The Hero’s Journey
The Sage told the Boy he was Special—
A Prophecy—
The Boy was Twelve.
He did not know what Special meant.
He knew the Game.
The Ball—
The Field—
The small silence before the beginning—
When the World became briefly—
Only Possible.
The Sage watched.
“You have Something,” he said.
The Boy looked at his Hands.
Talent—
Instinct—
Potential—
A Future.
The Sage had seen it before.
He knew what must be done.
Many would proceed
More would follow.
All would bend the knee before the God of Success—
Practice.
In Youth Sports the Sage wears a Whistle.
Sometimes a Visor.
Sometimes a Polo Shirt—
embroidered with the name of an Academy
that costs more than College.
The Boy went Home.
His Parents were Proud.
The next morning—
there was a Schedule.
School.
Practice.
Strength.
Practice.
Sleep.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His Life became—
Straight.
And Narrow.
There would be Time—
for Everything—
Later.
Later was always—
waiting.
The Boy stopped playing other Sports.
They were Distractions.
He stopped going outside—
with the neighborhood Boys.
They did not understand—
what he was becoming.
He stopped playing the Game—
because he Loved it.
Love was not the Point.
Improvement was.
Improvement became Development.
Development became—
Being Molded.
Being Molded became—
a Project.
Projects require Management.
Management requires Measurement.
Measurement requires Comparison.
And Comparison requires—
a Future—
against which the Present—
may be found wanting.
The Boy was Twelve.
He was already—
Behind.
Behind whom?
Someone More Special.
Someone who had begun—
before him.
Someone whose Swing—
was cleaner.
Someone whose Number—
was higher.
The Boy practiced.
Again.
His hands blistered.
The Sage called it—
Adaptation.
His back hurt.
The Sage called it—
Strengthening.
He was tired.
The Sage called it—
Discipline.
The Boy believed him.
Once—
Boys went outside—
until the Streetlights—
came on.
Now the Streetlights came on—
while the Boys—
were still Practicing.
The Boy became Good.
Then Better.
Then—
Not Quite Good Enough.
There was always—
Someone Ahead.
The Number moved.
The Boy moved with it.
He checked it—
before Breakfast.
Again—
before Sleep.
There was a Number—
for Everything.
Speed.
Distance.
Accuracy.
Hours.
Potential.
Potential was the strangest Number.
It measured—
Something—
that did not yet Exist.
The Sage seemed to know.
“You are on the Right Path.”
The Boy liked this.
A Path was Comforting.
A Path meant—
Someone knew—
where it went.
So he followed.
He crossed another Threshold—
The Academy.
A Room—
that was not Home.
A Bed—
that was not his.
Meals at appointed Hours.
Practice at appointed Hours.
Classes.
Weights.
Practice—
again.
The other Boys were there—
because they were Special too.
Some had traveled farther.
Some had been promised more.
Some were already—
being Watched.
At night, they whispered—
about College.
Who was going—
Who had been called—
Who had received—
Who had fallen—
Who remained.
Nobody said—
Afraid.
They discussed Rankings instead.
The Boy missed Home.
He did not say so.
Homesickness—
was not Development.
He called his Mother.
“I’m good.”
He was not.
But he was—
On the Path.
Then came the Injury.
Small—
at first.
A Pain.
Then another.
Then a Doctor.
Then Rest.
The Boy watched—
the others Practice.
He counted—
the Days.
Seven.
Fourteen.
Twenty-one.
The Number moved—
without him.
The Sage said—
not to worry.
“Everybody gets hurt.”
The Boy returned—
too soon.
The Body remembered.
The Boy did not.
He Practiced.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The Pain became—
part of the Game.
He learned—
to hide it.
Then came—
the Tournament.
The one—
that Mattered.
The Scouts would be there.
The Coaches would watch.
This was—
the Moment.
Everything had led—
Here.
The Hours.
The Sacrifice.
The Injury.
The Distance—
from Home.
The Years.
The Boy stood—
at the Beginning—
and thought—
of all of it.
Then he played.
Badly.
Not terribly.
Only—
badly enough.
A missed Shot.
A Mistake.
Another.
Someone else—
was Better.
The Tournament ended.
The Boy did not—
Make It.
That was all.
No Dragon.
No Thunder.
No Music.
No Sage—
with an Answer.
Only—
a Name—
missing—
from a List.
The Boy looked—
for a long time.
Then went—
to his Room.
His Phone was—
on the Bed.
His Mother’s Name—
was on the Screen.
He did not Answer.
He knew what she would say.
It is all right.
We are proud of you.
Come Home.
He could not.
He had spent too many Years—
being told—
where he was Going.
He did not know—
how to say—
he had arrived—
Nowhere.
So he stayed.
The Hero—
did not Return.
Days became Weeks.
Weeks became—
a Life.
The Boy became—
a Man.
He did not become—
a Professional.
He did not receive—
the Scholarship.
He did not fulfill—
the Prophecy.
No one remembered—
the Ranking.
No one remembered—
the Tournament.
No one remembered—
the Boy who took his Place.
The Man did.
Sometimes.
He remembered—
the Room.
The Phone.
His Mother’s Name—
glowing—
in the Dark.
Mostly—
he remembered—
not going Home.
Years later—
he wondered about—
the Cost.
Not the Tuition.
Not the Equipment.
Not the Travel.
Those could be Counted.
He meant—
the other things.
Saturdays.
Neighborhood Games.
Friends whose Names—
had gone Quiet.
Other Sports.
Afternoons—
with no Purpose—
except Afternoon.
The childhood—
that had been spent—
preparing—
for Adulthood.
He wondered—
about the Sage.
Did the Sage remember him?
Probably not.
There had been—
other Boys.
Other Rankings.
Other Futures.
Other Prophecies.
The Man had Children—
of his own.
One afternoon—
his Son came inside—
carrying a Ball.
“Dad.”
A pause—
“Come outside.”
The Man looked—
at the Clock.
There was Homework.
There was Practice.
There was always—
Something.
He looked at the Boy.
The Boy was waiting.
The Man thought—
of the Sage.
The Path.
The God—
of Success.
Then—
he opened—
the Door.
Outside—
there was no Schedule.
No Ranking.
No Scout.
No Number.
The Boy threw—
the Ball.
The Man missed.
His Son laughed.
He threw it—
again.
This time—
the Man caught it.
The Streetlights—
had not yet—
come on.
They played—
until they did.
And when they did—
they went—
Home.
The Hero—
had finally—
returned.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
