By MONTE DUTTON

I wrote about 20 Daytona 500s and many other sporting events where championships were determined. Almost every winner called it a humbling experience afterward.
That was a lie.
Being the best in the world at something is not humbling. The best can be humble, but that’s not not what made him or her her that way.
Success is great. What shapes a person’s character is not greatness. What constitutes a person’s character is how he reacts to the worst events of his life. Adversity makes some and breaks others.

I already believed this. The past month has made me even more sure of it.

From the time this nightmare began, or at least from the time I began bumping and grunting in the back of an ambulance, I wanted to write about it. I’ve been in and out of my right mind, too slow and too fast. For a time, I thought I’d lost some of my better marbles — steelies and crystals — firing ugly cat-eyes on the playground.

The first day it took me about two hours to write two paragraphs. My mind didn’t feel like mush; it was shortly after when I ate cream of wheat for the first time. The next day my fingers produced about four graphs, or, roughly, those four written 10 times because I kept making typos. The third day I produced the blog that precedes this one, which should have been better. At long last, I figured out it wasn’t mental, emotional, frustrated cream of wheat – “grits: order it by name” – but, rather, quarter-inch fingernails.

On Sunday, for the first time since I was 12 years old, I cut my fingernails with … my fingernails. Luckily, I didn’t yank several hangnails. My typing – don’t they call it “keyboarding” or some such now? – still needs work – but Mrs. Ella Savage would have appreciated my effort back in the ninth grade. Feet on the flo’, class …

Soon I intend to write again about mainstream sports, but first I must get my groove back on standing up and sitting back down, walking up and down a step, hot laps behind a walker, not to mention straight-line back to the room and pedaling with the hands and feet. Just this morning I managed to climb into and out of my simulated Chevy Colorado.
My current beat isn’t exactly mainstream sports. I doubt I can make a living off it long-term.

I can relate a little to the athletes and fans who tell me if I’d watch just one women’s wrestling match, it’s all I’d ever do.
I don’t know when I can do what I do again, at least as not as well as I could in 2024. I will. I just don’t know when it will be yet.
My next few Furman basketball games may be live on ESPN+, and that’s a sad excuse that I won’t put my name on. Templeton Center may be a possibility sooner. I don’t want special treatment, particularly for those who don’t care whether I’m there or not.

I am painfully aware of how unimportant I have become.
Times are changing. I am aware of how irrelevant what I do for a living has become and thus how unimportant my efforts are. The readers appreciate them, but there aren’t enough of them. I doubt there ever will be again.
Writers write. Writers retire when someone finds them head down on a keyboard with X’s cascading across the screen. I avoided it this time. I’m regaining my skill, but it takes time.

Wellpilgrim.com is adjusting to the winter chill. In fact, it’s frozen.
It’s what I do. It’s what I know.
Support the advertisers. They are all fine people who want their businesses associated with honest coverage of local sports.
In the off chance you’d like to read my novels and other books, they’re available on Amazon and many prominent bookseller sites.
You can read them on your phones and other devices for a modest cost. I make a bit more if you purchase the actual books, but what I mainly want is for folks to read them.

The Latter Days is a baseball novel about a former player and manager, Clyde Kinlaw, trying to prove the game hasn’t passed him by. His proof is a raw talent named Taiquan Wattson.
Photo galleries are posted on Instagram @furmanatt and @laurenscountysports.
Thanks for putting up with me.