Thrill & Agony

It’s that time of year again.

The world is thawing. Trees are blooming. Shamrock Shakes are back at McDonald’s.

And March Madness is right around the corner.

There’s nothing quite like the magic of those first four days. Whether you’re scoreboard watching at the office or triple-boxing from your living room, the abject unpredictability of the NCAA tournament is a thrill ride for even the most casual fan. But even if your bracket fails to survive the first matchup, there’s one inevitability we can certainly count on.

Sometime this weekend, after a tight back-and-forth contest, or a miraculous comeback, or a deliriously shocking upset, a game will be won in the final seconds. Maybe even at the buzzer. Players on the winning team will throw their hands in the air with wild eyes and wilder smiles as they storm toward their teammates, leap into each other’s arms, and raucously celebrate another day of survival and advancement.

You might know what happens next. Almost immediately, the broadcast will pan to the losing side. Players will be stunned. Some will be frozen, hands not in the air, but hanging empty at their sides. Some will collapse to the hardwood. Others will shudder as if in physical pain, heartbroken over the sudden end of their Cinderella story. Tears will flow as players embrace for an entirely different reason.

The thrill of victory. The agony of defeat.

Now, it’s no secret which side we’d rather end up on. There’s never been a little boy who counted down in his driveway and hoped to miss the game-winning shot. Of course we want to win! And that means, perhaps just as strongly, we don’t want to lose.

But it’s this fear of failure—of being on the losing team, of the sharp sting of heartbreak—that can lead to something far more destructive than missing the shot. And that’s missing the game.

Nearly 30 years before the NCAA basketball tournament first tipped off, Theodore Roosevelt encouraged “the man in the arena” in what might as well be the greatest pregame speech ever delivered:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

A century later, Roosevelt’s words stand as tall as ever. They’re a call to courageous action. To heroic effort. They urge us to leave the safety of the sideline and step bravely onto the stadium floor, where untold thrill and agony await. Because that’s what men are built for. Whatever your arena—be it ministry, marriage, or March Madness—it’s time to lace ‘em up.

One team will win the title this year. Sixty-seven won’t.

But credit belongs to the men in the arena.

Dare greatly, my friends.