I wanted to be a sportswriter because I loved sports and I could

The words of Dick Schaap shine with both humor and humility: “I wanted to be a sportswriter because I loved sports and I could not hit the curve ball, the jump shot, or the opposing ball carrier.” At first glance, they are lighthearted, a jest at his own athletic shortcomings. But beneath the laughter lies a profound truth: that when the body fails to master the game, the spirit can still find its way into the arena through another path. It is not always by playing that one honors what one loves, but sometimes by telling its story.

The meaning of Schaap’s reflection is that love need not be confined by ability. He confesses his lack of skill in the very arts that define sports — hitting, shooting, tackling. Yet instead of turning away, he chose another road: to become a sportswriter, a chronicler of the drama, the triumph, and the heartbreak of athletes. By doing so, he turned weakness into opportunity, finding in words the strength that eluded him in muscle. His life is proof that passion finds a way, even when talent closes a door.

History is filled with men and women who, though not masters of the battlefield, the arena, or the stage, became eternal by recounting the deeds of others. Consider Homer, who may not have wielded a spear at Troy, yet through the Iliad and the Odyssey gave the world its memory of heroes. Or Plutarch, who did not command legions, yet wrote the lives of generals and statesmen so vividly that their spirits still breathe across centuries. So too did Schaap, though he did not hit the curve ball, give voice to the glory of those who could.

His humor conceals a greater courage: the courage to accept limitation and redirect energy toward a different strength. Many spend their lives mourning what they cannot do, yet Schaap chose to magnify what he could. In doing so, he found his place not on the field, but in the press box, where his pen became as sharp and swift as the athletes he admired. His journey reminds us that defeat is not the end, but a signpost pointing toward another victory.

We see the same lesson in the life of Theodore Roosevelt. As a sickly boy, he was too frail to play the games of his peers. But instead of surrendering, he built his body through sheer determination, and when his physical limits still denied him certain glories, he turned to words, writing histories, memoirs, and speeches that stirred the soul of a nation. Like Schaap, he discovered that one can live close to greatness without embodying it, and that participation in spirit can be as noble as participation in flesh.

The origin of Schaap’s words lies in his deep love of sports and storytelling. Though barred from stardom on the field, he became a legend in the press, one whose name is remembered not for athletic feats but for capturing them. He proves that those who cannot run with the ball may still run with the story, those who cannot shoot the basket may still frame the moment in words, and those who cannot strike the pitch may still strike the heart of readers with the rhythm of their sentences.

The lesson is clear: never let inability extinguish passion. If one door is closed, search for the window that opens. If you cannot play the game, sing of it, write of it, teach of it, or support those who can. Love is greater than skill, for skill dies when the body fades, but love finds new forms and new voices. What matters most is not how you participate, but that you do not abandon what you love.

So let Schaap’s words be a teaching for all who feel limited: if you cannot hit the curve ball, then write of the one who can. If you cannot leap for the jump shot, then celebrate the leap in others. If you cannot tackle the ball carrier, then honor the struggle with your voice. In this way, you too may join the game — not as a player, but as a guardian of its spirit, ensuring that the story of triumph endures for all generations to come.