Darwin and the Goliaths

by Chris Crowe

This scrawny kid looked more like a scarecrow than a discus thrower. He had some natural talent, and he wasn’t afraid to go up against the big guys. But how could he win?

“Hey, Coach,” he called as I was working with the senior shot putters and discus throwers. I ignored him.

“Hey, Coach Crowe,” he persisted, “that other coach over there said I should come over here and throw. He said you should watch me.”

I turned around and looked at the kid. His black hair hung unevenly over his forehead, his bony shoulders angled out of his baggy tank top, and his long skinny arms hung low, almost to his knees. When the wind blew, his practice uniform flapped around his bony frame like clothes on a scarecrow. He was obviously a freshman.

In his right hand he held a discus, the black rubber kind we issued to beginning throwers. “You wanna watch me throw?” he asked.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Darwin Hughes.”

“Where’d you get that discus, Hughes? You’re too small to be a weight man.”

“Well, Coach,” he answered, “I like throwing, and I’m pretty good. If you’ll watch me, I’ll …”

“Not now, Hughes. I’m working with the seniors. Tell you what, go over to that discus ring over there,” I pointed to the opposite end of the field, “and you throw. I’ll come down in a little while and see how you’re doing, okay?”

“Sure, Coach.” He turned and loped off to the other end of the practice field.

I went back to work with my seniors. Boy, these freshmen, I thought. Why are they so goofy? That kid has as much chance of becoming a discus thrower as I do of becoming president of the United States.

Practice went pretty much as usual that day, and I was too busy with my seniors to find the time to go watch Hughes. The next two days he hung around the throwing areas, and each time I banished him to the opposite end of the field to throw by himself so he couldn’t bother me as I worked with the upperclassmen.

Finally, on the fourth day, some of the throwers came to see me. “Hey, Coach,” said one, “have you seen that freshman throw yet?”

“You mean that scrawny little kid Hughes? I can’t believe he’s still wasting his time. Look, if you guys want to throw down there, just tell him to go work with the distance runners. He’d have a better chance of making the team with them.”

“But, Coach,” interrupted one of them, “maybe you ought to see him throw. He’s throwing over 130 feet.”

That got my attention; 130 feet would make him the number two thrower on my varsity squad. These guys must be pulling my leg, I thought. But I’d better go down and watch, just to make sure.

By the time I got down there, a little crowd had gathered around the discus ring. In the center stood Hughes, just beginning another throw. He held his arms out, bent his knees, spun twice through the ring, and launched a throw that was easily 130 feet.

After he finished his throw, he looked over at me and grinned sheepishly, as if I had caught him doing something wrong. “Come here, Hughes,” I said. He trotted over. “Where’d you learn to throw like that?”

“I dunno, Coach. I threw a little bit in eighth grade, but mainly I just like to throw.”

“Tell you what, Hughes,” I said as I put my arm around his shoulder, “from now on you can throw down at the other end with the upperclassmen so I can watch you a little more.”

Never let it be said that I didn’t recognize talent when it hit me in the face.

By his sophomore year, Darwin had developed into a fine discus thrower. He won nearly every dual meet and placed in every prestigious invitational meet he attended. At five-foot-nine, 145 pounds, Darwin looked out of place among the Goliaths of the shot put and discus rings, and many times when he first began competing on the varsity, throwers from other schools would laugh at skinny Darwin Hughes. Their laughter, however, changed to amazement as soon as he took his first warm-up throw.

By the end of his sophomore year, no one laughed at him anymore because little Darwin finished third in the state championships by throwing 165 feet, two inches.

In his junior and senior seasons, the littlest weight man was the best thrower in Arizona. Spectators, coaches, and other throwers marveled at how such a small thrower (by his senior year Darwin was five-foot-ten, 165 pounds) could throw a discus more than 185 feet and a 12-pound shot more than 57 feet. And I have to admit, even as his coach, I was often amazed at all Darwin accomplished. I’m convinced that, considering his size, Darwin was the best high school weight man in the United States.

People would often ask me, “How does he do it? What’s Hughes’s secret?” I wish I could have answered that Darwin owed all his success to me, but that wasn’t true. First of all, Darwin had some inherent ability, some natural skill for what he was trying to do. Based on that ability, he then applied some basic principles of success.

Second, he had a desire to excel, to be the best discus thrower he could possibly be. “Coach,” he told me one day at practice, “I don’t know how far I can throw, but I’m going to do everything I can to be one of the best weight men Arizona has ever had.”

At the time he was only a sophomore, and considering his size, I was afraid he was setting his goals too high. “Look, Darwin, you’re doing super right now. You should feel great about what you’ve already accomplished. This is a big man’s sport, so with your size, you can’t expect to get much better.”

“But, Coach, I know I can do better. I just know it.” He was right. The next year, Darwin improved his best throw by 20 feet.

But it wasn’t only his drive to excel that helped Darwin succeed. He also believed in himself. Ignored by his own coach as a freshman, scoffed at by competitors as a sophomore, Darwin remained convinced that he could and would be successful. Near the end of his senior season I asked him why he didn’t give up during those first years. He shrugged and explained, “When no one else believes in you, you’ve got to believe in yourself.”

Confidence alone, however, wasn’t enough to make a mountain of a thrower out of a molehill of a boy. Darwin was a dedicated, hard worker. Every day he’d be out to practice a half hour early, throwing by himself. And on most spring afternoons and evenings, he and I would be the only ones left on the practice field, working on his technique until it was too dark to see anymore. Darwin would even spend hours on Saturdays throwing and throwing and throwing.

I’ve never coached an athlete who worked harder than Darwin, and I’ve never coached an athlete who was as successful as he was either. Someone said once, “If you want to be a superstar, you’ve got to start early and stay late.” That was certainly true for Darwin.

But all his hard work wasn’t without direction. Darwin listened intently to every coaching tip he ever received and worked diligently to turn that advice into improvement. When I asked Darwin to do something differently or advised him to spend more time in the weight room, he’d say, “Okay, Coach,” and he’d do it.

Darwin also studied his event. He poured through every track-and-field textbook in our school’s library and was able to quote extensively from the Track and Field News about recent events and technique development. He read coaching journals, sports pages, and anything else that might have a bit of information he could use to become a better weight man. By the time he graduated, Darwin knew more about his event than I did.

And finally, Darwin followed great examples. As a freshman and sophomore, he would carefully watch and study the throwing methods of the leading weight men in the state. As he increased his knowledge, he began to attend college meets to study the methods of collegiate weight men. He even talked me into ordering films of the world’s greatest discus throwers, and he spent hours watching them.

His talents and his efforts made Darwin Hughes the best weight man ever at our high school and ranked him as the fifth best discus thrower in the history of Arizona. All at five-foot-ten, 165 pounds.

The Lord tells us that we have all been given gifts, talents, knowledge, and skills (see D&C 46:11; D&C 82:18–19, and Dan. 1:17). Our challenge is to find those talents and develop them (see Matt. 25:15 and 1 Tim. 4:14). These gifts include spiritual gifts, which everyone should seek (see D&C 46:8), as well as academic talent, performing skills, athletic ability, or qualities like being a good friend, being kind and compassionate, being a good listener, being courageous and faithful, or being creative or inventive. They are all gifts from our Father in Heaven, to be used for the benefit of ourselves and those around us.

You may not have natural throwing ability, as Darwin had. But you can excel at something. And working to excel, you can benefit from his example: Be determined. Work hard. Have confidence. Listen to advisers. Study your field. Follow good examples.

It won’t be easy. Being the best that you can be never is. And determination and hard work are not a guarantee that you will be better than everyone else in your field—only that you can be better than you were. If you apply yourself, you’ll conquer your own Goliaths. Then, in addition to inspiring others with your example, you’ll be able to honestly say you did your best with your God-given talents.

Be determined. Keep trying, even when it’s tough going.

Work hard. It’s vital for success and it brings its own joy.

Have confidence. Remember everything about your successes. Forget everything about your failures except the lesson learned. Remember that you are a child of God.

Listen to advisers with high standards who care about you. Accept constructive criticism gracefully.

Study your field. Know all you can about it.

Follow good examples, building on the experience of others. Follow the Savior’s example above all.

Photography by Welden Andersen