to pat myself on the back for thinking of such
brilliant strategy. Bob Larsen would’ve been proud of me.

Estebes and I lined up at the starting line and set our watches.
As soon as I said, “Go!” he darted to the front. It
looked like he was sprinting.

It took a full second for my rapidly deteriorating brain to
register what was happening. Then it told me, “It’s
time to make a choice.”

In every race, there’s a moment when a runner has to make
a decision whether or not to go. That much I knew going in. What I
didn’t know was that I would have to make the decision so
early in the race.

For the time being, I decided to go.

I pulled to my brother’s shoulder and stayed with him for
the first 400 meters. At the start of the second lap, I jumped
ahead of him and slowed down, hoping to stall him.

The little bastard didn’t go for it. Immediately, he took
back the lead and jetted ahead of me.

So again, it was time to make a decision.

I let him go.

I was already breathing heavy and it felt as if I had blocks of
iron tied to my shoes. I would just have to pray he’d tire
and come back.

He didn’t. In the second and third laps of the race, he
opened up a 40 or 50 yard lead on me.

I could’ve surged to close the gap on the third lap, but I
didn’t. It was so much more comfortable to run slow. I felt
the way I had the night before when I was trying to study for my
midterm and wound up getting seduced to sleep by the coziness of my
pillow. Yes, those stupid running shirts say pain is temporary and
pride is forever, but what they forget to mention is that pain is a
lot more intense and immediate.

Surprisingly, I saw my brother drop his tempo drastically on the
last lap. I started to push a little and started nearing him.

I could sneak up on him, I thought. I tried not to pound my feet
on the ground too hard and hoped he wouldn’t hear me
coming.

I got closer and closer. Going around the final bend, I was just
20 yards behind him. Then he turned his head around and saw me. His
posture straightened and he started pumping his legs.

I had to make the big decision.

I thought of the pros and cons and concluded it wasn’t
worth it. I let him go.

The distance between us remained the same and we crossed the
finish line in a time too slow for me to print without being
embarrassed.

I was glad to be finished. I sprawled out on the track, thinking
of how great it was to be a writer. My everyday decisions ““
such as what to use for my leads ““ now appeared so much
easier than the ones I had to make in the last five and a half
minutes.

The run made me see clearer than ever that I’m more than
just physically unfit to be an athlete; I’m not mentally fit
to be one either. I’m like Andrew Golota, the Polish boxer
notorious for quitting ““ without the physical gifts.

I’m certain most of my colleagues here in the Daily Bruin
sports department aren’t mentally strong enough to be
athletes, either. The split-second choices one has to make in a
competition are nerve-wrecking. The mere thought of them gives you
pre-race (or pre-game) jitters, and in severe cases, makes you lose
sleep.

We can barely even handle deadlines.