I step onto the edge of the blue mat.
With a quick, measured breath, I shout "taekwon!" and stride up to
the wooden board holder. The referees, bearing staffs adorned with red and blue
flags, stand at the center of the mat, staring stiffly ahead. From above, I can
feel a hundred pairs of eyes observing my approach. Watching but not seeing,
they chatter with members of their own country, each group speaking in its own
tongue. Hola's and duibuqi's, "Quoi de neuf?" and “Go USA!”
ring out over the din, but few people are willing to interact with those of a
different nation. People from all over the world pack the stands, but as if to
assert and stand by their distinct identities, each group takes care to
differentiate their portion of the stadium with national flags, banners, and
brightly-colored jerseys from their country.
For a moment, I allow the noise of
the crowd to fade into a subdued buzzing in the back of my mind. My breathing
slows as I focus on the wooden board in front of me. Every muscle in my body is
tense with anticipation as slowly, deliberately, I take a step backwards. For a
lightning instant, the pressure of a thousand chanting voices and wailing air
horns in the audience pushes against me, and I freeze. But with a sudden burst
of adrenaline, I explode toward the target. “Snap!” the sharp splintering
of the board pierces the air, followed by a dizzying roar as onlookers rise,
cheering in appreciation. In that instant, I see and hear not individual
countries in the crowd, but a single community, standing and clapping together,
united in the exhilaration of the moment. The discordant clashes of
conversations in various foreign languages melt away, replaced by the unanimous
tongue of the world community. As I gaze over the crowd, for a second, I am a
part of this united nations, in which no language or cultural barriers can dent
our shared heritage.
By the time I return dazedly to my
coaches, individual conversations have re-started, and the arena is again
filled with the noise of hundreds of clashing languages, as each person cheers
for athletes from his own country. Yet small signs of our moment of unity
remain. As I pass through the crowd, one or two of the waiting groups of
athletes meet my gaze, and they smile and nod encouragingly. When I look up at
the spectator bleachers, a young boy from New Zealand cheerily waves his flag
at me. Towards the end of the evening, one of the Irish competitors in my
division comes up to me and hands me a miniature golden pin with a carving of
the Irish and American flags crossed and waving together. Receiving the small
token, I am overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude for the opportunity that this
event has offered me. For the time being, however, this marks the end of
the 2013 Taekwondo World Championships in Spain.
Two years have passed, and the details of this week have already
begun to fade from my memory. But I know I will never forget the sensation of
that uplifting moment when the board shattered, and every heart in the arena momentarily
beat as one. As I write this, I glance at the two miniature flags still sitting
on my desk and feel a deep thrill. If I close my eyes and listen hard enough, I
can still hear the echoing cheers in the tournament arena, shouting in a
language understood by people from all over the world. In the truest sense of
the word, the breaking of a single wooden board became, for me, a way to unity.
