Every year I have my 11th grade students read Stephen Crane’s short story, “The Mystery of Heroism”. The tale involves young Collins, who decides to cross a Civil War battlefield after water on a dare from his comrades, even though the company has plenty of water. Collins makes it across the battlefield unscathed and fills his bucket; however, upon his return, he comes across a dying officer trying to take a request for reinforcements to his superiors. The dying man begs Collins for water. Collins initially runs away, terrified for his life, but he suddenly stops and turns around, returning to the officer’s side and easing his death. In that trek across the battlefield, Collins learns the meaning of heroism. Not in the acceptance of a dare from his fellow soldiers, not in risking his life needlessly, but in returning to the dying officer’s side, despite his fear, and easing his passing.

Now this may not be an obvious or dramatic example of heroism, especially when we know that every day men and women risk their lives for our country in lands far from home. When we know that each hour a police officer responds with heroism when stepping between a civilian and a criminal. Even as I write, a firefighter walks into a burning building to save a child. No one denies their heroics, no one questions their sacrifice.

I always ask my students to question themselves. Are they certain they have it in them to be heroes? They always nod vigorously because as humans, we truly want to believe we do. We want to believe we will run toward the smoking car to pull someone out, rather than away. We want to believe we would step between an attacker and his victim, rather than dive for cover. But we can never know for certain. We can never be sure until we are faced with that situation.

But what about heroism in its smaller form? Not the dramatic kind that we all recognize, but the subtle kind, like Collins, overcoming his fear in order to give a dying man water. Can those acts, however, unimportant, be indicators of future heroics? Absolutely not, but are they examples of character, strength, determination…are they examples of mettle, a lesser form of heroism.

I think of two situations in my own experience that lead me to believe that mettle, while less than heroics, is more than determination. One happened years ago. My oldest son played clarinet for his school’s marching band. They were participating in a field show competition, a set of intricate movements performed to a series of interrelated songs. This particular competition happened on a storming November weekend. The rain had come down in sheets all day and when they finally got to the field, it was a soggy, boggy pit of mud.

I stood at the top of the stadium, huddled under an umbrella. The stands were too wet for me to sit and the wind whipped the rain back under the umbrella, drenching me. I watched the band take the field, slogging through mud, slipping and sliding to their spots. I remember thinking there was no way anyone could play, let alone perform in such mess, but they struggled to their positions and waited for the signal to begin.

And they played. They played their hearts out. The sound rose from those cold, wet instruments and chased back the driving rain. They executed their moves with precision. One player lost his shoe, but never missed a beat, marching through mud and sludge barefoot rather than let down his band mates.

I stood in the cold and wet and gathering dark with tears running down my cheeks, watching this group of teenagers create magic out of the worst possible conditions, watching them persevere despite a messy, awful environment, and for that brief period of time, I knew that the world was a better place because of their determination. Because of their mettle. Was it heroics? Absolutely not. Was it important in the greater scheme of life? Obviously it wasn’t, but still, it was something more than average.

My second example happened a few weeks ago. My youngest son is on a very talented basketball team. During this particular game, only five players showed up, which meant they had no substitutes. Now, if you know anything about basketball, you know that the game moves so quickly and the action is so intense, you need a minimum of three to four subs. The other team was a team that had taken the championship last season and beaten them three times. They had four subs sitting on their bench, ready to play.

During the first three quarters, the lead moved back and forth between the two teams, never rising beyond a two point differential. Both teams were excellent, running their offenses with precision and holding the line on defense as only truly great teams can. However, my son’s team was tiring. With no one to sub in and out, fatigue was setting in. They knew they had to make a move, so they managed to eke out a six point lead heading into the last quarter. The more tired they got, the more determined they became. I can still hear the coach yelling, “We’ve got to have that rebound,” and each time one of them would come down with it, pushing through bone-numbing weariness to fight for position in the paint.

Then the unthinkable happened. Their shooting guard fouled out. Everyone in the stands held their breath. We weren’t sure what would happen. Would the referees allow them to play with four players or would they have to forfeit the game? And if they had to play with only four players against five, that six point lead sure didn’t loom large when faced with exhaustion and nearly four minutes of playing time left.

Basketball is measured in seconds. Critics say you don’t need to watch a game until the last 30 seconds. I have seen a 20 point lead evaporate in a ridiculously short amount of time. Truly, most games are not decided until that final buzzer. Playing four minutes with only a six point lead and one man down are not good odds.

The referees allowed the game to continue. I sat in the stands for the longest four minutes of my life. Every painful rebound made my heart pound faster. Every mad dash down the court had my hands shaking. I felt sick inside as I watched them labor back down the court on offense. And when the coach shouted, “I need that rebound,” I held my breath as they leapt into the air, scrambling for a ball that seemed as slippery as soap and as small as a pea.

Once again, I found myself with tears in my eyes as these four young men fought a battle to keep the other team from scoring, moving with frantic, purposeful motion from player to player, hole to hole, throwing up their hands at the exact moment to block a shot.

It shouldn’t have been possible. The odds were so much against them. The lead was so small, but they clung on, scraping and fighting and clawing for that little bit of painted floor. And when the final buzzer sounded, I couldn’t help the shout of triumph that tore out of me with the rest of the crowd or the tracks of tears that ran down my cheeks.

I will not say they were heroes because that wouldn’t be proper. That would profane the true meaning of the word. But damn it if they didn’t have METTLE.