Month: June 2022

On Consistency

Baseball is a timeless sport.

Games are decided by the passage of innings, rather than the countdown of the clock. And a passion for the game is passed down through the generations.

Yes, much of baseball transcends eras. Including some of the names of the game’s greats.

Babe Ruth. Willie Mays. Nolan Ryan. Sandy Koufax. Ted Williams. And countless others.

Few would willingly put Eddie Guardado on that list. But perhaps they should reconsider.

The legends listed above are Hall of Famers – players known for their greatness. Yet, Guardado is also legendary, thanks to his reliability.

Over an eight-year span from 1996 through 2003, Guardado pitched in at least 60 games each season for the Minnesota Twins.

Appearing in more than a third of a team’s games, year after year, is a rarity for pitchers, whose arms can tire quickly. But Guardado bucked the trend, improving over his years of high workloads. Guardado went from being a middle reliever to Minnesota’s star closer, giving up fewer runs on average with each passing year and becoming a two-time All-Star in the process.

He didn’t throw the nastiest pitches or intimidate hitters with his presence on the mound. But for Everyday Eddie, consistency paid dividends.

The curious case of Eddie Guardado speaks volumes about our mismatched desires.

All too often, we focus on flash and pizazz. These attributes captivate our imagination and unleash our sense of wonder.

But what we really want is consistency. We crave the ability for things to remain the same, time after time.

Our desire for this is mostly visible in absentia. When we run across patches of volatility, we long for a sense of stability that is out of reach. Consistency, therefore, becomes a silent expectation – one that is falsely taken for granted.

To be fair, the field coaches and managers in Minnesota did not make this error with Guardado. They kept turning to him, game in and game out. As the years went on, they even elevated Guardado’s role, giving him the ball in the critical 9th inning of ball games.

But management was not on the same page. When Guardado’s contract expired, the Twins ownership wasn’t willing to pay a premium for a reliable homegrown hurler. Guardado moved on to the Seattle Mariners instead.

Everyday Eddie was integral to Minnesota’s success on the diamond. But his value was all too invisible when compared with a Twins starting pitcher with a wipeout slider or a batter who could hit the ball halfway to St. Paul.

Those guys had the Wow factor, even if their overall performance was uneven. And as a result, those guys were the ones who got paid.

I often think of Eddie Guardado as I go about my everyday life.

After all, one of my core attributes is consistency. I show up each day and give it my all.

I demand such an approach from myself. The thought of varying my effort agitates me so much that I just don’t try it.

But I get few rewards or accolades for my steadiness. At best, this attribute is ignored. At worst, it’s taken advantage of by others.

I sometimes wonder if I’m selling myself short. If I’m limiting my potential by giving others the qualities they deserve, but not the ones they’re clamoring for.

I could follow Guardado’s lead, and head to greener pastures where my reliability will be more readily rewarded. But that would require me to uproot and break with consistency in the service of a new normal.

Why should I be the one who must change? Why must I be punished with a crucible just for going about things the right way?

I can’t stomach that. So, my story has diverged from Guardado’s. I’ve stayed the course.

It’s a rugged path. But things might be turning around.

The past few years have been incredibly disruptive.

There was the onset of a global pandemic, followed by economic volatility, and supply chain failures.

All these issues impacted multiple industries. But few took as direct a hit as the airlines.

As the nation locked down in the early days of the pandemic, air travel dried up. When it rebounded, divisive arguments over safety protocols quickly grabbed headlines — all while the airlines struggled to bring back furloughed staff.

These issues have led to a breaking point, with many flights canceled due to inadequate staffing. With the costs of airline tickets skyrocketing and few empty seats to be found, these cancellations have become logistical nightmares for travelers.

This whole ordeal has exposed the airline industry. The major air carriers spent years hawking premium perks and charging passengers for the pleasure of enjoying them. But through it all, they seemed to forget about what consumers were looking for.

Air travel turned into a spectacle of pizazz, all while basic consistency disintegrated in the background. And when the veil on this stunt was lifted, airlines were left with a black eye.

But the brands with their logos on the airplanes weren’t the only ones to take a hit during this fiasco. What we value as travelers has also faced a reckoning.

While we once might have overlooked reliability as a factor we treasured, we no longer can. We’ve seen a world of travel without consistency, and we don’t like it one bit.

In an instant, we’ve gone from lauding Babe Ruth and Willie Mays to singing the praises of Eddie Guardado. We’ve made availability our most treasured ability.

This shift might seem subtle, but it’s a game-changer. One that the airlines can only ignore at their own peril.

But why stop with air travel? This shift toward consistency could revolutionize other industries we frequent as well. It could improve outcomes while enhancing our experience. It could be the answer we need.

We can start this movement. We have the collective might to shift our society away from flash and toward reliability.

But it’s on us to make that first move. To draw a line in the sand and make clear what we stand for.

It’s important work. Let’s get to it.

Deferred, Not Denied

The plan was on paper.

It had objectives, timelines, and even a formal name.

Relaunch 2020.

I was determined to fire on all cylinders as the new decade rolled in. It was all mapped out.

I would leverage my newly minted master’s degree into a marketing role at a major company. I would take my volunteer leadership efforts to new heights. I would accelerate healthy living habits. And I would strengthen my relationships with friends and family.

My first decade of adulthood had been rocky at times. There were certainly some accomplishments worth celebrating. But there was also a career shift, two moves to new cities, and a continual struggle to earn a respectable living wage.

I’d risen to meet the challenges I’d faced, over and over. But I had started to feel myself stagnating, and I worried about putting an artificial lid on my potential.

This is what spurred me to enroll in business school while working full-time. It’s what convinced me to work out more and improve my diet. It’s what led me to take on a leadership role with my local alumni chapter.

Relaunch 2020 would be the next phase of all this groundwork. It would lead to tangible results that would improve my life. And in doing so, it would cut down on my anxiety.

As 2020 approached, I could feel the momentum building. I was filled with excitement.

I was on the edge of realizing my dreams. And then they were ripped away from me.

It’s a harrowing feeling when the world you thought you knew transforms into something that’s anything but familiar.

I’ve experienced this dystopia several times in my life. I felt it in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. I lived it in the white-knuckle years of the Great Recession.

But nothing quite knocked me to my knees like the onset of a microscopic virus.

The COVID Pandemic disrupted all our lives in previously unheard-of ways. But the aspects of those disruptions — well, they seemed like a bowling ball taking dead aim at all my hopes and dreams.

The job market dried up as both office spaces and the economy temporarily shuttered. In-person events all but disappeared. And many health and wellness amenities went dark — ironically, in the name of protecting public health.

Suddenly, my hopes of getting a new job were scuttled. I needed to jump through hoops to work out. And, for a time, I was prohibited from even seeing my friends and family.

At first, I was fine giving all this up. The virus was frightening, and sacrifices were needed to keep it at bay.

So, I paused the job search. I pivoted from lifting weights at the gym to running outside. And I replaced in-person visits with videocalls.

But as the pandemic dragged on indeterminately, I grew more and more agitated. I had formed a plan to get out of the situation I was in, only to see the universe bar me from following through.

My dreams were denied. At least that’s what I thought.

It’s not how many times you get knocked down. It’s how many times you get back up.

This boxing analogy has become tired, even cliché.

We’ve made too much of our own resilience, even considering it a feature of our life’s journey. In doing so, we make it seem if the mere presence of a setback will send us roaring into high gear.

It’s rarely that simple.

As I sought to move past the power punch the Pandemic threw at me, it seemed opportunities for resilience were lacking. With the business world in the throes of a recession and social life on hold, I didn’t even have a stage for my comeback. I would need to be patient and see how it all would play out.

But as I bided my time, the calculus changed yet again.

First, my employer was acquired by a different company. Second, in-person road races returned — giving me a forum to benchmark my running abilities.

I ultimately found unexpected opportunities from both these developments. I was able to move to a new role on the marketing team of the parent company of my employer. And through racing, I was able to find running groups and a broader running community.

Now, I’m thriving in my career. I’m using the full breadth of my marketing skillset while embracing the support my efforts yield. And I’ve gone from a recreational runner to an advanced one, scoring top finishes in shorter races and training for major marathons.

None of this was in the cards for Relaunch 2020. I was supposed to switch employers, not stay on board. There was no mention of running one mile, let alone 26.2.

And yet, I am still living the ethos of that plan. I’m realizing my full potential, while taking aim at the opportunities that still lie ahead. And it is glorious.

My dreams were deferred, but they have not been denied.

Tick, tick, tick.

That once was the soundtrack of my mind.

No longer.

Sure, I still feel a sense of urgency. I’m not getting any younger, and there’s now a generation directly below me going after the same things I am.

But I’ve come to learn that my destiny might not arrive right on schedule. And the costs of such a delay might not be as steep as I once feared.

To be clear, I still don’t expect such delayed gratification to befall me. And I’m keenly aware that I must still have a plan to bridge the gap if it does.

But I’m far better equipped to roll with the punches now. For I have seen light at the end of the tunnel and basked in its glow. And I recognize that there are many routes to a desirable destination.

So, to all agitated at the status quo, to all those frustrated by the prospect of dreams deferred, don’t despair.

Hope still lucks on the horizon if you’re willing to look for it.

Deferred is not denied.

To The Limit

I could barely walk.

Felled by some bad hummus, I struggled to get up the stairs to my apartment.

I fumbled for my keys and unlocked the door, my face flushed and my body shaking from chills.

Once inside, I went straight to bed. But my sickly slumber was quickly interrupted by an ear-splitting headache.

My condition had suppressed my appetite, and now my body was revolting from the malnourishment.

So, I wearily headed to the kitchen and boiled some hot dogs. Those five minutes of cooking time felt like hours. But eventually, I was able to devour the hot dogs before stumbling back to bed.

At some point in the night, my fever broke. Although drenched in sweat, I felt a modicum of relief.

The next morning, I felt right as rain — albeit a bit depleted. I wasn’t about to have hummus again anytime soon, but at least I’d taken care of myself properly while down for the count.

I had a roadmap for the future. But following it would prove to be a challenge.

Know your limits.

This phrase is ubiquitous.

Most often, it refers to a vice — drinking, gambling, or the like — that can destroy us if not followed in moderation.

But it can apply to a much broader set of contexts as well.

I knew my limits that evening I was holed up sick. But there are plenty of times before and after where I thought I knew my limits, only to discover that I was sorely mistaken.

Sometimes, the consequences of this blunder were made plainly evident. I once ended up in the Emergency Room after passing out from heat exhaustion, for instance.

Other times, blunders are only evident in hindsight. Bad decisions that didn’t truly burn me, but easily could have.

In either case, learning my limits has helped me avoid pressing them. When I feel I’m getting relatively close to the edge, I dial back.

Better to live to fight another day than to go too far, is my thinking.

But such a concept comes with its own opportunity costs. Namely, the ability to grow my potential.

No, it might not be smart to test our limits while ill, while inebriated, or while out in the scorching hot sun.

But there are plenty of other times when it’s beneficial to push ourselves. When the challenges in our midst are nothing more than hurdles to clear.

Sure, we might feel some resistance as we level up. And giving in to that resistance might seem natural.

But if we shut it down in those moments, we’ll forever be restricted to what’s comfortable.

It’s far better to embrace what the psychologist Carol Dweck has deemed The Growth Mindset. That is, the willingness to develop our talents and capabilities through hard work, good strategies, and input from others.

Growth mindset means pushing our boundaries, but with an end in mind. And that’s something my limit avoidance strategy fails to account for.

On a sultry summer morning, I joined a group of people for a run.

I was only planning on going three miles, but the group was going 10. I’d never run that far in my life, and I didn’t feel prepared to change that fact on this day. But I didn’t want to lose face either.

And so, I hatched a plan. I would run with the group for a couple of miles, intentionally make a wrong turn, and then backtrack once everyone was out of sight. No harm, no foul.

For a while, my plan seemed ingenious. But then, several runners in front of me made the same wrong turn I was planning on.

Now, there was no losing the group. Worse still, I’d need to hustle to follow the runners who’d strayed from the route with me. If I faded, I’d lose face once again.

I ended up running the full 10 miles that day, fighting through side stitches during the home stretch. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but it wasn’t a disaster either.

When I recounted the story at a pool party later that day, a friend urged me to sign up for a half marathon.

You’ve already run 10 miles, he said. What’s 3.1 more?

And just like that, my running adventures were underway.

I’ve since completed three half marathons, improving my finishing time in each. I’ve picked up a ton of speed, topping my age bracket in most races I enter and even finishing Top 3 overall for a few. And I’ve made plenty of friends along the way.

None of this would have happened if my plan to ditch that 10-mile run that day had panned out. Fate got in the way of my tentative nature, with the best of results.

I think about this sometimes while running. My stamina has gone way up since that first day. But there’s still a certain point on long training runs where I fade spectacularly. I go from feeling awesome to feeling awful in an instant. And I dial back.

Is this action a reflection of my own prudence? A willingness to pull back before I suffer the consequences of overexertion.

Or is it a mental block I must overcome? Is my body capable of doing far more than I give it credit for?

I believe it’s the latter. But I still haven’t tested that hypothesis.

That’s on me.

It’s time for us to delineate the limits we set. To differentiate the limits that are real from the ones that exist wholly in our minds.

This requires us to take a step back and truly assess the risks of going too far. And then, to consider how likely those are to occur.

If the chances of an adverse outcome are low, we should push ahead — regardless how scary that potential outcome might be. If not, we should be prudent and dial back.

This is not an easy adjustment to make. I know this as much as anyone.

But hard work is still worth doing, and our future depends on it getting done.

So, let’s get to it.

At Our Disposal

I stared at the menu intensely.

My eyes scanned the text over and over, searching for two words.

Mole enchiladas.

I knew this establishment made this savory dish. After all, I’d ordered it darn near every time I’d come here.

Maybe it had moved to a different spot on the menu. Maybe they’d given it a different name.

But as I searched for the twentieth time, I found no respite.

Finally, I gave in and asked the server for help.

We don’t offer the mole enchiladas anymore, he replied. We changed up our menu.

I scanned the offerings once again, looking for an alternative. And as I did, my mood soured.

Please make a selection.

It’s a simple command. But not always a simple ask.

You see, those four words give us what we want. But not always what we truly desire.

There might be too few options. Or too many.

In either case, the Goldilocks Problem can rear its ugly head. We’re unable to find that option that fits just right.

Such is the quagmire of decision-making. What we’re looking for often fades into the background, usurped by what we have at our disposal.

We go from thriving to settling in an instant. And cognitive dissonance sinks in.

This discomfort permeates our lives. We make more than 35,000 decisions a day, and we likely consider a fair amount of them to be suboptimal.

And yet, we can’t afford to punt on them entirely. No decision is still a choice. And it’s generally the worst one.

So, how do we navigate this quagmire, and somehow get the most out of it? It’s a question that people on all sides of the decision-making process are trying to figure out.

Sheena Iyengar and Mark Lepper are not household names.

If they walked past us on the street, it wouldn’t cause a commotion. And they’re unlikely to be the topics of watercooler discussions.

But perhaps they should. Particularly for one bit of their work.

Back in 2000, Iyengar and Lepper — both acclaimed psychologists — published an academic paper. Its text was dry and dense, but the concept it described was irresistibly juicy.

The paper summarized an experiment the psychologists ran at a grocery store.

Researchers set up a table near the jam aisle at the store. On that table, they put up a sign with a basic offer.

Try a jam sample and get a coupon to save on jam.

This offer was no different than what we might see at our local Costco. Try something and save on buying it.

The mundane sample setup was intentional. But it came with a twist.

On one day, shoppers saw 24 different jam samples on the table. On another, they saw only six.

This change in sample sizes had an impact. People were more likely to take a sample when there were 24 to choose from. But they were far less likely to buy any jam bottle when presented with that many samples. Even the discount coupon was mostly worthless in that case.

What was going on here? Why were people more inclined to try than to buy?

The answer can be found in what academics have called The Paradox of Choice. Essentially, we want infinite options, but can only handle a finite few when making a decision.

The findings of The Jam Experiment, as it came to be called, have reverberated throughout our lives. Most notably, we’ve seen everything from restaurant menus to tech bundles streamlined into a few options.

This is ostensibly for everyone’s benefit. We won’t freeze like a deer in the headlights when faced with infinite options. And because of that, businesses can serve us more efficiently.

Yet, it does lead to a strange dynamic, as both sides of an interaction operate with their hands tied. All too often, our desired choice isn’t on that streamlined list, forcing us to settle. And with this dynamic at play, it’s hard for businesses to get our loyalty.

Several years ago, Elon Musk made a big claim.

Someday, human-driven cars would be outlawed.

In a vacuum, it seemed like a sensible statement. After all, driving is a dangerous activity that can carry deadly consequences.

And yet, it left me in a rage. For I love to drive, and I loathe the thought of such a right being snatched away from me.

I’ve held a grudge against Musk ever since that moment. Regardless of his successes with the electric vehicle giant Tesla or the other ways he’s benefitted society, he’s persona non grata to me.

Of course, there are plenty of others who bristle at Musk’s vision. Oil executives, legacy carmakers, and gearheads — just to name a few.

This diverse group sees everything Musk stands for as a threat to their existence. They’re preordained to be the yin to his yang.

I, on the other hand, am not.

For I am in the middle of the vehicle divide. I can foresee a day when I might drive an electric vehicle. If it’s as practical for me then as driving a gas-powered SUV is now, I’ll make the switch.

But regardless what’s fueling the engine, I want to be able to jam on the gas pedal or hit the brakes. I want that option to be at my disposal.

My anxiety over this matter is real. After all, I’ve seen plenty of other forums where that middle lane has been taken away.

Moderate politicians are practically an endangered species these days. Tales of the everyman have faded from Hollywood and our streaming entertainment. The market for quick-serve eateries has stagnated.

The lessons from The Jam Experiment are at play. The Paradox of Choice has been mitigated, and our decision set has been optimized.

But it’s all gone too far. The options at our disposal no longer suit us. And our only heuristic is which choice we loathe slightly less.

All the while, our selections validate a set of increasingly polarized options. And the fissures in our societal fabric follow.

It’s time to end this viscous cycle. It’s time for the powers that be to lean into the middle ground, and to put better options on the table.

These options might not be glamorous. But they will be representative of our needs and desires. They’ll allow us to stop settling and start loving our choices again.

And in the end, isn’t that what truly matters?

Going to the Well

On the afternoon of July 13, 2002, the door to the visiting bullpen swung open at Jacobs Field in Cleveland, Ohio. Through that door trotted Mariano Rivera.

Rivera had one mission: Pitch a clean inning to lock up the game for the New York Yankees.

But that would prove to be quite the challenge.

For the Cleveland batters Rivera would face had already picked up on something from prior games. All of Rivera’s pitches — his signature cut fastballs — were ending up in the same spot, just off home plate.

As the inning progressed, a litany of lefthanded hitters trudged to the plate and dug their heels into the back edge of the batter’s box.

The batters were too far back to reach pitches on the opposite side of home plate. But it didn’t matter. They knew Rivera’s wouldn’t throw anything out there. All they’d see is the cut fastball on their half of the plate. And they’d be primed to hit it.

Soon enough, Cleveland had loaded the bases. With his team trailing by one run, journeyman Bill Selby strode to the plate.

Selby took aim at several cut fastballs, driving them into the stands in foul territory. It was clear he had Rivera’s cutter timed up.

If Rivera had thrown just one pitch to the other side of the plate, Selby would have been toast. But instead, Rivera kept throwing the cutter, harder and harder.

Ultimately, Selby’s persistence paid off. He lined a cut fastball over the right-field wall for a game-winning grand slam. The Yankees trudged off the field in disbelief while Cleveland fans and players celebrated.

Rivera had gone to the well one too many times.

Mariano Rivera had already built a name for himself before that fateful day in Cleveland.

He had guided the Yankees to four world titles, won a World Series MVP award, and been selected to five All-Star teams.

But after that defeat, he seemed to get even better.

For Rivera started to mix a straight fastball into his arsenal. A pitch he could splash over the other side of home plate if batters tried to cheat on his cut fastball.

Soon, it was virtually impossible to beat Rivera.

By the time he retired in 2013, Rivera had saved 652 games — with about two-thirds of those saves coming after the Cleveland debacle. He was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame unanimously the first year he was eligible. And he’s widely considered the greatest closer of all time.

Still, even with all that sustained excellence, the great Mariano Rivera had to learn to adapt. For if he’d kept going to the well — firing that cut fastball to the same spot, game after game — eventually other teams would have ambushed him the way Cleveland did. His performance would have declined, and his legacy would have been incomplete.

The fact that Rivera had the open-mindedness to change his approach while at the peak of his game says as much about him as any of the accolades that he racked up. It transformed him from a ballplayer into an example worth following.

Why keep going to the well?

Why keep reverting to the same old pattern, over and over?

It doesn’t make much sense.

After all, we know that perfection is unattainable. If one of the greatest baseball players ever can come up short now and then, why do we expect any better of a fate in our endeavors?

And if insanity is doing the same thing over and over, our affinity for routine might be nothing short of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

So, why do we ignore these inexorable truths? Blame two F’s — fear and familiarity.

We fear making a critical error by venturing into the unknown. So, we stick to the familiar, expecting predictably cozy results.

The irony is palpable.

For not only do we often find such assuredness lacking when we follow this approach. But we also are left unprepared when things inevitably go off-script.

This is bad enough when it befalls us individually. But if the issue is societal, it can be downright disastrous.

Recent history is littered with instances of slow and clunky responses to an emergent threat. A blossoming pandemic and a spiraling inflation crisis are but two examples of this.

We went to the well of familiar approaches in each case, only to watch the threat linger and intensify, strangling us slowly like a boa constrictor.

As this has occurred, fear has set in. Certainty has faded away. And a sustainable path forward has proven harder to reach.

The old well has gone dry. It’s time to change things up.

About a year into my news career, a new face joined our newsroom.

Like me, the new hire worked behind the scenes, in an off-air role. Unlike me, he had plenty of big-city news experience.

Things started off amicable but quickly deteriorated.

For the new hire wanted our small, local news operation to focus coverage on developments in the Middle East. And I wanted to cover every arrest and car wreck in the metro area.

The best solution would probably have been a compromise — a mix of Middle East coverage from the network feed and local reporting from our journalists in-house.

But I was too hard-headed to acquiesce to such an agreement. Instead, I kept going back to the well, demanding that local news stay local.

A power struggle ensued, and I emerged victorious. The new hire eventually left the station, and I continued building the nightly newscasts the way I always had.

Looking back, I’m not filled with satisfaction at this development. I’m overcome by shame.

I wish that I had handled the situation better. That I’d been open-minded enough to listen to what my erstwhile co-worker was saying. That I’d leaned in to calls for change in an industry that was all about the unexpected.

Instead, I went back to the well. I demanded to do things the way they had been done before. And all that left me with was a divided newsroom and burned bridges.

In the years since that incident, I’ve tried to be more open-minded. When I’ve found myself going to the well, I’ve asked myself why I was doing so. And if I don’t have a solid answer, I’ve shifted my approach.

There’s nothing preventing us all from doing this. Nothing but ourselves.

So, let’s resolve to be better. To be shrewder. To be more open-minded.

Let’s not allow the tried-and-true to tie us in knots.

It’s time to lean into a fresh approach, and the wonders it unlocks.