There’s an old boxing term—“pound for pound”—used to compare fighters across weight classes. It’s an intellectual exercise, a hypothetical game. Who would be the best if size didn’t matter? If power and quickness could be normalized? It’s a fun debate when confined to combat sports.
But we’ve grown addicted to applying the same logic far beyond the ring.
Is Simone Biles a greater athlete than Tom Brady? Is a Tour de France cyclist tougher than a UFC champion? Does a 4:30-per-mile marathoner surpass the stamina of a Navy SEAL? And what about the fighter pilot, who experiences 9 Gs in the cockpit while coordinating teammates, balancing instinct with calculation at Mach 2?
At its core, this is a question about what we think “athletic greatness” really means—and it turns out, that definition is a lot slipperier than we like to admit.
Defining “Great Athlete” Is Like Catching Lightning in a Net
Let’s start with the assumption that athleticism is made up of a few core traits:
- Speed
- Strength
- Endurance
- Agility / Coordination
- Mental Focus
- Pain Tolerance / Resilience
It sounds like a decent checklist. Until we try to use it.
Because the moment you do, you realize it’s not a list—it’s a matrix. And different sports ask their athletes to max out in different corners of that grid.
Take an Olympic gymnast. Biles can spin, twist, and launch with impossible accuracy. She’s absurdly strong and agile—but her events last seconds. Compare that to an Ironman triathlete who might not be as nimble but can push their body through pain for eight hours straight. Who’s more athletic?
Now toss in someone like Max Verstappen or Kyle Larson. Driving a racecar at 200 mph for 500 miles may look passive to the untrained eye, but it requires intense physicality—grip strength, core control, heat tolerance, and reaction times faster than any linebacker’s. The margin for error is millimeters. At 220 mph, that’s not just performance—it’s survival.
The Athletic Genius of Staying Still
We often equate athleticism with movement—who jumps highest, runs fastest, or lifts the most. But not all athleticism is kinetic.
An F-16 pilot in the Air Force Thunderbirds pulls 9 Gs, meaning their body feels nine times heavier than normal. Imagine your 160-pound frame suddenly weighing 1,440 pounds. Now imagine performing coordinated, team-based aerobatics with that pressure on your spine, all while thinking clearly, timing exactly, adjusting instantly, and managing vertigo. That’s not just physical toughness—it’s neurological wizardry.
Likewise, archery and shooting events require perfect stillness. Is a biathlete—cross-country skier and marksman—a better athlete than a soccer forward who runs 10 miles a game and finishes with finesse? Or is that the wrong question?
How Do We Value Skill vs. Fitness?
Skill is another slippery category. Hitting a 100 mph fastball? That’s not just reflex—it’s anticipation, calculation, and muscle memory honed over decades. It’s also deeply sport-specific. A golfer who can read a 30-foot putt over undulating grass may not be able to catch a football. But their muscle control and focus are elite.
Do we disqualify athletes who are extraordinarily skilled but not cardio machines? If so, take Tiger Woods and Shohei Ohtani off the list. If not, where do we place Steph Curry, who transforms footwork and release speed into ballet? Or Novak Djokovic, whose flexibility and precision let him turn defense into offense from three feet behind the baseline?
There’s no “general-purpose” test of greatness.
Is Greatness Contextual?
The answer might lie in the environment as much as the athlete.
- A marathoner runs through physical pain for 2+ hours, locked in a lonely duel of mind over muscle.
- A wide receiver operates in chaos—dodging hits, tracking the ball, executing routes in a split-second.
- A UFC fighter absorbs brutal punishment, strategizes in real time, and channels aggression into disciplined violence.
- A Tour de France rider competes for 21 days across mountains and sprints, surviving crashes and weather with heart rate maxed out.
The “best athlete” in one domain might barely survive another.
Put LeBron James on a rowing shell. Put swimmer Katie Ledecky in a batting cage. Have Rafael Nadal race downhill on skis. There’s no universal setting where everyone gets to show their best.
Pound for Pound—and Role for Role
Even within sports, greatness can be specialized.
Take American football: Is the running back who averages 120 yards per game “greater” than the lineman who blocks for him? The QB gets the stats. But the tight end, playing dual roles, might be the most complete athlete on the field.
In baseball, does Aaron Judge’s 62-home-run season impress more than a catcher who squats for 120 pitches per game while calling the strategy of the entire defense?
And then there’s soccer. A striker scores. But the holding midfielder sees the whole field, covers 11 kilometers, and connects every line.
The role an athlete plays—how much it demands, how well they fill it—often tells us more than raw data.
The Mental Is Physical Too
One of the most overlooked athletic qualities is cognitive performance under pressure.
Fighter pilots, quarterbacks, chess grandmasters, and esports athletes must all make rapid-fire decisions under extreme cognitive load. The brain, like any muscle, can cramp, fatigue, misfire. Decision-making speed and accuracy is a kind of athleticism.
We celebrate “clutch” athletes for this reason. Think Michael Jordan or Serena Williams—who didn’t just have the skills but could summon them when everything was on the line. That’s not just nerves—that’s training the brain to rise with the body.
Who’s the Greatest Athlete? Maybe We’re Asking the Wrong Question
Let’s admit it: we don’t really want an answer. We want the debate.
Debating whether Michael Phelps is a better athlete than Bo Jackson or whether a fighter pilot is more impressive than a decathlete is like arguing whether Beethoven is greater than Picasso. You can’t cross-grade categories when each genius is working in their own medium.
But maybe that’s the point.
The greatest athlete may not be the strongest or fastest. It may be the one who took the fullest measure of their sport—and pushed it further. The one who changed the limits of what we thought was possible.
Think of the athletes who made you gasp:
- Usain Bolt turning 9.58 into poetry.
- Simone Biles inventing moves too difficult to be scored properly.
- Lionel Messi weaving through defenders like physics doesn’t apply.
- Eliud Kipchoge running 26.2 miles in under 2 hours—a pace of 4:34 per mile.
- A UFC fighter who goes five rounds with a broken hand.
- A Thunderbirds pilot pulling a 9-G turn in formation and landing with a smile.
All of them teach us something about what the human body—and spirit—can do.
So, What Now?
Let’s retire the question of “who’s the greatest” like a well-worn jersey. Instead, let’s ask: What can we learn from each version of greatness? Who trains with more focus? Who handles pressure better? Who sacrifices more? Who keeps showing up, day after day, without applause?
Athletic greatness, like art or love or character, resists ranking. And maybe that’s exactly why it moves us.
Endnote:
So go ahead. Argue with your friends about Bo Jackson vs. LeBron, Brady vs. Federer, Secretariat vs. Jordan. Debate it on bar stools and backyards. But in the end, be grateful we don’t have to choose. Greatness is bigger than any one list.
And it shows up, every day, in a million different uniforms.
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