by Mike Savicki

Competition. That’s what the National Veterans Wheelchair Games have always been about for me. 12 different games in 14 years. 57 medals. 28 personal bests. 11 different events. Some people don’t keep track of these things but I do. They are the tangibles of the Games that we take home after they have ended. They are easy to count.

However, this isn’t what I mean when I say that these Games have always been about competition and these aren’t the true rewards that we take home. To me, competition isn’t about the number of Games in which you have competed or the number of medals won. It’s not about being the best on the court, the fastest on the track, the strongest in the field or the most accurate on the range. It’s not about how many pins you knock over, the number of balls you pocket or the number of goals you score.

Competition is how you conduct yourself when you are back in your hometown, alone or with your family and friends, when it is just you and the wheelchair. It is about living with integrity and it is about what you do with yourself the other 51 weeks of the year. How do you act? How hard do you train? How do you represent yourself and the other veterans who have served? The true definition of competition is in living to the best of your ability each day of the year. The reward for this effort is the opportunity to represent yourself and our community of veterans at the Games for one week each year.

My first opportunity came in 1991 when I went directly from spinal cord injury rehabilitation to the 11^th National Veterans Wheelchair Games in Miami. I was discharged from the VA to Boston’s Logan Airport. There was no transition period, no slowly easing back in to society. I wanted to get to Miami as fast as I could because I wanted to win. Start the medal count, I thought. Compete to win. That’s what I thought competition was all about.

No more than 48 hours after leaving the West Roxbury VA Hospital after seven months of therapy, I was on the starting line of my first event, the wheelchair slalom. Word had spread that I was the "new guy," the novice who was appearing for the first time, the guy who was taught by some of the better wheelchair athletes in the Boston area. Many of them were veterans themselves who had been to the Games in the past and knew how to compete. They told me that I was ready and I believed them.

The slalom course was bulging with obstacles --- curbs, cones, inclines, declines and heavy doors. They were the big obstacles and they were waiting for me. But a funny thing happened before I ever got to battle those monsters. The very first obstacle was a small green garden hose and I was supposed to roll right over it as if it wasn’t even there. It was supposed to be a bump in the road, just a simple reminder placed at the beginning of the course to warn me that there were more difficult obstacles out there waiting. There were no volunteer spotters positioned at the garden hose to catch me if I fell, no fans there to cheer for me as I passed gracefully over the hose. They were all poised and ready to act, further along the course, waiting alongside the true beasts.

The starting gun sounded and I jumped. In the 5 yards between the starting line and the garden hose, I built up a full head of steam. I pushed my chair as hard as I could, with every ounce of energy my newly paralyzed body could gather. I prepared myself to wage a mighty war against the garden hose. It was competition at its best, I thought, a true battle of warriors. I was Achilles and the garden hose was Prince Hector. But as my chair met that hose, I stopped dead in my tracks. I went sailing head first out of my wheelchair onto the floor. I landed with a thud and the gym fell silent. After what seemed like an eternity, the event official broke the silence and announced that I had been disqualified for "touching the floor." You see, the hose had caught my front wheels and along with it, my entire wheelchair, too. The chair stopped suddenly but my body didn’t. I was naïve about that garden hose and how to successfully cross it. I was naïve about the bigger picture, too. Looking back, you could say that I was wrong about the definition of competition.

The New England PVA Coasters team arrived in St. Louis for the 24^th National Veterans Wheelchair Games nearly 14 years to the day of my war with the Miami garden hose, my first introduction to these Games. Our team was comprised of athletes whose ages spanned nearly 60 years. We had one of the youngest athletes at the Games on our team and we had the oldest athlete, too. Some of the New England athletes were the same ones who traveled with me to Miami in 1991 but many were different. Our team was comprised of veterans from 5 different wars as well as those who served during peacetime. We represented every branch of military service.

As luck might have it, one of our novice team members had entered the wheelchair slalom for the first time. In his face, I saw myself fourteen years ago. As I watched him pass over a similar course, and, yes, over similar obstacles, I was reminded of what competition is all about. Crossing the finish line of the slalom with a look of relief and accomplishment, this novice athlete had become a competitor, not because he had earned a medal for his efforts, but because he was learning another lesson about what it means to live and succeed as a veteran and an athlete with a disability.

So until we all gather in Minneapolis for the 25^th National Veterans Wheelchair Games next June, train hard. Work at those things that may, at first, appear difficult. Wage your wars. Overcome those obstacles that will try to slow you down. Represent yourself and our community of veterans to the best of your ability each day of the year. Be an athlete. Live. Learn. Compete.