In any small town, sports are really important to the high

The words of Martina McBride, “In any small town, sports are really important to the high school, and I wasn’t very good at sports,” carry with them the quiet honesty of one who knows the sting of being outside the circle of what a community values most. In them we hear the echoes of the small town, where identity is often bound to the triumphs of the team, and the Friday night lights shine like stars upon the chosen few. To confess “I wasn’t very good at sports” is not merely to admit a lack of skill, but to reveal the loneliness of walking another path in a place where one path is honored above all others.

The origin of this thought lies in McBride’s youth in rural Kansas, where high school sports were not just games but public rituals, binding the town together in pride and celebration. In such places, the athlete is often crowned with admiration, while those whose gifts lie elsewhere may feel overlooked, even invisible. McBride, whose destiny was not on the court or the field but in the realm of song, first learned what it meant to carry a gift that was not yet seen or valued. Her words reflect the universal truth that not all talents are celebrated equally, especially in youth, and yet those uncelebrated talents may grow into greatness.

This story is not hers alone. Consider the tale of Albert Einstein, who as a child did not fit neatly into the molds of school. Where others excelled in memorization and standard recitation, he seemed slow and distracted. Yet within him burned a light that no one in his school could yet perceive—a genius for the language of the cosmos. Like McBride, he was “not good” at what his community prized most, but in time his difference became his crown. Both stories remind us that what seems weakness in one arena may be strength in another.

Her quote also reveals the nature of community expectation. Small towns, like ancient villages, often magnify certain rituals and symbols as marks of identity. In Greece, it was the Olympian athlete who won crowns of olive. In Rome, it was the soldier who brought honor to his family. In McBride’s Kansas, it was the high school athlete who carried the pride of the people. Yet history teaches us that the poet, the thinker, the singer, and the dreamer have always been equally essential, though less loudly praised in their time.

The lesson here is one of perseverance and self-belief. If you do not shine in the arena your town, your school, or even your family most esteems, do not despair. Your gift may belong to a different arena, one not yet revealed. The world is vast, and its needs are many. The athlete may inspire in one way, but the artist, the healer, the teacher, the builder inspire in countless others. What matters is not to fit the measure of your community’s narrow pride, but to discover and honor the measure of your own soul.

Practically, this means seeking out and nurturing your talents even if they do not bring instant applause. Practice the guitar in the quiet room while others cheer in the stadium. Write, draw, study, create, even if no one yet sees. In time, your gift may carry you beyond the limits of the small town, as McBride’s voice carried her to stages across the world. Let not comparison silence you, for hidden talents often grow in secret until the season of their harvest.

So, beloved listener, take heart in Martina McBride’s confession. Sports may rule the small town, but life is greater than the scoreboard. Do not let your worth be measured only by the games others play. Instead, tend faithfully to your own path, knowing that every gift has its time, and every voice has its place. For even in the smallest town, greatness may be growing unseen—and when its season comes, it will shine brighter than all the lights on Friday night.