The Downside of Grit

The following is part of a longer piece about my older brother, Nick, his sudden death in 2003, and my life in the aftermath.

When I joined him on the cross-country ski team, my freshman year, he was a different person. Running with him, he was the authority; still soft-spoken and never forceful, his comfort and confidence were immediately obvious. It felt like, Oh, this is his thing and I’m tagging along, only, he doesn’t mind; he’s encouraging me, teaching me. This was his element and he knew it.

Finally, he’d found his place. After growing up as we did, in the group we did—socially, an outsider who had accepted his fate, and competitively, an also-ran with limited skillset—that had to feel good. And, I think, all of that otherness—not even underdog, but nobody syndrome—had built a fire that would sustain.

He earned a varsity letter in all twelve sports seasons in high school. (It wasn’t that huge an accomplishment, given the sports were cross-country running, cross-country skiing, and track, but I didn’t earn one in my first year on the ski team; there were [at least] eight skiers better than me.) Before his four years were up, he’d been convinced to move his track focus from the 3000 meters to the 800, and set a school record.

I can’t say I attended any of his running races (even the State Championships or more selective Meet of Champions), but I can still picture him at the J2 ski race, down near Bennington—in the white cotton turtleneck and forest green tights with white-lettered “Vermont” down the thigh. Skiers rounded a corner and came into view on a slight incline, leveling off near the finish. Most of them (I would almost say, all of them) engaged the classic style—an exaggerated walk on skis, reaching out ahead with one pole while pushing off the opposite leg—but then, here came Nick, legs set in a slight crouch, pumping his arms, fiercely double-polling past a competitor. It isn’t what skiers are taught for any kind of uphill—double-polling is meant for flats or downhills, where you can glide—but everyone could see what was happening: pure grit was beating technique.

And that was my brother. It brings wetness to my eyes to think about—those days, and that scene, who he was and who he might’ve been. Maybe that last one is hardest. I see it in every picture, on the wall of the office—it’s covered; some, taken by others, printed and framed for his wake, hang as a reminder, not only of my brother, but of that terrible day—every time I write, and in the “Nick” folder of my desktop; I can see it in his face.

Determination. He was a grinder. If the difference between first and second, winning and losing—choose your metaphor—was raw effort, you wouldn’t want to face him—if you intended to win. He was a machine. That was a nickname, “The Machine.” And it was apt. He didn’t feel pain. He didn’t break.

***

I never really asked why—not at the time, and not since. It didn’t seem like a question especially worth exploring. I didn’t see how it would make a difference—and it was painful.

As far as I can tell, cardiac arrhythmia is a meaningless label—a lot like amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. It’s what’s leftover after everything else has been eliminated. It’s, I don’t know; his heart stopped. Following an autopsy—the disgusting, frustrating, tedious, inhuman details of which I can’t (I choose not to) imagine—in crushing and unavoidable (we tried, believe me; anything to get out from under for any time at all) grief, a non-result, an un-answer, is thoroughly dissatisfying. I’m not sure how the alternative would be any better.

Of course, that’s one level—the first level of why—but there’s a second, and a third, and really, when the mind gets going, they never stop. I try not to go down that road, let the top spin…and spin…and spin. Lose sleep and (a little bit of) your mind. Lose control over your thoughts. Lose the last of the freedoms. Obsess.

I don’t think that happened to me—much. I wasn’t responsible for him; I wasn’t responsible for solving the mystery—he was my brother. Though we’ve never actually, openly, talked about it (and that, of course, is another [sad] story of its own), in glimpses, I’ve seen that my parents feel differently. Nick was their son—their first-born—and though twenty-one years old and halfway through college, I think they would tell you—and the world would agree—a parent is ALWAYS a parent. For a parent, all questions must be asked—and answered.

What if I took that job in Maryland, and we moved? What if he’d never gotten into running, or sports; what if we hadn’t bought that house and their childhood wasn’t all wiffleball and competition with all those boys? What if I’d stayed at Paul Smith’s, and they grew up in Saranac Lake? Why did he have to go so hard; why does everyone always have to go so hard? Does no one see the damage it does, the young lives lost? It wasn’t only our son. Did he feel anything; in the time before the marathon, or anytime at all, when running, or otherwise, did he feel anything at all? Was there a clue? Did he feel it, but stay silent, stoic, uncomplaining? Why do men and boys have to keep everything inside? Could this have been prevented; could he have prevented it? What about the physical—he’d just had one—what if he’d said something; could he have said something; was there something to say? Why are there marathons? Do people really need to run 26.2 miles? Is that ever healthy, for anyone? Why did he have to go so hard? Our son, why; why was he the only one? Why did this have to happen? Why did it happen to us? Why does everything happen to us?

We laud competition, and heap praise on our “winners.” I do it myself—in describing my brother, who has was and how that came to be—in this very story!—but, while it’s difficult for me to let go and change his image in my mind, often, now, I see things differently. I don’t get it. Oh, he (or she, or they) was at the gym (or court, or rink, or track, or meeting room) at 5 am, working on his craft, determined, tireless, never satisfied? Big deal. It’s the discipline, I guess—that’s what people admire; at least, that’s part of it. But, it’s only in retrospect, only when we see all that hard work was justified (and still, I ask, was it?). Why are we such suckers for confirmation bias?

Because we like a good story, a simple story—a cause and effect—one that matches, no, confirms, our stated values, our biases. We find the Super Bowl-winning quarterback, or the Olympic gold medalist and work backward. Tom Brady, the G.O.A.T. (the Greatest Of All Time, but you knew that), was drafted in the sixth round. Nobody wanted him. One hundred ninety-eight players were thought more deserving of a roster spot in the National Football League. The story’s not so simple. There is no cause and effect.

If hard work, if pure grit, were the answer—in sports or in life—start at the beginning. Go ahead, put your confirmation bias to the test; try to pick the stock that climbs 300% in the next year. Find the kids who fits your definition and follow them. They won’t all end up at the top, whatever that is.

And besides all of that, who cares? What does it matter? Were you happy? Did it make you happy? From what I can tell, never enough, is not a recipe for joy. I’m not sure I’m better than you ever brought the owner happiness. It’s lonely at the top. Yeah, and everywhere else when your jaw is clenched in an unending drive to finally be good enough. It doesn’t work. It never ends. There’s got to be a better way.

If things were different, if striving didn’t consume my older brother, if he didn’t need to prove himself, prove his worth, secure his place in the world; if he felt accepted, loved for the person he was, inside—without feeling the emptiness, the loneliness of not enough—he’d still be here. Of course, I’m not sure of it, but my parents—full of unanswered and unanswerable questions, still, all these years later—they know it could have been different—and I agree.