The Service- I was the Third Man
Doug McMillan
Winning is important to many, but “what is winning?” To some, it is success in raising a family or success in a job while, for others ,it is being first or “at the top”. A somewhat competitive person myself (more when I was younger), I always felt it important to do my best. Perhaps that came from my days as a cub scout when the Akela would shout “dyb (do your best), dyb, dyb, dyb” and we would respond “we’ll dob (do our best), dob, dob, dob”. Teamwork, an important part of Rotary and many other aspects of one’s life, has been on ongoing part of many aspects of my life. However, it took we a bit longer to realize the importance of participation which we seek among all Rotarians.
A poem “The Service” by Burges Johnson inspired in me the importance of participation. (The many ways in which one can participate in Rotary could be another article). Those of you with other sources of inspiration, especially those related to Rotary, which you feel might be appropriate for the COG are encouraged to contact Editor Madeleine King ( or another member of the Editorial Board).
If seeing what “The Service” says may be of possible interest to you, read further.
A poem “The Service” by Burges Johnson inspired in me the importance of participation. (The many ways in which one can participate in Rotary could be another article). Those of you with other sources of inspiration, especially those related to Rotary, which you feel might be appropriate for the COG are encouraged to contact Editor Madeleine King ( or another member of the Editorial Board).
If seeing what “The Service” says may be of possible interest to you, read further.
The Service by Burges Johnson
I WAS the third man running in a race,
And memory still must run it o'er and o'er:
The pounding heart that beat against my frame;
The wind that dried the sweat upon my face
And turned my throat to paper creased and sore
The jabbing pain that sharply went and came.
My eyes saw nothing save a strip of road
That flaunted there behind the second man;
It swam and blurred, yet still it lay before.
My legs seemed none of mine, but rhythmic strode
Unconscious of my will that urged, “You can!”
And cried at them to make one effort more.
Then suddenly there broke a wave of sound,—
Crowds shouting when the first man struck the tape;
And then the second roused that friendly din;
While I—I stumbled forward and the ground
All wavered 'neath my feet, while men agape,
But silent, saw me as I staggered in.
As sick in heart and flesh I bent my head,
Two seized me and embraced me, and one cried,
“Your thudding footsteps held me to the grind.”
And then the winner, smiling wanly, said,
“No dream of records kept me to my stride—
I dreaded you two thundering behind!”
And memory still must run it o'er and o'er:
The pounding heart that beat against my frame;
The wind that dried the sweat upon my face
And turned my throat to paper creased and sore
The jabbing pain that sharply went and came.
My eyes saw nothing save a strip of road
That flaunted there behind the second man;
It swam and blurred, yet still it lay before.
My legs seemed none of mine, but rhythmic strode
Unconscious of my will that urged, “You can!”
And cried at them to make one effort more.
Then suddenly there broke a wave of sound,—
Crowds shouting when the first man struck the tape;
And then the second roused that friendly din;
While I—I stumbled forward and the ground
All wavered 'neath my feet, while men agape,
But silent, saw me as I staggered in.
As sick in heart and flesh I bent my head,
Two seized me and embraced me, and one cried,
“Your thudding footsteps held me to the grind.”
And then the winner, smiling wanly, said,
“No dream of records kept me to my stride—
I dreaded you two thundering behind!”