The Measure of Who We Are

“The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have.”  Vince Lombardi

We like our sports with clear winners. Someone crosses the line, hits the shot, lands the jump, and gets the medal. Simple. But every now and then, the universe flips the script and reminds us that sometimes, the people who finish last are the ones who actually get it right. They don’t just play the game; they elevate it.

Sports are supposed to be about winning. Score more points, run faster, lift heavier, kick it between the posts, and bask in the glory. But every now and then, something happens that reminds us why we actually love sports in the first place, and it’s not the medals or the slow-motion highlight reels. It’s the people. It’s the grace. It’s those small, extraordinary moments when someone chooses heart over hardware.

Even fiction gets this right sometimes. Take Ted Lasso’s Jamie Tartt—the Premier League’s poster child for arrogance and great hair, who passes the ball to a teammate instead of taking the shot himself. For once, Jamie chooses teamwork over ego, and you can practically hear every coach in the world shouting, “See? That’s what we’ve been talking about!” Sure, his father’s less than thrilled, but it’s a shining moment that reminds us character can make a comeback, even on Apple TV+.

But let’s be honest—those moments are getting rarer. Today’s sports culture often celebrates the 'me' more than the 'we'. We’ve traded quiet strength for loud celebration. Every other play becomes a production—an end zone dance, a chest thump, a choreographed taunt to the other team. A defense makes one good play and sprints the length of the field just to pose for cameras in the opponent’s end zone. It’s as if humility got benched somewhere along the way.

When I played, you tackled a guy and then reached down to help him up. You hit a big shot, you nodded, you ran back on defense. There was pride, sure, but there was also respect. Somewhere between “Act like you’ve been there before” and “Look at me!” we’ve lost something vital.

It’s not about being anti-celebration. Emotion is part of the game; it’s the heartbeat of competition. But when self-promotion overshadows sportsmanship, when the highlight becomes the taunt instead of the teamwork, we start eroding the very thing that makes sports worth watching: humanity.

And yet, every so often, something cuts through the noise and reminds us we still can get it right.

At an Arkansas cross-country meet, Kaylee Montgomery was sprinting toward victory when she spotted Julia Witherington collapse just yards from the finish. Kaylee could have powered past and basked in glory, but instead she stopped, hoisted Julia up, and said, “You got this, we’re almost there.” Together, they crossed the line. Somewhere, Vince Lombardi smiled.

Fast forward to Tokyo, where Olympians Isaiah Jewett and Nijel Amos collided and tumbled mid-race. Now, if this had been me, I would have stayed on the ground questioning all my life choices. Jewett, however, dusted himself off, helped Amos up, and together they jogged to the finish line, two grown men proving that dignity doesn’t require a medal ceremony. “Regardless of how mad you are,” Jewett said later, “you have to be a hero at the end of the day.” The man clearly didn’t grow up playing Monopoly with my family.

Rio gave us another unforgettable example when Abbey D’Agostino and Nikki Hamblin collided in the women’s 5000 meters. Abbey helped Nikki up, but soon after, Abbey herself was injured. Nikki turned around and helped her back. They both finished, limping, laughing, and probably in considerable pain, but it didn’t matter. The Olympics handed them sportsmanship medals, but they’d already earned something bigger—mutual respect and the admiration of everyone who’s ever tripped on a treadmill and hoped someone noticed kindly.

Sometimes the noblest acts are the simplest. In a 2012 cross-country race, Kenyan runner Abel Mutai stopped just short of the finish, confused about where the line actually was. Spain’s Iván Fernández could have zipped past and claimed the win, but instead guided Mutai forward. When asked why, Fernández said, “What would my mom think if I took advantage of that?” Somewhere, every mom on Earth nodded in approval and immediately printed that quote for the fridge.

Then there was high school runner Meghan Vogel, who carried a collapsing competitor, Arden McMath, across the finish line—quite literally, shouldering someone else’s dream. In Tokyo, high jumpers Mutaz Essa Barshim and Gianmarco Tamberi asked Olympic officials if they could share the gold medal rather than compete for it. The answer was yes, and the two friends erupted in joyful disbelief, embracing like kids who’d just discovered the last cookie could, in fact, be split evenly.

Not every act of sportsmanship happens on the field. During the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, a Russian skier snapped a ski mid-race. A Canadian coach, Justin Wadsworth, noticed and sprinted forward with a spare. The Russian was able to finish proudly in front of his home crowd. It’s one thing to show kindness; it’s another to do it to someone who might have just beaten your team. The whole world needed a moment like that.

Perhaps the most profound example didn’t even occur in competition. In 2006, near the summit of Mount Everest, climber Lincoln Hall was left for dead after a severe case of altitude sickness. Hours later, fellow climber Dan Mazur and his team found him. They were within sight of the peak, a literal once-in-a-lifetime achievement, but instead of continuing, they turned back to save Hall’s life. They shared oxygen, warmth, and food, and waited for help to arrive. They gave up the mountain, but they gained something much greater: proof that humanity, even at 29,000 feet, still matters more than any summit selfie.

These stories remind us that the accurate measure of greatness isn’t found in record books or podiums, it’s found in moments of compassion, empathy, and selflessness. Whether in sports, school, or the general chaos of everyday life, the people who make us proudest are rarely the ones holding trophies. They’re the ones holding out a hand.

“In the end, it’s not about the trophies or the titles, it’s about the lives you touch and the hearts you lift along the way.”   So the next time you’re in a race, literal or otherwise, ask yourself what you’d do if someone fell. Would you keep running, or would you stop to help? These athletes did. And because of that, their names are etched not in record books, but in something far more lasting: the human heart.