Month: March 2022

Rabbit Out of a Hat

What’s behind your ear?

The question perplexed me.

There wasn’t a thing back there. I was as sure of it as I was of anything.

And yet, my godfather seemed to believe otherwise. Why else would he ask?

So, with a healthy dose of caution, I replied Nothing.

Check again, said my godfather.

I ran my finger along the back of my ear, only to find a quarter nestled back there.

How did this happen? I thought, before realizing I’d blurted my question out loud.

Magic, my godfather replied.

Magic, I repeated to myself. Silently this time.

I should have been amazed. I should have been awestruck from the spectacle of the impossible becoming probable.

But instead, I was annoyed.

Not at my godfather. At myself.

How could I have let this happen? How could I have allowed a quarter to materialize behind my ears? How could I not be aware of my surroundings?

From then on, I was jaded. I wasn’t trying to find the secret behind the magic trick. I was attempting to avoid being the subject of it.

Still, it all looked the same to my godfather, or to anyone else I encountered seeking sorcery. My resistance, my denials — they were only inspiration to lean in harder, to create a bigger spectacle.

The tension built, and my dissatisfaction festered.

Even as I grew older, and the magicians chased after a new crowd, I remained unhinged. I once traveled to Disney World seeking to dispel the notion of Disney Magic. I scoured TV sets for trap doors and other funky shortcuts. And I built a healthy disdain for card games.

I was on a mission. Not only a mission to avoid being hoodwinked. But also a mission to end all hoodwinking, period.

As you might expect, this quest got me nowhere. I was as likely to put an end to sorcery as I was to stop the world from turning, particularly in the age of Harry Potter.

And yet, the mission wasn’t a complete waste. Far from it.

He sure pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

We’ve all likely heard that phrase a time or two — generally when something improbable has happened.

The rabbit in the hat routine is a magician’s staple. A spectacle of illusion so over-the-top that audience members can’t help but be filled with awe.

I’ve long loathed this trick. So much so that I grew a disdain for both rabbits and top hats.

But recently, all that has changed.

Not too long ago, my back was against the wall. I was hopelessly behind on assignments for work and an article for this publication. Time was short, commitments were high and the chances of me delivering were small.

My only hope was to put the hammer down and hope for the best. So, I did. And to my surprise, I got everything done ahead of the deadline.

I sure pulled a rabbit out of a hat there, I thought to myself. It’s simply amazing that I got all of that done so quickly.

That’s when it hit me. Magic is not about illusions and spells and distractions. It’s about speed.

It takes quick action to get our senses to deceive us. It takes quick action for quarters to appear behind our ears. It takes quick action for rabbits to emerge out of hats in broad daylight.

This speed is not a given. It takes talent, precision, and persistence to harness it. And those who manage to do so deserve a better fate than scorn and incredulity.

This whole time when I was hating on magic, I was missing the forest for the trees. I was blowing hot air at the grand spectacle, unaware that the real magic came from the shadows.

Yes, it’s the little things that can make the biggest difference.

As I thank back on that moment with my godfather and the quarter behind my ear, I’m filled with questions.

Not about the stunt itself. I know better than to ask a magician to divulge their tricks.

No, my questions are about my godfather himself. How was he so calm and casual while operating at warp speed?

It seemed completely out of character.

My godfather is a kind-hearted, deliberate man — someone likely to roll through a social outing with the steady rhythm of the incoming tide. But this whole turn to magic hit me like a thunderbolt.

Yes, my godfather had pulled his own rabbit out of his hat, trading out his whole demeanor in service of the illusion.

I might not have appreciated it then. But I sure appreciate it now.

Those who know me best know that I’m a fan of Malcolm Gladwell.

He’s made his living as a journalist and an author. But Gladwell made his name as one of our society’s great contrarian thinkers.

Gladwell takes what we view as gospel and flips it on its head. For instance, his renowned podcast series focuses on things overlooked and misunderstood.

Malcolm Gladwell is a master at pulling rabbits out of hats. At suspending our disbelief. At causing us to see the world just a bit differently.

And yet, it’s hardly smoke and mirrors. Rather than building an illusion, Gladwell is ripping down the curtain.

He surprises us, time and again. And through that process, we find ourselves delighted.

Perhaps more of us could take a page from Gladwell or my godfather. Perhaps we can focus on the process of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

This doesn’t require a cape or a fancy catchphrase. It simply demands an unwavering curiosity, a willingness to sweat the small stuff, and the determination to see the task through.

In an ever-evolving world, these attributes are the keys to lasting success. But they can do so much more.

They can fill the gaps in our understanding. They can help us forge good habits. And they can make us better at all that we set out to accomplish.

So, let’s not get distracted by the bells and whistles. What lies beneath all that flash is what truly matters.

It’s time for us to harness it.

The Allotment of Time

I have all the time I the world.

This thought crossed my mind as I headed to the airport for a business trip.

The late-afternoon flight had essentially curtailed my workday. But I had time to make up the difference.

After all, my flight would take about two hours. I’d likely be at the gate for an hour more before boarding the plane. And once I landed ad my destination and made it to the hotel, I’d have an hour to tie up some last-minute work tasks. Easy peasy.

At least that’s what I thought.

But the flight was delayed. Then delayed again. Then moved to a different terminal. By the time I’d made it to my new gate, I had little time to boot up my computer and get anything substantive done. And the delay caused me to arrive at the hotel near midnight. No work nightcaps for me.

Add it all up — plus the time I had to stow my laptop for takeoff and landing — and four hours of asynchronous work time had been condensed into only one. Much of what I’d hoped to accomplish would have to wait for another day.

Time had gotten away from me.

My travel dilemma was not unique.

Indeed, there have been many other instances where I’ve misjudged how much time I’d have at my disposal.

This is not a failure of arithmetic. I have an MBA and spent three years producing evening television newscasts. I know my way around a math problem.

No, something deeper is at play here. My inability to probably allocate time is a failure of context.

You see, I consistently view time as finite. I see it as a set of 24 hourlong blocks that can be divvied up to meet the needs of the moment.

What I fail to consider are all the little complications that might eat away at that time. The moments spent walking from place to place, taking a bathroom break, or fielding an unexpected phone call.

These instances seem insignificant. And on their own, they might be.

But in aggregate, they can eat away at those blocks of time. They can wreck the most carefully laid plans.

They’ve laid waste to mine, time and again. But recently, I’ve tried to take control.

I’ve averaged out all those interruptions and run experiments from those findings. And all this work has led me to what I call the Rule of Three.

The Rule of Three dictates that I should split an open block of time into three parts. Two of those three parts should be dedicated to an inevitable slew of interruptions; I shouldn’t expect them to lead to productivity. But the third part can be devoted to completing substantive work.

This heuristic didn’t hold true when I got caught in travel limbo. I lost three quarters of my allotted time that day, not two-thirds.

But in general, it does hold water. And such knowledge has helped me navigate my day, set accurate deadlines, and even write my Words of the West articles.

Yes, the Rule of Three has been a game changer. But it doesn’t leave me feeling fulfilled.

For instead of thinking of what I accomplish during my productivity spurts, I’m left to consider the two-thirds that got away.

It’s my cross to bear.

This game I play — it’s hardly reasonable.

The clock might tick to a steady beat. The sun might rise and set at specific times each day. But few other elements of everyday life adhere to such precision.

Expecting perfection out of any aspect of life is a fool’s errand. I know this as well as anyone.

Yet, here I am, ruing any little blip that sets me off schedule. What gives?

Part of this is surely my own neurosis. My disdain for any semblance of laziness in my life causes me to account for every second of my day.

But a bigger part of this mindset is cultural. In fact, it’s a hallmark of our society.

Ever since the dawn of the industrial era, we’ve been encouraged to account for every minute. The transcontinental railroad gave us time zones and standardized clocks. Henry Ford gave us the assembly line and interchangeable parts. And the public education system gave us regimented schedules.

With each development, the message was clear. Time was not to be wasted.

Such ideals did have benefits. They helped America make the leap from a frontier nation to a superpower, and they created the playbook for a developed nation.

But the drawbacks have been just as stark. Skyrocketing instances of burnout, declines in quality control and the crushing weight of insecurity have all carried a heavy toll.

This system of extreme accountability asks more of us than we can reasonably expect to deliver on. It expects us to be machines, and to adhere to perfection. And that is something we can’t reasonably hold up to, either mentally or physiologically.

And so, we are destined to make a mess of time allotment. And we are bound to feel bad about it when it happens.

Our society wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I was a teenager, I’d often head to bed late. And in our family home, that meant one thing – I was responsible for turning off all the lights.

As I’d go through this process, I’d often find my father in his study, working under a solitary lamp.

My father – a schoolteacher – has always been a notorious procrastinator. He tends to start a dayslong project – such as grading papers or writing lesson plans – the night before it’s due.

I had no desire to follow the same path, so I played a little Jedi mind trick on myself. I would convince myself an assignment was due the day before it actually was, and then procrastinate leading up to my fake deadline.

This trick worked like a charm. I’d get my assignments in on time, every time. And my work would generally score high marks.

But now, I no longer have the same confidence in my technique. When pressed for a firm deadline on a project, I waffle.

Adulthood is complicated, with surprises at every turn. Calculating the Rule of Three on the fly is even tougher. Put both factors together, and I’m so overwhelmed that I’m tempted to shut down.

But I’m not a quitter. So, I try to overdeliver. I aim to get as much done in as little time as possible, knowing the odds are against me. And all too often, this process leaves me bitter and disappointed.

There’s a better way for me, and for all of us. So, it’s time for call it like it is.

We are human, and rigid time allocation processes are inhumane. We must give ourselves some slack to account for the variability of life. There is no other viable way forward.

So, from now on, I’m going to approach things differently. Instead of forecasting how much time I have at my disposal, I will simply strive to do my best and settle for what I accomplish.

This approach might not be sexy. But it should bring a balance of effectiveness and peace of mind.

And ultimately, that’s what matters.

On Special Teams

The kicker placed the ball on the tee, while his teammates lined up on either side of him.

The crowd in the stands waited anxiously.

The kicker took a few steps back, raised his arm, and ran toward the ball, booting it high in the air.

At the far end of the football field, a member of the opposing team caught the ball. He ran toward the sideline, with the kicker’s teammates in hot pursuit.

Suddenly the ball carrier broke free of the pack and strode toward the end zone. It took a last-ditch effort from the kicker to get him to the ground.

This sequence wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t going to end up on any coach’s highlight reel.

But it wasn’t calamitous either. The opposing team didn’t score. No damage was done.

At least, that’s the conventional wisdom.

Ask 12 people what they want, and you’ll get 16 different answers.

This adage has some truth to it, as we pride ourselves on our uniqueness.

And yet, there are times when we’re destined to be part of the pack. There are moments where our erstwhile individuality regresses to the mean.

Our fascination with David vs. Goliath is one of these areas.

It’s a story that many of us know so well. The diminutive David felling the mighty Goliath with a well-aimed slingshot.

David vs. Goliath introduces us to mismatches – how they appear to the naked eye and how they play out in real life. We love the characters in such a saga – the bastions of might and the plucky underdogs.

But our fascination can quickly devolve into obsession. We tend to view any matchup we come across as a David vs. Goliath contest — mostly because that’s what we want to see.

But such depictions are often inaccurate. In fact, many times, the combatants in these encounters are more evenly matched.

This is particularly true in the game of football. There might be some matchups at the youth, high school, or college level that end up lopsided. But the playing field is much more even when you get to the pros.

There are too many good players dispersed across the league for one team to dominate. Indeed, we’ve gone nearly two decades since a team won back-to-back Super Bowl championships.

This parity can sometimes yield great theater. Epic back-and-forth games. Entire fan bases holding their collective breath.

But all too often, it yields a slog. A slugfest between two evenly matched foes that is, for all intents and purposes, a draw.

When such stalemates take place, the smallest things can make all the difference. The bounce of the ball, the timing of a turnover, or the performance of special teams.

Special teams are the player units that handle possession changes. When the team kicks the ball off or punts it to the opposing team, the special teams unit is on the field. The same goes for field goal attempts and the extra points that follow touchdowns.

Special teams can seem mundane and technical — as forgettable as they are obligatory. And since special teams units spend so little time on the field, it’s tempting to explain away their flubs.

A near catastrophe might leave points off the scoreboard, or put the opponent in scoring position. But that might not really decide the game. The workhorse units – the offense and defense – can compensate for these shortcomings.

The same goes for special teams in other sports. A hockey team can win plenty of games even if it struggles on the power play. Soccer teams can still get results, even if their corner kicks are hopeless.

Those moments when the opponent has a player in the penalty box, or when a set play is drawn up – they don’t necessarily decide the game.

But they’re hardly insignificant.

Every morning starts the same way for me.

I get up, shave and brush my teeth. Then I make my bed.

Pulling the covers neatly into place, unruffling the sheets, straightening the pillows – this all might seem insignificant. If I waited until later in the day to take on this task, or if I failed to tackle it at all, my world wouldn’t fall apart.

And yet, I am determined not to leave home without a made bed every morning. Because there is no substitute for attention to detail.

I’ve come to recognize that the little things can make a big difference. That setting a good foundation, and preserving that bulwark, can drive sustained success.

Sure, the big ideas might grab the headlines. But the details allow them to see the light of day.

And yet, we seem to have forgotten this.

You see, it’s become fashionable these days to skip the fundamentals. To ignore the minutia and focus on solely on the big concepts.

I’m not sure where this movement came from. Perhaps its origins are tied to the recent tech boom, whose ethos states that we can innovate our way around every problem. Perhaps the growth of the attention economy is to blame.

Regardless, such lopsided focuses are hopelessly misguided.

We didn’t land a man on the moon simply by building a rocket. There was a team on the ground checking every detail at every step along the way.

Without that group, the men in the spacesuits wouldn’t have had a chance of setting foot on the moon. And without us focusing on the little things, we don’t have a chance of seeing success.

Special teams matter.

On a snowy winter night, the Green Bay Packers took the field for a home playoff game.

The Packers had earned the right to be here. They’d won the most games in their division and conference, earning them the right to host all playoff football games until the Super Bowl. They were led by the eventual league Most Valuable Player. And they sported a stingy and tenacious defense.

Yet, the Packers had a glaring weakness — an atrocious special teams unit.

That sequence described at the start of this article? It had happened to the Packers more than once over the course of the season. And yet, the Packers overcame those gaffes time after time.

But on this night, their good fortune would run out. Green Bay had a field goal blocked in the first half of the game. In the second half, the opposing team blocked a Packers punt, grabbed the ball, and ran into the end zone for a tying touchdown.

The other team would ultimately win the game on a field goal with time expiring. Green Bay didn’t have enough players on the field at the time of the play, giving them no chance of blocking the kick.

Had even one of these sequences gone right, the Packers would likely have moved on to the next round. But instead, their season ended in bitter disappointment.

It’s a sobering reminder that details are not trivial. That no part of the whole is truly insignificant. That special teams mean something.

It’s a message that should not fall on deaf ears.

Let’s learn from these misfortunes. Let’s be better about sweating the small stuff. Let’s not cast away the details in favor of glamour.

We have everything to gain from this shift in focus. It’s time we commit to it.

The Spiral of Doom

It was a treasured childhood ritual.

I would sit quietly while my grandfather regaled me with stories.

Sometimes, these would be fanciful tales, generated by his endless imagination. But more often they’d be full of truth.

My grandfather had plenty of material to work with. For he had seemingly seen it all.

He grew up in the throes of the Great Depression, enlisted in the Navy in World War II, and attended college on the GI Bill. His adult years were marked by the Cold War, the Civil Rights Movement, and an inflation crisis. There were stories for just about all these events.

I cherished these tales because they gave me a window into history. The Berlin Wall fell in my lifetime, but I was too young to remember the occasion. And all the other crises had long ended before I was around. My grandfather’s stories were all that was left.

It was hard for me to imagine a world with such tumult. After all, the era I was experiencing firsthand was full of stability and prosperity.

And yet, I listened intently. For while it seemed unlikely that this turbulent history would repeat itself, there were plenty of lessons to be learned from it.

Fast forward a few decades. My grandfather no longer walks this earth. But his stories are still with me.

I’m especially thankful for that these days.

It’s no secret that the last couple of years have been difficult.

We’ve been saddled by a brutal pandemic, a battered economy, a contested presidential election, a racial reckoning, and a war in Europe. Nearly all the low points of the 20th century have reemerged in a singular period in the 21st.

Such a development has shattered our assumptions. We once believed that we had insulated ourselves from disease, political instability, financial strife, and strained race relations. We once believed that threats of nuclear war were off the table and that America’s global clout was assured.

No longer.

As we wade through these suddenly uncertain waters, we find ourselves asking the same question: How did we get here?

We were supposed to have protections against all that’s befallen us. Our technological capacity is far beyond what was imaginable even a generation ago. Medical breakthroughs have helped us manage ailments that were once devastating. We’re more enlightened — individually and collectively — than we were decades ago.

And yet, here we are again — finding ourselves blindsided as history repeats itself.

Such dissonance between intentions and outcomes can make us fatalistic. It can lead us to conclude that this spiral of doom is inevitable.

But such a conclusion misses the mark.

Globalization.

It’s a word that’s everywhere these days.

When times are good, globalization is the key to our expanded possibilities. When things are going poorly, it’s the scapegoat for our problems.

We act as if globalization is a newfangled concept. As if it’s something conjured up in recent years.

It’s anything but.

Known efforts to connect the world stretch back at least to the Roman Empire. And they likely go back far earlier.

The Roman Empire might not seem globalized to our modern eyes. After all, the Romans didn’t have international wire transfers, instantaneous news delivery, or asynchronous supply chains at their beck and call. But ultimately, that’s just window dressing.

Through systems, edicts, and innovations, the Romans made a mark on the affairs of the world. Some of their initiatives — such as a representative government, and networks of roads and utilities — were a net positive. Others — such as robust a system of slavery and rampant religious persecution — are viewed with disdain.

Both the good and the bad are marked in the annals of history. All that knowledge has been passed on through hundreds of generations. And much of it — whether exemplary or shameful — has been repeated, long after the fall of Caesar.

The wheels of history keep turning, for better or for worse.

Why do we believe that the bad outcomes of our past won’t reoccur in our future?

It is our belief in our own enlightenment? Our faith in innovation? Our investment in robust protection?

It doesn’t matter.

Truth be told, we cannot bypass the spiral of doom.

For part of what sends us forward is also what sends us backward. The two forces are inherently linked.

Forward momentum involves change. Yet, change is something we’re notoriously bad at dealing with.

As such, a series of missteps and bad outcomes are almost inevitable as the world moves forward.

Don’t believe me? Consider the 20th century.

The world took a massive leap forward in that time. But it was also roiled by a series of devastating events, from global wars to financial crises to a flu pandemic.

These events might seem disparate and random, but they’re interconnected.

A period of rapid industrialization at the turn of the century opened the door to new opportunities. But it also threatened the world order – which mostly consisted of empires at that time.

Such tensions led directly to World War I. And the mobilization of troops helped spread a nasty flu strain, intensifying the Spanish Flu Pandemic.

In the wake of that war, Germany was in shambles. A combination of punitive sanctions and hyperinflation left that nation open to far-right influences, spurring the rise of the Nazis and the horrors of the Holocaust.

After the Nazis were vanquished in World War II, tensions over how the fallen Reich would be divided ultimately led to the Cold War. And runaway defense spending — on both sides of the Iron Curtain — led to even more financial instability and the eventual end of the conflict.

These events played out over the course of eight decades, leading to a slow burn of misery. But despite that long timeline, there was little that could be done on the individual level to stop the carnage.

So yes, perhaps it was inevitable that we’d end up here — withstanding a hurricane of bad outcomes. But ultimately, that’s not what’s important.

What matters most — especially now — is how we respond.

Will we wave the white flag, and bury our heads in the sand? Or will we work toward building a brighter future, no matter the speed bumps that might lie in our way?

There really is only one sensible answer.

The spiral of doom is real. But it doesn’t have to define us.

Let’s not let it.

Foot off the Gas

The 200-meter dash.

It’s a spectacle of speed.

Contestants line up in starting blocks on the rounded edge of the track oval. When the gun goes off, they accelerate through the curve and then blaze their way down the straightaway.

The 200 is a forgiving race. Unlike the 100, it isn’t necessarily decided out of the blocks. The curve can equalize the field.

But the 200 can also be a defining race. So many track legends have found glory at that distance.

I’ve never run the 200 myself. After an ill-fated go at the 100 as a child, I moved on to cross-country in high school, and then distance races in adulthood.

And yet, I’ve found somewhat of a kinship with the 200 in my life. I tend to accelerate through the curve in whatever I pursue. And once I hit the straightaway, I turn on the jets.

This has been the case in multiple careers. It’s been true for me in college and graduate school. It’s even been evident with my running renaissance.

I’ve started cautiously in all these exploits, uncertain about what lay ahead. And yet, once the wheels started moving, I’ve picked up speed like a freight train.

I’ve added more and more responsibilities. I’ve filled up my schedule. And I’ve raised the level of devotion to my craft.

Such attributes are often lauded. Our society favors those who finish strong.

But what if I’m not finishing? What if the straightaway goes beyond the horizon?

Does the calculus change then?

There’s a lot of talk these days about burnout. And with good reason.

With all the changes in our world, the boundaries between our vocations and our personal lives have shifted.

If we’re being honest, there are no boundaries anymore. And this inability to recharge has effectively shut us down and boxed us in.

This is certainly a worrisome issue, worthy of our consideration. But so is its opposite number — the crash and burn.

We crash and burn when we wind ourselves up into knots. When we get out over our skis. When we set a pace we could never expect to sustain.

The crash and burn represents a cruel irony. Just when it looks like everything is firing on all cylinders, it all falls apart.

I’ve long been terrified of this outcome. My accelerant nature has made it a possibility — even a likelihood.

And yet, I’ve been unable to change course. I’ve found myself powerless to reduce the risk.

For taking my foot off the gas would welcome complacency to the equation. It would break the chain of everything I’d built. It would send me back in time, all the way to age 16.

In those days I was aimless. I was too timid to be a bad boy, but too unsure of myself to commit to excellence.

This all angered my mother, who saw my grades slipping and my motivation waning. One night, in a fit of exasperation, she called me lazy.

It could have been a label I just shook off. But, by the grace of God, I didn’t.

Being referred to as lazy lit a fire under me. A fire that’s burned for more than half my life. A fire that’s gotten me to where I am today.

There’s no way I could risk giving that up. I wouldn’t even dare give an inch.

At least that’s what I thought until recently.

It was a beautiful winter day in North Texas. One of those days you pine for during the searing heat of summer.

But I didn’t spend one-second basking in the sunshine. I stayed indoors all day, barely moving from my sofa.

Such do-nothing days are somewhat routine for many of us — particularly during a pandemic that has featured stay-at-home orders.

And yet, it was unheard of for me.

You see, for more than two years, I’d worn down my front door. Whether it was hot or cold outside, with blue skies or stormy ones, I’d walked or run at least a mile each day.

Somewhere in that process, I’d gotten a smartwatch. And I’d developed an unhealthy obsession with reaching the activity goals the device defined for me.

I’d reached them for 400 straight days when the sun came up on this winter day. And I’d decided the streak would not reach 401.

So, I sat the day out. And I took the next day — a workday — off from exercising as well.

I wish I could say that this forced siesta was relaxing. That it left me rejuvenated and prepared to take on what lay ahead.

But truth be told, I spent most of that time worrying about my first day back on the horse. Would I be able to bounce back now that I’d broken the chain?

As it turns out, my fears were unfounded. I was able to get back into the flow seamlessly after those two days off. It was as if the hiatus had never happened.

And with that revelation, two decades of my modus operandi went up in smoke.

There’s something remarkable that only the greatest basketball players possess.

It’s not the size or the freakish athleticism. It’s not their aptitude at shooting the ball while off-balance. It’s not even the ability to raise their game when the stakes are highest.

No, the greatest basketball players — from Michael Jordan to Kobe Bryant to LeBron James — they’ve been able to change speeds. They’ve had the ability to drive hard to the hoop or take things slow on the perimeter, depending on what the situation called for. Sometimes, they’ve even mixed both tactics to leave defenders in the dust.

These talents are awe-inspiring on the basketball court. But they needn’t be extraordinary off it.

As we navigate the marathon of life, we should alter our pace. We should maintain that burst as we sprint into new passions, vocations, or initiatives. But we should consider taking our foot off the gas now and then to preserve ourselves for the long haul.

This strategy is not without risks. There is a chance we could lose our momentum for good.

But the alternative is far riskier. We’re just not built for it.

So, let’s be bold, determined, and courageous. But let’s also be smart.

It will put us in a better position for success.