pahlawan sebenar

i'm sorry, he said

and you could tell he meant it too; the way he screwed up his face and knit his brows together, hung his head low as the tears rolled down his cheeks. One thing that struck me more than all others was this, his voice was so soft. He had fought like a lion, there's no disputing that, but still, he was sorry; sorry that his indomitable nature wasn't enough to win a fiery medal; that his knees were not strong enough to support the gold-plated dreams of twenty-eight million fellow countrymen. He wasn't sorry for himself, but in spite of himself. Sorry for not being younger, for not being quicker, for not being better. But none of that really mattered. The muscular young man on the platform, clad triumphantly in red and white, proudly clutching his prize may never understand that. He may never come to terms with the fact that winning isn't all that matters, because it tastes so sweet. But those with discernment, who have tasted the bitterness of defeat and looked back will see clearly that it is the competition, the fight, the fire, the heat that consumed them from within and transformed them temporarily, for those few precious, glorious minutes, into Olympian beings of supernatural strength and speed; few people will ever be as incredibly alive as they have been. No doubt, a medal is nice to look at and victory, a worthy goal, but spirit, tenacity, guts, resolve - these are the real causes for celebration. When Dato' Lee Chong Wei sent those two words of monumental gravity, hearts twisted and dropped in front of their televisions and computer screens and in kampungs and tiny guard booths and mamaks and coffee shops all across the nation. And in one voice, they all thought/said/felt the same thing: but there's no reason to be sorry. Because he wasn't fighting for a medal. He was fighting for a country - His country, and along with it their dreams, their hopes and their hearts. And he won.