“Food for the road, coach,” he panted.

Then he put a small, roughly sanded wooden board in my hand. He’d burned one word into the center of it with a soldering iron.

Strength.

On the back, in careful handwriting: From a student who did learn.

I stood there unable to speak, tears rising. Mr. Kenneth used to tell me that a real victory was never about putting an opponent on the ground — it was about stopping fear from being handed down to the next generation.

That rough little piece of burned wood proved he’d been right.