In America, we have three major sports - baseball, football and

Maurice Greene, the great sprinter, once declared: “In America, we have three major sports—baseball, football, and basketball. They get the most coverage. Then there’s things like golf which mop up most of what is left. But track and field? We are way at the bottom of the totem pole.” His words are both lament and revelation, speaking not merely of athletics, but of culture, memory, and the way a nation chooses its heroes. For Greene, who stood atop the world as an Olympic champion, to find his craft ignored at home was to see how fleeting fame can be, even when built on the speed of lightning itself.

The meaning of his words lies first in the nature of attention. In the modern world, crowds and cameras do not follow the most primal or ancient contests, but the games that have been woven into the fabric of commerce and spectacle. Baseball, football, and basketball dominate because they are bound not only to tradition, but to television, wealth, and the ceaseless rhythm of seasons. They are spectacles repeated endlessly, week by week, year by year, until they form the calendar of American life.

By contrast, track and field is the oldest of competitions, stretching back to the dawn of the Olympic Games in Greece, when men ran, threw, and leapt not for contracts but for crowns of olive. These contests measure the essence of humanity itself: who is fastest, who is strongest, who can endure. Greene, a world record holder in the 100 meters, carried this lineage. Yet in America, the cradle of modern media, his triumphs were fleeting in the public’s eye—celebrated in Olympic years, but forgotten in the years between. His words reveal the sorrow of one who bore the torch of ancient greatness, yet watched it pale before the floodlights of newer games.

History has seen this before. The gladiators of Rome once commanded the roar of the people, while philosophers and poets were neglected. In medieval Europe, the jousting knight was exalted, while the humble archer, though decisive in war, was ignored. So too in America, the sprinter—the most direct embodiment of speed and human power—is placed “at the bottom of the totem pole,” while those who swing bats or throw balls capture wealth and fame. Greene’s complaint is not bitterness, but clarity: greatness alone is not enough when a society’s gaze is elsewhere.

And yet, his words also remind us of the purity of track and field. For though it may not command the same coverage, it remains the truest test of the body. The stopwatch and the measuring tape do not lie; there are no teammates to hide behind, no referees to sway the outcome. It is the individual, alone against the limits of flesh and time. Greene’s career was proof that in the purest form of sport, greatness shines whether or not the crowd is watching.

The lesson for us is profound: do not measure the value of your efforts by the world’s attention. The worth of running is not less because fewer applaud it. The dignity of discipline, the triumph of self-mastery, the honor of giving one’s all—these remain sacred even if ignored by the masses. Greene shows us that the true champion runs not for coverage, but for the eternal joy of victory, for the ancient flame that once burned at Olympia and still burns in the hearts of those who strive.

Therefore, take this teaching: the world may place you low on its totem pole, but that is not the measure of your greatness. Let your craft, your passion, your discipline speak for itself. Fame may fade, but truth endures. Be like the runner who sprints with full strength, whether before the eyes of millions or alone on a silent track. For in such striving lies the essence of glory—not in being seen, but in being true.