Right on Track

by Sanya Richards-Ross

  Then, without warning, he punched me in the face.

  My vision blurred. My cheek throbbed.

  I had never been punched in the face before, or since!

  Shari and Raecena started to push him when a teacher, who’d been close enough to see what was going on, rushed over to break it up.

  We all went to the principal’s office and I was given a bag of ice. When I called my dad to tell him what had happened, he was outraged. He didn’t even finish listening to the story before he was parked on campus.

  By the time he arrived, Will’s friend was long gone and expelled from school.

  I wish that assault meant the end of being on the outs with the people who’d once been such close friends, but it wasn’t.

  In late winter, Shari, Raecena, and I were at a school social. Our crew of friends wasn’t as large as it had been a year earlier, but we were determined to have fun. The new Ludacris song was on, and students were dancing on the gym floor.

  Although the boy who’d punched me had been expelled, Will was hanging with a bunch of the other football guys.

  One of the players pointed in my direction, shouting out the song lyrics in sync with Ludacris, “You’s a hoe, HOE! You’s a hoe, HOE!”

  What?

  Not only had I only dated one guy (and only for about two months), I continued to honor the celibacy promise I’d made at church when I was thirteen. That was a valued part of my identity throughout high school. And their crude remark felt like an emotional assault.

  I was humiliated. Although I knew the words weren’t true, who knows what the other students who were watching thought. I was mortified that something so sacred to me could be abused in such a way. Upon leaving the party, I decided to stick with only attending church gatherings and track meets for the remainder of the year.

  Strategy to Combat Negativity

  Whenever I felt rejected, betrayed, and harassed, my strategy was to hunker down and focus on what mattered most. I did my schoolwork. I went to church. I trained. I raced. That was my strategy. Thankfully, I had the support of a great family and a few solid friends.

  In the race you’re running, weathering the impact of negative people requires you to be strategic. You may be in a situation where you need to respond to the negative voices and access outside help. That’s what I did after I got hit in the face! But you also may choose to simply ignore the negativity. I did that too. Often if you respond to the negative voices, you waste your energy and end up more exhausted than if you’d just continued running the race in front of you.

  The author of Hebrews compares living the Christian life to running a race. Whether or not the writer ever ran around an oval track, he seemed to have a good grasp on how living faithfully is like running a good race. He exhorts, “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith” (Hebrews 12:1–2). The passage then continues to describe Jesus’s fortitude in enduring the suffering of the cross to finish well. The critical message to hang on to is just five words: “fixing our eyes on Jesus.”

  The temptation, for all of us who are hearing negative voices, is to tip our ears and eyes toward those voices and faces. But no good comes from giving them our energy and attention. The real win, in any circumstance, is to fix our eyes on Jesus.

  That kind of focus is a critical strategy in racing well. Whenever I was tempted to focus on the runners beside me, behind me, or in front of me, that’s when I would falter. Stumble. Burn out. But when I kept my mind fixed on running the race with faithfulness, always holding the finish line in my heart, that’s when I ran my best races.

  When other students acted negatively toward me, I had to choose how I’d handle it. I’m not saying it was easy, but by focusing on what I knew I needed to do—school, church, track—I could run my race with perseverance and not get bogged down by others’ words and attitudes.

  Senior year wasn’t the only time I’d faced haters. I’d go on to confront plenty of other negativity through the years. I faced jeering crowds and received ugly emails. I dealt with a challenging coach. I navigated a relationship with an agent I wasn’t convinced had my best interests at heart. Along the way there were lots of negative voices in the crowd.

  When our eyes are fixed on what matters most, when we’re anchored in Jesus, we can rise above negative people.

  Who are the negative people in your life?

  Maybe you face difficult people at school, like I did. Maybe you have a sibling who won’t give you a break. Maybe there are adults in your home, or family, who aren’t able to encourage you and support you.

  You do not need to be a victim of the negativity of others. I believe you have all the resources you need to choose the good way, and to rise above the negativity.

  Whatever you’re facing today, imagine me in the stands cheering for you.

  RIGHT ON TRACK CHALLENGE

  When you’re purposing to be the best you that you can be, you may face negativity from those around you.

  •Who are the people who recognize and cherish who you are?

  •Who are the negative voices in your life right now?

  •What does your internal voice say about who you are?

  •What does God say about your identity and value and purpose?

  You have what it takes to rise above negativity. What strategies will you use this week?

  CHAPTER 6

  WINS AND LOSSES

  When I was invited to join the junior national track team—a team of the best runners under the age of nineteen from across the United States—I was ecstatic. I loved competing locally and regionally, but to represent my country meant the world to me.

  The process of registering for the team required a copy of my passport. That’s when my mom and I realized that I didn’t have one! We were legal immigrants, with a green card to live and work in the United States, but we weren’t naturalized citizens.

  It was the first time I felt like I had to choose between my Jamaican roots and the country that had become home to me. All my friends were American, and I wanted to make the team with them. Though it had only been four years since I’d competed in Jamaica, I didn’t know any of the young Jamaican athletes.

  America had become home.

  I begged my parents to let me join Team USA. It wasn’t an easy decision at all; my family had many discussions about it. We’re proud Jamaicans, but, in the end, my parents thought the best decision for my future was to compete as an American.

  Because Shari and I would become U.S. citizens when my mom was naturalized, she started working toward her citizenship right away. Most natural-born Americans don’t realize the rigor of the process. There’s a lot of learning, vetting, and preparing that goes into it. Instead of Mom quizzing me on my American history, I was quizzing her! I knew she was working toward gaining U.S. citizenship just for me, and I wanted to help her as much as I could. I was thrilled when she’d jumped through all the hoops and we became United States citizens.

  In the years after we became citizens, and I began competing for the U.S., people often expected me to offer a deep, philosophical reason for my decision. Honestly, I was sixteen; I’d been in the U.S. for four years and all my friends were American. My family also believed it was best for my future. As we discussed it around our dinner table, it just made sense.

  Some of the world’s greatest athletes have opted to compete for countries they were not born into. Donovon Bailey and Linford Christie were both Jamaican-born sprinters who went on to win Olympic gold at 100 meters for their adopted countries. Bailey represented Canada while Christie represented Great Britain.

  I believed that we’d made the right decision. But because I had always internalized being very loved as a young athlete in Jamaica, I couldn’t foresee the controversy our choice would cause.

  Back to Jamaica

  The year I joined the team, the World Junior Championships—presented by the International Association of Athl
etics Federations—were hosted in Kingston, Jamaica.

  They’d never been hosted in Jamaica before, and they never have since!

  The opportunity felt like a gift. My international debut would unfold on a stage where I had so many cherished memories. I looked forward to racing in the country that had shaped me as a runner and competitor. I was scheduled to compete in the 200, 400, 4x100, and 4x400—the only female athlete entered in four events on Team USA.

  I had been given this amazing opportunity because I had won the 200 and 400 meters at the U.S. Junior Nationals, which was no easy feat. Set to race two of the best up-and-coming sprinters in the country, I ended up beating Monique Henderson and breaking her national high school record by running 50.69, which still stands today. I also defeated Allyson Felix in a tight finish in the 200 meters. Still riding the high of my best meet ever, I was eager to compete in Kingston.

  But I did understand that some Jamaicans would have mixed feelings about me. Before leaving home, the junior squad of Team USA voted me team captain and elected me to serve as flag bearer in the opening ceremonies. I was flattered, but, knowing my presence in Jamaica as an American athlete might cause strong emotions for and against me, I told them I didn’t want to offend the Jamaican fans. I declined the honor.

  A day before the competition began, about one hundred and twenty American athletes descended on Kingston, traveling in our blue warm-up suits with the signature red stripe on the side. As I stepped out of the jet bridge into the Kingston airport, I began to feel nervous about how I might be received.

  I first felt the pressure of my decision the afternoon we arrived, during a press conference designed to preview the games. The media event featured, among others, a young Jamaican hopeful named Usain Bolt. I could hear the negative edge in the voices of interviewers pummeling me with questions about my choice to represent the United States rather than Jamaica. As the day wore on, I could feel my nerves fraying. One newspaper quoted me as saying, “I hope everybody will still love me.”

  Yet my hoping did not make it so.

  Many Jamaicans felt as though I’d abandoned my homeland. Instead of the warmth and affection I’d dreamed of, my arrival on Jamaican soil was met with hostility.

  I thought that not carrying the flag would have been the biggest disappointment of the games.

  I was wrong.

  Crushing Reception

  Though viewers watching televised races from home only see the main track, there’s also a warm-up track beside the main one, where racers prepare for competition. As I stretched beside National Stadium, I prayed and asked God to quiet my heart and mind. I’d felt uneasy throughout the day, but I focused on keeping my head in the game as I warmed up with my teammates.

  When it was time, I slipped off my sweats in the call room and was handed a paper number that I pinned to my uniform. An official lined us up and we were escorted through a tunnel and into the main stadium.

  As we jogged out onto the track, ugly booing erupted in the stands. Surely, I reasoned, that was for someone else, for something happening elsewhere in the stadium. Still, I continued to feel uncomfortable.

  I was particularly anxious as the announcer began announcing the contestants, lane by lane.

  “And in lane five, representing the United States of America . . . Sanya Richards!”

  The booing that ensued across the stadium confirmed my worst fears: I was unwelcome.

  Shari, who’d come to support me, burst into tears in the stands. I, though, didn’t have the leisure for tears. Since I was in the public eye, I took a deep breath and gathered as much courage as I could muster. Raising my arm to wave to the hostile crowd, I vowed that I wouldn’t cry.

  Jamaicans ridiculed my family. They jeered. They sent me ugly emails. It wasn’t the generation of Jamaicans my age who had the problem with me—it was older ones who saw me as a traitor. These were Jamaicans who’d followed the sport for several decades, and who’d seen my potential when I was a girl.

  My dad had played soccer for the Jamaica national junior team, and they believed he’d done the wrong thing by allowing me to compete for the U.S. It was a bit ironic, since many of those Jamaican fans lived in the United States like we did! Honestly, Shari and my mom and I second-guessed the decision to become U.S. citizens after we realized we’d be letting people down. But my dad was always adamant. He felt strongly that it had been a good decision because my sister and I could take advantage of the rich opportunities available in the U.S.

  Facing negativity among my teammates and classmates had been difficult, but this challenge was at a whole new level.

  Giving It My All

  As had become par for the course, I was scheduled to compete in a lot of races. I was supposed to run the 200 and the 400, as well as the 4x100 and the 4x400 relays. Between all the preliminary and final heats, it was a very heavy load.

  By the afternoon of the second day, I knew I’d made it into the finals of the 400. The opening heat of the 200, though, was scheduled just a few hours before the 400 finals.

  Had I been a more seasoned runner, I would have approached that sequence more strategically. But, being young and energetic, I hadn’t yet faced my body’s limits.

  Standing on the track where my journey had begun, my mind flooded with the Jamaican win-or-lose mentality: If you come in second, you’re the first loser. In the opening heats, though, a runner only had to come in first or second to advance to the next round. Ideally, I should have paced myself and been content with a second-place finish that would have moved me forward the same way a win would have.

  But I was intent on winning it all, even the prelims.

  In the 200 prelims, I raced against a Canadian runner who ran the best race of her life against me. The two of us were far ahead of the rest of the runners in our heat. But rather than sliding easily into second place behind her, I powered through to beat her in the first round. She was so fast that I had to set my own personal best to do it too!

  That obsession, that naivety about running strategy, wouldn’t serve me well.

  She Nah Go Win!

  That afternoon, the finals of the 400 came quicker than I would have chosen.

  More than fifteen thousand fans were crammed inside National Stadium. Steel drum beats and the black-green-and-gold flags of Jamaica rose into the muggy night air from the sea of people. Jamaicans love track and field and are very rarely rewarded with international-caliber competition, so this event meant a lot to the people and the country. Every fan wanted to see the Jamaicans win. But unlike my Vaz Prep days, I was not in the right colors.

  As I lined up beside my teammate, Monique Henderson, the heckling grew louder.

  “She nah go win!”

  “She’s a sellout!”

  “She don’t deserve di gold.”

  Jamaica’s fans were merciless in their criticism.

  Even though I was treated as the adversary, forced to line up as the villain for the first time, my focus didn’t waver. Like every other time I entered a race, I was set on winning.

  My mind and heart were ready, but my legs couldn’t hold up their end of the bargain.

  I ran hard and felt strong. For the first half of the race, Monique and I ran neck and neck. But when I came into the last 100 meters, there was nothing left. My energy was gone, drained from me on this same spot a few hours earlier, with that crazy kick to conquer my 200 heat.

  Now, when it mattered, in the 400 final—when a winner was actually determined—I couldn’t find another gear to match my American teammate, Monique. I looked over at her midway down the homestretch in disappointment as she passed me.

  I suddenly had a keen understanding of how my high school teammates Tamika and Towanda may have felt when I’d beaten them.

  I was devastated.

  Just past the finish line, I found Monique and hugged her in congratulations, then found a nearby chair and slumped into it. I was exhausted and humiliated. As I stared at the track, I berated my effor
t. I wanted to win. I wanted to set a personal record. I wanted to prove to the people who sneered and jeered me that I was at least worth the effort, and that I lived up to my billing. That Team USA was lucky to have me. But I didn’t do any of that, and I had to be back at the track the next morning for my 200 semifinal.

  To add injury to insult, after the 200 semifinal I sprained my ankle during the preliminary heats of the 4x400 relay. I wasn’t even supposed to compete in that race. I was in the stands in my jeans and T-shirt, supporting one of my teammates, when another teammate had to drop out due to injury and I needed to step in. I wasn’t prepared at all. I borrowed a uniform and some spikes and ran the race. Our team had a great race, and we won the heat.

  Unfortunately, after crossing the finish line first, I stepped into a hole on the side of the track—which was disguised by tall grass—and severely rolled my ankle. I’d later learn that seasoned runners know never to step into the infield. With the possibility of equipment lying around, or hidden holes, it’s just too risky.

  I went down to Jamaica with sights set on a pair of individual gold medals, but left with none. Flying home with a silver in the 400 and bronze in the 200, I was beaten, mentally and physically.

  It was a difficult international debut to say the least.

  Redeeming Losses

  I learned the hard way that it’s possible to be successful in many areas and still face failures. They’re bitterly painful in the moment, but I’m convinced that they also offer opportunities for growth.

  What I learned from my defeat on the track gave me insights I couldn’t have learned any other way. A coach could have told me that I shouldn’t spend everything in the prelims, but that horribly public failure was how I learned it for myself.

  I’m not saying it’s easy. Losing can be brutal. Losing a competition stings. Bombing your SAT or ACT can feel devastating. Failing to reach whatever goal you’ve set for yourself—managing your weight, auditioning for a play, applying for an afterschool job—can feel awful. But when you face the disappointment of losing, and decide to learn something from your loss, you develop resilience and become better able to navigate setbacks in the future. Maybe you learn, like I did, when to power up and when to dial back. Maybe you learn what you need to study to get the score you want on a test. I’m convinced that every loss offers the possibility for learning that contributes to future success.