Dear Cross Country: An Open Letter By Christian Patzka

I owe so many things to this sport and to distance running as a whole. When you think about it, that is a really strange thing to say, that I owe something to a sport that seemingly can only take from you. Well, it is true, and I am sure it is true for many of you reading this, that you can be so grateful to a sport that takes time and energy out of a busy schedule. It can even take the mantra of blood, sweat, and tears just to shave a few seconds off. Despite all of this, I wouldn’t have it any other way. You granted me the same opportunity that it gives everyone else that signs up for it. I was instilled with a chance to make something of myself, which was huge for a small town kid like me. With this said, I say…

Dear Cross Country,

You weren’t my first sport, as I tried all of the other major sports. I wasn’t any good at them because I was too short, too small, too skinny. It was a good day for me if I wasn’t the last kid picked for a sport in gym class. I can still remember the day at basketball practice when my coach told me to “Go home and eat your Wheaties.”

You didn’t doubt me at all and offered me a chance to prove myself. You gave me better odds of being on a box of Wheaties. You only asked me if I could run and when I said yes, you showed me a new world of opportunity.

You showed me that chances to compete don’t guarantee results. I had to earn the results through the opportunity I was given – every single time. My freshman year of high school, you handed me a varsity spot because one teammate got sick and another one quit. I took that spot and worked my way up to second runner on the team that season at sectionals. I helped our team to state and we finished the best we had in years. Thanks to that spot on the varsity team, you gave me a purpose greater than myself.

Three years later, I won the Wisconsin D3 State Title, and became the first state champion at my small school and rural community. When the gun went off you gave everyone else in that race the same chance as me to win. You presented me with the odds to win and you pushed me to take a risk, which set me on a path with the desire to be great. Not only did you make me want to be the best version of myself as a runner that I could be, I wanted to be the best runner, period.

As I decided to run in college, you had someone else take a chance on me. Other coaches looked me over and saw me as good, but not great. They did not want to take a risk on someone like me. You led me to a coach that would change the course of my career. You granted me the opportunity to be coached by one of D3’s greatest, University of Wisconsin-Whitewater’s Jeff Miller. You gave us a rare opportunity to accomplish all that a coach and athlete could wish to accomplish, and you still gave us more. 

Through college, you provided me with the greatest of teammates and friends. You showed me the toughest yet most rewarding moments of my life with them. You made us grow closer through the toughest of workouts, the most brutal of winter training days, the most painful of reps, and yet we all decided each and every practice to show up in all aspects every single day.

Along with the brightest of days, you also cast me under the darkest of nights. I would be remiss if I did not say that you let me go through days I was not ready for. The days where I would show up and be plagued with last weekend’s racing disaster or gut-wrenching loss. The nights where I would toss and turn in my sleep because in the back of my head, it was you who was replaying my worst moments like a never-ending nightmare. For every everlasting triumph you awarded me, you also haunted me with flashes of devastating loss. You gave me moments where I would keel over on all fours just to dry heave or lay down sprawled out like a soldier after battle. You gave me moments where I would be left punching the ground or tearing my bib off only to crumple it from the anger I felt. But though I tell you all of the pain you inflicted, I can only be left with a smile as I type this. 

You taught me why I had to take a leap of faith. You showed that when you take a shot at something like this sport, you will either reach the highest of highs or the lowest of lows. You taught that just because you work harder than the next guy does not mean you will win. You taught that all you get is a chance, it really is as simple as that. Going into my senior year, I had been cross-training away from an Achilles tendonitis injury that burned me for the better part of two months. Each day felt more hopeless than the next as I wanted to break the curse of being a two-time national runner-up. You whispered those replaying losses in my head and with the same voice you shouted my victories. You granted me with one final shot to be the same kind of champion I was back in high school. 

I could let my injury limit me or let it inspire me. It wasn’t about playing the hand I was dealt anymore, it was about breaking the hand that dealt it. From what you taught these past eight years, I chose the latter. Each week I fought to get more fit and confident. I doubled down, and by November it was time to earn a national title. With my jersey popped out, brandishing Whitewater in all caps, I raised my hands to the sky. You finally showed me what this is all about. It is the hope to keep trying, to keep showing up, and to keep pursuing the dream. I can only hope and pray that you give others that same chance.