The Sports Guy, Bill Simmons, wrote a column in this month’s issue of ESPN the Magazine about life outside of sports. I read it. I was amused. I didn’t buy it.  

Seriously, a life where sports weren’t important seemed to me to be a life not worth living. Steroids in baseball, the Duke lacrosse scandal and Ohio State changing its jerseys were all interesting and relevant stories. But that all changed this past weekend.

For a long time I used sports to define certain aspects of my character. I’ve been fortunate enough to have some past success at football even though I was never the biggest, fastest or strongest guy on the team. No one worked harder or wanted it more than I did. Your mind can make your body do some amazing things.

Sports taught me that.

This past weekend though, I was reminded of a life growing up with someone I consider to be my best friend. We were polar opposites.  

When we were young, the competition was fierce. I was a little older so I had the advantage. It pissed him off. He was the natural athlete but never seemed to try. I, on the other hand, was far less talented but far more driven.

He decided to give up baseball in little league because the black uniform was just too hot. I would have played in the middle of July with a sweat suit on if I thought it would make me better.

I remembered the days spent playing one-on-one football. The battles usually ended in arguments and hurt feelings.

We would spend our days playing with toys in the sandbox or playing hide-and-seek with all the neighbors. I had my toy cars; he had his toy tanks and humvees.

I was 8-years-old, it was the day before he turned 7, when I saw him lying on the dining room floor, half of his body paralyzed, and drool flowing from the side of his mouth. I was the one who dialed 911. The doctor said he had epilepsy; he wouldn’t be able to play any contact sports, but that he would probably grow out of it.

It was a blow that would have crushed me, but he seemed fine with it. It was like he knew that a life of athletic recognition wasn’t in the cards. He knew his life would travel another route. He was cleared in high school to play football. He chose not to. I gave him a hard time. How could he waste such talent? It pissed me off.

I wanted him to play, not for the recognition, but just for the pure love of the sport that I felt. His passions lie elsewhere.

I graduated, and he followed suit two years later. I was starting my junior year at Ohio State when he decided to enroll after taking a year off.

In my eyes he was lazy and unmotivated. It pissed me off. I gave him a hard time.

After a year of school he decided to join the service but the childhood epilepsy proved to be quite the roadblock. He had grown out of it and been “five years and clear” of any seizures – the military requirement.

First the disorder kept him from playing sports. Now it stood between him and military service. I assumed he would take the news with his typical apathetic approach.

I was wrong.

He wrote congressmen, talked to his uncle, a lieutenant colonel in the Army, and explored every avenue possible. When the Marines said no, he went to the Army. When they said no, he went to the recruiter’s office every week and said, “How ‘bout now?”

He jumped through all the hoops – sometimes more than once – and all that jumping finally paid off last Friday morning at 9 a.m. in Fort Benning, GA.

My best friend stood proudly in formation with his platoon as they “Turned Blue.” After 14 weeks of One Station Unit Training (OSUT), he was officially an Infantryman in the United States Army.

It was the first time I had seen him in about four months. Our eyes met and I shot him a smile, and he acknowledged with a little head tilt. When the announcement was made that family could now “meet their soldiers” I dodged the masses and was the first to shake his hand. His excitement was palpable.

“Dude I saw you and it was all I could do not to laugh,” he said.  

“Same here man,” I lied.

I’m sure our faces told different stories.  In my adult life I can only recall publicly crying twice. It is a sign of weakness. Sports had taught me that and, in some way, I felt the Army had taught him the same. We were both close to tears but we would never admit it.

People often joke about a game of football being a war or a battle, even I’ve done it, but they’re really nothing alike.  In sports there are winners and losers but no one dies.

For the first time in my life I knew what it meant to be proud of someone. It’s an overwhelming feeling. I used to think I was proud of myself for something I had done but it doesn’t compare to the feeling I had when my best bud, my little brother, became a soldier. He knew what brotherhood meant and it ran so much deeper than that of a high school football team.

“I really do love those guys,” he told me.

My goal had always been to play college football, and it was a dream I was able to make come true.

Last Friday morning was the culmination of a lifetime of setbacks and it was all so clear: His goal had always been to serve his country.

Mine seems just a little silly now.

Jim Field is a contributing writer for Atomic Sports Media. He is a staff writer for Uweekly, published every Wednesday on the Ohio State University campus. You can reach him at James.Field@atomicsportsmedia.com.