Critical Skills

A slave with no second name. A crowd that wanted her dead. Torturers working in shifts, from morning until dark, who quit before she did. A built exit held open the whole time: say you are not a Christian, burn a pinch of incense, and walk home to the ordinary years. In the Roman city of Lyon, in the year 177, Blandina would not say it. She answered every instrument the empire owned — the arena, the beasts, the hot iron, the bull — with one sentence, repeated until the torturers admitted they were beaten. Rome burned her body and poured the ash into the river so no grave would remain. It missed the letter already carried out of Gaul. The most powerful state on earth spent everything it had to erase one enslaved woman, and lost. Blandina needs to be remembered.

He graduated middling from West Point and rode better than he led. Then the lonely coast took his money and his name, and he resigned the Army under a cloud and went home to fail at everything else.
He cleared the timber and built a cabin and called it Hardscrabble because it was. The frost killed the crops. He sold firewood on St. Louis street corners in a worn army coat. He could not collect a rent or hold a partnership. At thirty-eight he stood behind his father’s leather counter for six hundred dollars a year, taking orders from his younger brothers, filed away by the world as a man who had not amounted to much.
The decade did not teach him secret lessons. It stripped him. It took his pride and his fear of looking foolish, because he had already looked foolish in front of everyone and survived it. So when the war came, and trained officers guarded their reputations, Grant had none left to guard. What remained was a refusal to panic and a willingness to move forward into cost. Five years later he set the terms of peace at Appomattox.
The credit belongs to Ulysses S. Grant.

In the spring of 1832 a tall, penniless young man stood up in New Salem and asked to be sent to the legislature. He called himself young and unknown. He finished eighth in a field of thirteen.
He bought a store on borrowed money and watched it fail. When his partner died he shouldered the whole debt he had no legal duty to pay, called it his national debt with that dry humor that never left him, and paid it down for years—postmaster, surveyor, a man learning law by borrowed light.
In 1858 he ran for the Senate against the most famous politician in the West and lost. But the seven debates had gone out across the country in print, and the argument he made there stayed in front of the nation after the seat was gone. He said he was glad he made the race; it gave him a hearing he could have had in no other way. Two years later the losing campaign, published as a book, carried him to the presidency.
He was not heard in spite of the defeat. He was heard because of it.
The credit belongs to Abraham Lincoln.

He set out to cross a continent no one had ever crossed.
He never set foot on it.
The ice caught the Endurance a day’s sail from land, held her for ten months, crushed her, and pulled her under. “She’s going, boys,” Shackleton said. The mission went down with the ship.
Twenty-eight men, three small boats, a thousand miles of killing ocean, and no way for anyone on earth to know where they were.
So he stopped serving the dead mission and started serving the living men. He changed what the word success meant. Not the crossing. Getting every man home.
He left twenty-two on a frozen beach and took five in a lifeboat eight hundred miles across the Southern Ocean. He crossed the unmapped mountains of South Georgia on foot. He went back through the ice again and again until he reached them.
Every one of his twenty-seven Endurance companions came home alive.
He could not give his men Antarctica. He gave them home.
The credit belongs to Ernest Shackleton.

Youngest president the country had ever had. Cattleman, soldier, author, force of nature.
Then the office passed to a friend, and the friend disappointed him, and Roosevelt decided to take it back.
He could have stayed retired, lionized, untouched.
Instead he split his own party, built the Bull Moose in the open air, and ran. In Milwaukee a man shot him in the chest. The folded speech in his pocket slowed the bullet. He gave the speech anyway, an hour of it, bleeding, because the cause was greater than the wound.
And he lost. Wilson took the presidency. Roosevelt went to the Amazon, nearly died on the River of Doubt, came home broken, and was gone by 1919.
He did not get a comeback. The gift was not for him.
The gift was the words — the creed of the arena, true because he had lived it all the way to the bottom. He told the world the credit belongs to the one who fails while daring greatly, and then he became that man, in front of everyone, and never took a word of it back.
Every striver who ever took heart from that passage took it from a man who lost.
The score was never the point. He proved it the hard way, which is the only way it can be proved.
The credit belongs to Theodore Roosevelt.