Spring 2019: February 15th Issue 2

Aloha Vulcans

It’s not the fourth quarter, it’s overtime. This game isn’t over.

It’s never over until it’s over.

Everyone else is panting around you, gasping for air, hands on their hips, sweat pouring down their brows. Their eyes look to you. No one was ready for this, no one but you. Even the opposing team knows about you. They’ve heard about you. They’ve seen that look on your face before. The crowd is hostile. They’ve been yelling at you all game. It’s a shame that their hate falls on deaf ears. The outcome has already been decided. It was decided a long time ago.

This game was over when you walked in.

Every morning when you woke up before everyone else. When you embraced the cold, the hurt, the grind, and rose to your feet. You arrived early and stayed late, day in and day out. When someone else took a play off you exposed them, flying past, leaving them in a daze. How do you do it? How are you so far ahead of the competition?

This isn’t random, this is routine.

Three seconds on the clock. You think about everyone who helped you get here. All the love, all the encouragement, all the daps and high fives. All the people you’ve made proud. All the challenges you tackled, came, saw, and conquered. All the times where you were knocked down, brushed the dust off, and pulled yourself up. You came from the dirt, but you are a tree with roots that drive themselves into the earth, a strong trunk layered with experience, and branches that reach to touch the sky. In the song Already Home, Jay-Z raps, “and as for the critics, tell me I don't get it. Everybody can tell you how to do it, they never did it.”

The game is in your hands. Who better?

A man with many names,

Peter Holden Chao

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