When Grit Arrives

“It’s a good thing you can’t count that high. Five should be a manageable number for you.”

I smacked my teeth and shot him a look—annoyed. Another moved goalpost.

I was eleven. Small for my age but with a quick mouth and an iron will I inherited from my mother. For months, I had been knocking out 100 pushups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats every day. Per my dad's challenge. I could do 20, sometimes 25 pushups in a row without breaking rhythm.

But my father, arms folded, just watched. Expression unreadable. Until finally, he suggested.

“Don’t start counting until it starts to hurt.”

I blinked. What?

“You heard me, Gex.”

I dropped back down. This time, I didn’t count the easy ones. I went until my arms burned, until my breath was uneven, until my mind started telling me to quit.

One.

My chest felt tight.

Two.

My body protested.

Three.

My arms shook.

Four. Five.

Shit. I have 95 more.

I understood.

By the time Field Day rolled around at Marbut Elementary, I volunteered to represent the "Red Team" for the school-wide push-up contest.

The entire grade chuckled.

"Midget cricket think he can do pushups y'all," the other teams erupted.

I was little.

My friend James said " are you sure, Gex?"

"I got this shit, dog."

"Cool," James responded.

He started chirping back to the other teams.

During the contest, the six-foot, grown ass man, Blue Team, six grader everyone assumed would win.... barely made it to 70.

Chump.

He had the size, the looks, the confidence—he even announced that he lifted weights with his big brother.

Flashy.

He stopped. Arms exhausted, breath labored.

He was, as my dad would say, "big for nothing."

I kept going. 80. 90. 100.

He sat back on his knees, shaking his head in obvious defeat.

I wanted it to sting. The entire grade was watching. This was the final event.

So...I kept going. 110. 120.

Victory.

Later that night, I couldn't wait to tell my dad.

I strutted into the kitchen, practically shaking with excitement (or was that muscle fatigue?).

“I won,” I said, chest swelled like a morning Puerto Rican rooster, while I told him the story.

He didn’t react.

Typical.

He let the words sit.

“Your friend stopped at 70 because I guess in his household, they stop when things get tough. And they accept second place. You will probably see he didn't get far in life if you check back in a decade or two. He won't have made it to the league. Hell, he probably won't even volunteer his time."

I stared. Why was this man attacking another family?

I laughed to myself.

Then he leaned forward, looking down on me.

“The Mediocre always stop when it gets tough.”

He continued:

“Are you interested in being mediocre?”

"If so, I want my name back."

I busted out laughing.

My dad was out of his mind.

To him, it was never about getting stronger.

Never about getting bigger.

Not even winning.

It was about understanding that pain is the beginning.

That when it starts to hurt, THAT's when it counts.

That’s when you find out who you are.

That’s when the real work begins.

When Grit arrives.

"Invite him in," he'd say.