9th. It’s the only birthday I can recall from my childhood; the rest have all just faded into the vast, incomprehensible tapestry of my life. What I remember the most about my ninth birthday is not my mother’s homemade chocolate cake with vanilla frosting, or the laminated neon dollar store decorations we had put up in the living room for my party, or even those obnoxious party horns we bought for a few quarters from the Walgreens down the street and which my friends and I blew in each other’s faces for hours. Rather, what I remember the most was the simple gift from my father that ended up changing my life.

It was getting dark outside, the party was coming to a close, and I had just finished unwrapping a delicious medley of presents heaped two feet high on one end of the dinner table. Almost everything I could ask for – a pair of eye-popping electric blue Nerf guns, a plush brown teddy bear that smelled faintly of cinnamon, the newest 1500-piece Lego City, a bright watercolor set with painter’s easel, and more. But before I could gloat over my precious newfound treasure trove, I still had one final box to open, adorned with the simple blue and white-striped wrapping paper that made me wonder why both Santa and my father had used the exact same design for the last five years. I pulled the box towards me, and stared at it for a moment, curious about its contents. This gift was different from all the others, measuring only a few inches in each direction and making almost no noise when I shook it. Anxious to unearth the finale of my birthday party, I inhaled deeply and furiously tore into the packaging, tossing it aside to reveal… just a boring action figure of a tanned, muscular man running on a reddish-brown track with a smile on his face.

Really, Dad? Really? I internally fumed, Action figures stopped being cool in third grade! Couldn’t you have gotten me something a little less mind-numbing? But with the quiet obedience expected by my parents, I mumbled a half-hearted thanks and plastered my face into the ghost of a smile, desperately trying to mask my glaring disappointment. After my friends left, I climbed a stool and woefully placed the small action figure on the dusty top of my oak-colored bookshelf, out of my normal four-foot line of sight. I couldn’t believe that I had been let down so harshly by my own dad. Fathers were supposed to care for their kids, right? Apparently, mine didn’t. Nevertheless, my childish excitement won out soon afterwards as I drowned my discontent in enjoying the rest of the night shooting bright orange Nerf darts around the house and discovering my propensity to get them stuck underneath the furniture and behind the fridge.

As the months passed and the action figure lay on my bookshelf forgotten about and collecting dust, I slowly lost my other gifts to the weathering of time. A handful of Nerf darts and one of the guns broke; then I lost some of the darts outside and finally we had to throw out the whole set because the other gun broke too. My painter’s easel began to stridently creak whenever I drew on it, and eventually I ran out of both watercolors and easel-sized paper. A few months after that, I ended up donating the Lego set to my seven-year-old neighbor. Even my teddy bear left me; it caught on the edge of a doorknob and tore a gaping gash down its side that spilled cinnamon-smelling foam guts all over the carpet. Every single one of my birthday gifts perished over the years, leaving without a trace except in the fragile depths of my memories. Every single one, except for the action figure that changed my life six years later.

I turned fifteen the day of freshman tryouts for the high school basketball team. Coming to tryouts at 6 A.M. in a large orange shirt hanging off my body and maroon shorts too short for my lanky, puberty-stricken frame, I trembled as my heart pounded while the bald, stocky coach read a list of instructions: attempt ten free throws, run five laps around the court, and finish off playing a short solo game against one of the assistant coaches. It seemed simple enough, but I was still extremely nervous, afraid to fail and look like a complete fool in front of my friends from the YMCA gym during open basketball.

In short, my tryout was nothing less than a miserable failure; I missed seven of the free throws, lagged behind everyone else running the laps, and was creamed 10-0 in my short one-on-one game by a coach who looked even thinner and weaker than I did. This was more than I could handle. Why did I even bother trying out?, I asked myself, sitting teary-eyed in the bathroom stall with my sweaty white ear buds blasting music like a jet of water from a fire hose that would drown my sorrows. After twenty minutes of misery, I trudged out of the bathroom to a host of classes. After a terrible day at school with more than one failed quiz, it came as no surprise to me when my name wasn’t on the list of my merry-hearted friends who were on the basketball team.

That night, as I sat on the sagging corner of my plush bed contemplating the events of the day, an indistinct shape on top of the bookcase caught my eye. Coming closer, I found a cheap, small plastic figure of a well-built, dark-skinned runner with a smile on his face as his legs beat down on an auburn track that had warped in years of sunlight and accumulated an impressive layer of dust. After blowing away a few gossamers and a miniature Dust Bowl, I picked up the runner and cradled him in my hand, feeling the smooth plastic and discovering that I was never meant to be a basketball player from the beginning. A new idea popped into my head, fueled by the figurine in my hand.

“I should be a cross country runner!” I exclaimed audibly, which was greeted by a terse, “Shut up!” from my older brother in the bedroom next door. I finally discovered the beauty hidden in my father’s simple gift from exactly six years before. I climbed into bed overcome with sheer excitement at the discovery of a spark within me that had been suppressed for over a decade: the joy of running. Smiling, I slipped into a refreshing slumber accompanied by sweet dreams of winning cross country meets and hoisting golden trophies above my head before a cheering crowd.

But these saccharine dreams were nearly shattered when I rolled out of bed in the morning, looked in the mirror, and saw a gangling teenager who was winded by climbing the stairs and had the body proportions of a coffee stirring rod. At school, as I panted through what I considered long-distance runs between my classes, it hit me again that maybe I wasn’t meant to be a runner either. Maybe I was one of those nerds who can’t play sports for his life and shouldn’t even bother trying.

All of those self-doubts were annihilated, however, when my friend Ben said to me, “Hey Mike, Cross Country has its first practice today! You’d make a great runner if you trained hard, and we’d love to have you on our team!” I was blown away by the compliment, and as I walked down the hallway towards the athletic wing of my high school, I relived the eye-opening experiences of the previous night. I can do it! If I really try, I can probably qualify for the state team!, I told myself, swaggering down the hallway towards the locker room.

For the next few months, I trained hard, logging first five, then ten, then twenty, and eventually over forty miles per week in my training notebook, believing that I could run faster and farther. I lifted weights five days a week and ran every single day, without fail, for the four months of the cross-country season. At first, I was the odd one out on my team, the amateur in a phenomenal group of guys who had been running competitively for years. I lagged behind, running a nine minute mile compared to the six minute times Ben and the others boasted. On more than one occasion, I considered dropping out of cross country and returning to the unrewarding, sedentary lifestyle I was accustomed to. But my dream of being on my high school’s state team kept me inspired and going to practice. Whenever I felt burned out or lost my motivation, I thought back to my father’s gift six years previous and how it stimulated me to become a cross country runner. Through this token of inspiration, I pushed through the season and improved every week at practices and meets.

One afternoon, at the end of practice, one of the coaches pulled me aside to have a talk. “Look, Mike,” he said, “The other coaches and I have seen you work extremely hard throughout this season, so we want to congratulate you. Mike, we’ve decided to put you on the team we’re taking to the state cross country meet this weekend!”

I was taken aback. I took every detail in at once: the crisp November air, the majestic blue cross country jacket my coach was wearing, the gloriously golden and red leaves that were scattered on the grass, and the startling pride and sense of accomplishment that filled my entire being. At this moment, I knew I had made the right decision four months earlier when I walked towards cross country practice instead of the other way towards the bus home. I knew that I had made the right decision every time I pushed through the pain or tried my best at practice even when I wasn’t having a good day. I felt proud of myself, and thankful to both Ben and my father for providing me with the inspiration I needed to support me through the season.

Overwhelmed with emotion, all I could mutter was a sheepish, “Thanks, Coach,” but on the inside I was ecstatic. I had done it! I had dreamed of being a state runner, I had believed in my ability to accomplish this dream, and I had been inspired by the humble birthday present my dad had given me six years earlier.

Now, another year later, I help greet the new members to my cross country team and inspire them to accomplish great things by dreaming big, believing in their ability to achieve their dreams, and finally inspiring their posterity. On the first day of practice, I shared my story of going from an unathletic teenager with a low self-confidence to a varsity runner for one of the best teams in the state. I am glad to know that I inspired someone else to believe, dream, and achieve their goals, even when they seem too distant to ever come true.

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” ~ Eleanor Roosevelt