My Pops

Today is the day we celebrate the fathers in our lives.

Though there are many, I'd like to write about three particular "Fathers" in my life. Not all of which are my biological father of course! I've left few clues to let you figure out their identities.

The first is a man who taught me the ingredients of success: talent and hard-work. In my days as a semi-professional mid-distance runner, he unleashed my competitive spirit, a hoard of energy that I did not know existed. Talent, I didn't have much of; hard-work made the difference. To my coach, I was never strong enough, quick enough, nor was I ever good enough... Everyday is a defeat. But he instilled something in me that turned me into a monstrous machine on the track:

As the world blacks-out, as I turn deaf from the fanatic cheers from the stadium, I only see him. I know exactly where he is. He'd be there glancing at his stopwatch, then me, then back to his watch. I'd shut-off the blaring alarm going off throughout my body and push microns beyond the length of which my legs could extend. I'd shut-off all sounds but tune in his instructions, followed by a split-second loss of consciousness that felt as long as the age of universe. The machine finally falls apart at the finish line and I, struck by the reality of pain and suffering, embrace the taste of defeat. Through him, I grasp along the fine line between breaking-point and break-through.

I lived and breathed the vapour of synthetic rubber, a scent of which still triggers an unexplained, explosive rush of adrenaline. Yes, everyday was a defeat; a defeat of my body to complete exhaustion. Next day, I'd do it again. But coach showed me a new way of looking at it: I am my biggest enemy. I have to defeat myself.

The second "father" is my source of intellectual inspiration. A conversation with him is never boring, we can talk for days and nights without ever running out of topics. When we talk, the process is mentally exhausting because of the depth and breadth of our discussions. Though it is his criticism of my work that empowers me to be an even more critical thinker. Yet as much as we attempt to bullet-proof arguments, no idea can be without flaws. But I think we can inch near the level of perfection through meticulous attention to details. A father, this man sharpened my mind.

The third man is my father. He is the basis of my characters. My father isn't without flaws in personality, and he knows it. Growing up, my father had never encouraged me, nor ever told me he's proud of me. But lately, that has changed. He defined my characters, through what he is and what he isn't, what he can and what he cannot do.

Given enough pressure, ordinary graphite into extraordinary diamond.