There are no trophies, no rivals, no win-loss records. The season is spectacularly short, about six weeks. The only fans are family, coaches, and the occasional brave girlfriend who does not mind meeting her boyfriend’s 70 teammates. No matter how much he personally excels, he will be unlikely to crack the famed varsity seven. There is no glory on the junior varsity cross country team.

If the lack of adoration does not drive a boy mad, then the discipline of the sport just might. While his friends gorge themselves in Rade Dining Hall with pizza, cookies, and all sorts of gravies, the runner eats his lean turkey sandwich with SunChips. He risks the ire of a few teachers as he sneaks sips from his water bottle in an effort to fight the September heat. And in the summer, while his peers sleep in and follow whatever their hearts might desire, the runner awakes early to beat the heat for his six-mile run.

Why does he do it? Why submit himself to this specific type of torture? In short, he seeks his personal best, of maybe even cracking the 18-minute mark to earn his varsity letter. But even a personal best may never come. He is guaranteed of nothing.

The heat could be such, like it was the entire 2016 season, that fast times are out of reach. A fast course might turn into a tough mudder if a rain comes like was the case at Gilmour in 2016. And being that he is an “open” runner, whose races have no registration limit, he endures overcrowded courses. Sometimes he will get spiked. Other times, he will fall, getting trampled by the hordes of teenagers following him. It would seem Napoleon had better odds at Waterloo than the junior varsity runner has of achieving something magical.

Yet, magic does happen because the junior varsity runner is a young man of faith. He hopes in the unseen. He not only believes in Mystery but he revels in it. And every so often, like was the case September 29, 2017 at Gilmour Academy, his faith is rewarded.

At this particular race, on this particular evening, the Wildcats exuded faith. One senior after two years of near misses, finally put in a complete display. Two juniors, knowing how near they were to that letter, willed each other to the 100m sprint of their lives. Another junior, already a letterwinner and returning from injury, thought only of his peers pushing them forward as his body gave way. And even those who had near misses to the famed letter, bathed themselves in glory as they achieved a personal best.

But the real character of the sport occurred at the conclusion of the race. JV coaches Sullivan, Voigt, Stefacin, and I could not wipe these enormous grins off our faces. There we hugs, laughter, and even a few tears. The words “I’m proud of you” rolled of everybody’s tongue.

At dinner that night with two of my fellow coaches, we could not put our joy back in the bottle. For years, we had witnessed the silent dedication of these young men. Finally, everybody else got to experience their character. And as I lay down to bed that night, I could not help but think that this day, this day of personal bests, represented the words we so often hear in one of the Eucharistic prayers. “You are indeed Holy and to be glorified, O God, who love the human race and who always walk with us on the journey of life.”

Thank you, Jesus, for walking with these young men. They may never see varsity glory, but they reflect Your glory through their silent dedication.