I’m going to revisit a piece I wrote about eight months ago with regards to the ever-burning question: what drives you to train? If it’s a little dramatic, just bear with me and it will make sense once you finish reading.

I scream. Lights dance in my eyes with each step, and in this moment of primal agony I am propelled by just one thought: onward. My pounding legs nearly falter as another frenzied wave of fire courses through my legs – and then it’s all over. The tire sled skids to a stop. Clenched hands release as the metal links clatter dully on the concrete, my body following suit just moments later.
“12-6,” I hear the stopwatch reading from somewhere in the distance. “That’s your best so far!” A playful grin flits across my features and, making a valiant attempt to rise, my knees buckle and I’m once again face-to-face with the ground. Rolling over to peel the gloves from my skin I notice one of them is damp with blood, exposing a glistening gash where the chains I’d been grasping had eaten through the fabric. Get up, I tell myself harshly, Get up! Struggling to my feet, I remind myself at least it’s not your pitching hand, and with that reassuring thought I grasp the chains once more, gritting my teeth for the fourth and final set of sled drags.
People sometimes ask me why I put myself through this kind of “torture.” Do you want the truth? – Fear. There it is: I’m afraid, afraid of mediocrity. Some would call me naïve or unrealistic to think that my efforts are worthwhile – and in a sense they might be right. My efforts may ultimately amount to nothing concrete or tangible. I hear this sentiment from my critics and I am disgusted, not because it lacks validity, but because I shudder at the alternative: living with the sickening feeling that I knowingly accepted mediocrity in something I loved.
It’s freshman year again, and I’ve been given the first start of my varsity baseball career. Aside from a few butterflies, I’m confident in my ability. Striding up to the mound I bend over and pluck the ball up with my left hand, trying to tune out everything around me. Eight warm-up throws later I’m in the zone, the natural motion I’d practiced from childhood taking control. I use every weapon in my arsenal – I continually pound the strike zone, but something unusual and terrifying happens to me that has never happened before – my efforts are futile, as each successive batter hammers the ball back at me again and again. I’m doing everything right, and yet, I’ve never tasted failure like this before. The sense of inadequateness sickens me, and I vow to come back the following year a changed player.
From that moment, high school has been about testing my boundaries and pushing the limits of what others arbitrarily define as “possible.” Indeed, though I returned the following season to an All-Conference performance, I was still unsatisfied, still afraid that at some point, at some level in the game I may return to the feeling of mediocrity that I felt my freshman year. This pursuit has inevitably carried over to other areas of my life. Academically, I am unwilling to settle for anything less than what I know I am capable of. Now, rather than apply myself in class for my parents and teachers, I do so for myself. I’ve harnessed the fear that my freshman baseball season spawned; I’ve struggled to overcome it, and, in the process, I’ve learned to ignore boundaries, scoff at predetermined limitations and push myself beyond what I’d ever thought possible.

Now that you’ve finished reading my college application essay, post your comments below. Why do you train?