Month: September 2022

Consistency of Excellence

Pepsi Center. Denver, Colorado. March 2015.

The lights went down, and the audience buzzed with anticipation.

Spotlights aimed their beams at the haze, just as Garth Brooks emerged from it. The crowd roared.

From high in the upper level of the arena, I felt the energy pulsate through the Rocky Mountain air. Garth went through his many hits with clinical precision, and the audience ate it up.

It felt electric throughout the two hours Garth was on stage. And yet, it didn’t seem all that personal.

Sure, the crowd roared when he crooned I gotta ride in Denver tomorrow night. But that wasn’t a nod to his surroundings. It was a standard lyric that just so happened to coincide with where we all were. Garth would have sung it the same way in Detroit or Des Moines.

After the last song — and the encore — I marveled at how this performer could make something so boilerplate seem so special.

That’s when my friend reminded me that Garth had another show coming up at 10:30 that evening. He would be going through this whole routine again — with only an hour or so to recharge.

I wondered what that late show would be like. Would the audience get the same experience?

I didn’t have to muse about this for long. Other friends went to Garth’s 10:30 PM show in Dallas a few months later, and they told me he went through his set with the same energy I’d experienced at the early show in Denver.

Hearing this, I was in awe. How did Garth Brooks maintain this consistency of excellence, time after time?

Was he even human?

I try and be like Garth Brooks.

No, I don’t don a cowboy hat and sing my heart out to adoring fans night after night. But I do attempt to maintain my own consistency of excellence.

For me, this means precision regarding when I wake up, and what I do with those waking hours. It means intentionality regarding the food I put into my mouth and the language that comes out of it. It means upholding the highest standards of professionalism, whether I’m at work or off the clock.

And yet, despite my best efforts, this doesn’t always happen.

There are some days when I’m not feeling it. There are some times when I don’t have the energy or precision to act according to my standards. There are some moments when I fall short.

I wish I could say this happens rarely. But it occurs far more often than that. Once or twice a month, at minimum.

When it does, I’m ashamed of myself. I feel obligated to apologize to everyone around me. And I loathe the expression of my own humanity.

I marvel ever more at Cousin Garth, as he proves that our surname is our only commonality. (No, we are not actually related.)

I simply cannot match his consistency of excellence.

But perhaps, in these cycles of self-loathing, I should have been turning my reverence toward someone even more regal.

Not long before I sat down to write this article, the world lost a monumental figure.

Queen Elizabeth II of England passed away at the age of 96.

The Queen held dominion over the United Kingdom for 70 years — a national record. And while she didn’t control the government or the military, Her Majesty had plenty of responsibilities over those seven decades.

These responsibilities included a litany of public appearances around the globe, all governed by longstanding rules of regal decorum.

There was no respite for this activity. There was no off-season.

And with the 24/7 news cycle gaining steam during the queen’s reign, there was increasingly nowhere to hide. A series of scandals that enveloped the Royal Family made that abundantly clear.

Yet, Queen Elizabeth II was able to stay above the fray. By all accounts, she performed her duties with the utmost professionalism.

The only hint of a blemish on the queen’s record was her handling of the aftermath of the untimely death of Princess Diana, her former daughter-in-law.

The queen followed the playbook of decorum, at a time when a grieving kingdom yearned to see her humanity. Ultimately, she acquiesced, delivering a poignant address.

Queen Elizabeth II’s commitment to continual professionalism is even more striking when you realize that her role was preordained.

Garth Brooks might have chosen the life of a performer. And in doing so, he accepted the consistency of excellence that such a role demands.

Queen Elizabeth II never had such a choice. And she rose to the occasion anyway.

Indeed, two days before her passing, the queen performed one of her most important duties. She met with the premier appointee for the UK’s parliament, officially appointing her as Prime Minister.

Although she was not at full strength, Queen Elizabeth posed for a couple of photos, smiling radiantly in both.

To the end, the queen maintained a consistency of excellence.

Her aptitude should serve as a beacon.

Principles are critical in life.

They keep us centered, steadying us through the rough seas of our day-to-day adventures.

We have the freedom to choose our own principles. And mine are distinct.

Be present. Be informed. Be better.

The first two are clearly defined, forged through concrete actions and commitments. But the third one can seem ambiguous.

How does one go about bettering themselves? And what does better even mean?

Adhering to this principle can feel like a hopeless task. It can seem like boiling the ocean or corralling the wind.

Yet, being better is certainly attainable. Garth Brooks and Queen Elizabeth II prove this point clearly.

It won’t be easy. It will take all our focus. And it will require us to remain poised, even when we’re not at our best.

But it’s a quest we can strive for. One that we should strive for.

So, let’s cast away the excuses. Let’s double down on the fundamentals. And let’s seek a consistency of excellence at every turn.

Those watching our moves will be better for it. And so will we.

Closing the Chapter

Don’t miss the exit.

That was the last bit of advice I got as I headed off to visit my great-grandmother.

I had spent plenty of time with her over the years. But this was the first time I was visiting her on my own.

The warning was prudent.

My great-grandmother’s assisted living facility was not far from the highway. But the exit that led to it was tucked in the back of a highway rest stop.

I had to drive past the service center and the gas pumps to find it, but fortunately, I did so without incident. Moments later, I had parked and made it to my great-grandmother’s room.

My great-grandmother was 96 years old. Macular degeneration had rendered her nearly blind, and dementia had clouded her mind.

I resolved to be patient and not to get flustered if I got called by my father’s name. Mostly, I reminded myself not to expect too much.

Yet, to my surprise, my great-grandmother was in great spirits. We dove into a lively discussion. And for a few moments, it seemed like the old days.

But then, the conversation hit a brief respite. And after that pause, my great-grandmother seemed lost.

She started to rehash what we had already discussed. For she had already forgotten that we’d even talked about it.

I pivoted, trying to keep the discussion free of pauses to avoid repeating myself. But this was exhausting work, and my energy eventually dwindled.

At that point, I knew it was time to leave. I gave my great-grandmother a hug and headed for the door.

More than a year later, she passed away. I had just started a new job halfway across the country, and I couldn’t make the funeral.

I felt a bit guilty. But I wasn’t overwhelmed by that sensation.

For I knew I’d closed the chapter with my great-grandmother gracefully. And that mattered as much to me as anything.

Humanity is full of vices. Some are oft-discussed, while others fly under the radar.

The recency effect generally falls into that second category.

This concept states that we’re more likely to remember the most recent item in a series than the ones before it.

That late addition to the grocery list is the first one that comes to mind as we walk in the store doors. That lesson from last week is likely to be the one we nail on the upcoming midterm.

And that last bit of time we spend with a loved one is what sticks with us for years.

This makes sense. The everlasting emptiness of death is without comparison. So is the enduring power of memory. When the two converge, we want to engineer the encounter to meet our needs.

Yet, such an approach is far from sensible.

So much surrounding departures is beyond our control. But we try and put our stamp on the proceedings anyway.

I am no different. I had an inkling that my visit with my great-grandmother would likely be my last. This realization impacted my approach to the entire experience.

That experience went as well as could be expected. While I miss my great-grandmother, I’m at peace with the way our time together on this earth ended. The recency effect hasn’t left me saddled with regret.

That is not always the case.

Not long after my great-grandmother passed, my thoughts turned to another beloved relative — one of my grandfathers.

I’ve written about this grandfather before on Words of the West, reflecting on his impact on my life. While he wasn’t related to my great-grandmother — they were on different sides of the family tree — he was also getting up there in years, and I worried about what might come next.

My grandfather had survived two heart attacks and a triple bypass in his life. He had served in the United States Navy in World War II and lived to tell the tale. Growing up, I started to believe that he was invincible.

But now, his mortality seemed evident.

So, I took nothing for granted. Whenever I called my grandfather to check in, I would try and coax him to tell an extra story or two from his past. And I made sure not to assume that we’d speak again.

This proved prescient — but not in the way I expected.

For my grandfather eventually suffered a stroke. And while that malady didn’t kill him, it robbed him of much of his memory and communication abilities.

At first, I struggled to process this development. It hurt me to see my grandfather as a shell of his former self. And it threw a giant wrinkle in my plan to close the chapter with him cleanly.

But as the years went by, I gradually made my peace with what had transpired. I resisted the siren song of the recency effect. I instead tried to remember what had come before.

Ultimately, my grandfather did pass away. But as I adjusted to his absence, my refreshed approach proved to be a benefit.

Instead of zeroing in on those trying final years of my grandfather’s life, I remembered him at full strength. The stories he told. The way he was. The example he set.

I’ve tried to honor that memory as much as anything.

Perhaps we can all take a page from this revised playbook.

Instead of obsessing about missing our exit, we can glance at the highway that got us there. We can consider items deeper in our pile of memories.

For these memories are the bulk of our lived experience. They’re the ones that set the tone for the integral relationships in our lives.

We tend to consider these memories as mere guideposts on the grander journey. But they should be the narrative itself.

They should become our focus.

So, let’s cast off the tiring task of closing the chapter. Let’s stop obsessing over-engineering a clean ending and instead focus on something that truly matters.

We’ll be happier and more fulfilled. And that’s the point of all this anyway.

The Reality of Hope

As I sat in the hot tub on a steamy Florida night, I pondered my future.

Hours earlier, I’d walked across the stage at my college graduation. My family then celebrated the occasion with dinner at one of the ritziest restaurants in town.

But now, the ceremonies were over. We had retreated to my family’s hotel near the airport.

And now, submerged in warm waters flanked by the not-so-distant roar of jet engines, we commiserated.

The conversation quickly turned to what was next. And as it did, my triumph faded into a sense of failing.

For I didn’t have a job lined up. I didn’t even have any interviews pending.

In the throes of a brutal recession, I would need to move back in with my parents until I could launch my career.

My family assured me this was no big deal. I’d earned myself a break, they said.

But had I?

To me, college was not a four-year party. It was a proving ground for professional life.

And without the first step in my career imminent, I felt I had failed. I had wasted my time and countless dollars of tuition.

Fortunately, this despondence didn’t last long. I soon landed some job interviews, followed by a job offer. Two months and a day after my college graduation, I reported to my new role as a news producer in West Texas.

And while I’ve long ago left that position — and that career — behind, I’ve remained self-sufficient throughout adulthood.

My story had a satisfying conclusion. My quest for a career launch was simply deferred, rather than denied.

Some of that had to do with the industry I was seeking to join. Some had to do with the economic realities of the moment I was in. Much of it had to do with sheer luck.

I never gave up hope throughout this process. Even in those dour moments on the evening of my college graduation, I retained faith that things would work out.

But attributing the outcome to me sense of hope is a fool’s errand.

Many of my peers faced the same circumstances as I did as they walked the stage at commencements across America that spring. Despite some despondence over their lack of immediate job prospects, they remained hopeful.

And yet, despite sterling credentials and supreme self-belief, that faith was not rewarded.

Many of my peers ended up waiting tables for months on end, just to be able to pay the bills. Some were forced to give up their career hopes entirely after years of rejection.

It was cruel and unfair. But it was reality.

A reality that was out of touch with a prevailing narrative.

You see, we tend to view hope as a self-fulfilling prophecy. This principle is central in Hollywood scripts and other narrative arcs.

Cinderella is in a desperate condition when the Fairy Godmother first encounters her. Yet, even in her darkest hours, she retains a semblance of hope — one that pays off in spades once it’s time to try on the glass slipper.

Similarly, the Rebel Alliance retains hope against long odds at the start of Star Wars. The Galactic Empire has a decided advantage. And the Jedi equipped to counter the Empire’s brutal reign are seemingly nowhere to be found.

That hope that sustains the Rebel Alliance from the first scene becomes the fabric of the franchise, interspersed into dialogue, story arcs, and even film names. (Once sequels hit the big screen, that original Star Wars film was rebranded Star Wars Episode IV – A New Hope.)

Given these prominent examples, it’s all too easy to believe that a little faith and determination are all guaranteed to provide a favorable outcome.

And so, we go all in on hope. We treat the fairy tale ending as manifest destiny. And we suppress the narratives where satisfaction doesn’t arrive.

This does us no favors.

As I write this, we’ve had a rough go of it.

In recent years, we’ve dealt with a global pandemic, a teetering economy, and societal polarization.

Through it all, we’ve followed a familiar playbook. We’ve tried to stay the course, clinging to the prospect of better days ahead.

We’ve clung to the promise of hope.

This might seem sensible at first. Looking across the long arc of history, things tend to even out. And Star Wars and Cinderella show that a little faith can pay big dividends. So why not bask in the glory of tomorrow?

But I’m not so sure that a bright future is imminent. There’s no guarantee that things will get better just because we hit a rough patch. And if the past is precedent, they might continue to get worse.

It’s easy to overlook how spoiled we’ve been spoiled in recent decades. Sure, things weren’t always ideal. But we’ve recovered rather swiftly from the adverse events we did face — be they the 9/11 attacks or the 2008 Financial Crisis.

This near-instant resilience was a blessing. For in prior generations, the route back was far more treacherous.

The Great Depression lasted a full decade, and it was followed almost immediately by World War II. One catastrophic event followed another, with devastation touching all corners of our nation.

America did emerge from the Allied victory in World War II with a robust economy and improved global standing. But people weren’t entirely jubilant. Instead, they were hiding under desks during air raid drills, terrified about the prospect of Soviet missiles bringing nuclear winter.

It’s only in the past few decades — with the Cold War over and the tech boom bringing unprecedented innovation — that we’ve seen hope blossom into true prosperity. And that prosperity has deluded us from the truth.

Indeed, the reality of hope is messy. It carries no promise of returns, let alone instant ones.

There are costs to shunning hope, as complete despair can leave us without the will to seize opportunities. But its benefits are minimal, at best.

This isn’t the message we want to hear. It’s not the tidy narrative that leaves us feeling fulfilled. It’s not the bright carrot that motivates us to keep moving forward.

But it is the message we need to hear. It’s the one we should heed.

Yes, hope is beautiful. It’s inspiring. It’s uplifting.

But it is not a crystal ball.

We cannot count on it to provide us opportunities. We can’t expect it to help us seize them.

Much of that power belongs to circumstance. The rest belongs to us.

Act accordingly.

The Thing to Do

As I strutted back to the car, iced coffee in hand, I noticed them.

Three sets of Cornhole boards, all neatly arranged on the patio of the bar next to the coffee shop.

They sat vacant for the moment. It was far too early in the day for the bar to be open.

But I knew that as morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon to evening, this little piece of territory would be hotly contested.

Scores of friends and acquaintances would converge on the area. They would split into teams and stand by the rows of Cornhole boards. Then they’d try to toss beanbags — underhand — through the holes near the top of the board directly across from them.

There are a few ground rules for the game, and there’s a point system to keep score. But the premise of the game remains simple — toss beanbags through a hole on a board.

I’ve played Cornhole a few times before. And I’ve generally found it pointless.

There’s simply not much intriguing about soft tossing a beanbag over and over. The talent required is minimal, and the skill has little functional purpose.

To me, Cornhole is akin to throwing balled-up tinfoil into the trash can. I want to hit the target on the first try, of course.

But I won’t go nuts if I achieve that objective. And I won’t be devastated if I don’t.

(To be clear, I am not a litterer; after a missed trash toss, I do dispose of the item properly.)

I’m sure I’m not the only one to feel this way.

And yet, Cornhole is everywhere these days. Many bars dedicate part of their establishments to the game, and many people have their own Cornhole sets. Those tired of playing sure do seem to keep their mouths shut.

So why the discrepancy? Why has Cornhole become ever more prevalent, even if it does so little to inspire?

The answer is unlikely to satisfy.

When I was young, my family used to make 90-minute treks to visit a great aunt and great uncle.

I thoroughly enjoyed these trips.

My great aunt and great uncle had a swimming pool in their backyard — a luxury we didn’t have in ours. And in the basement, they had a fancy pool table — the kind with a ball return system connected to all the pockets.

I was fascinated by this table. Paying no attention to the row of billiards cues on the wall, I’d roll the pool balls into the pockets with my hands. I’d watch them slide down the metal guideway to a storage bin. Then, I’d do it again and again.

Fast forward to high school, and I was heading to pool halls regularly with friends. I was playing properly this time — racking the table, using billiards cues, and knowing the actual rules. Still, I wasn’t all that good at the game, and I didn’t find it that enjoyable.

By the time I graduated to frequenting bars, pool tables were an unwelcome sight. And yet, they were everywhere I looked — along with Shuffleboard and Darts. (The Cornhole craze hadn’t taken off yet.)

I found myself roped into game after game. I found no joy in the process, even after numbing myself with alcohol.

When I had the nerve to ask why we were all passing the time this way — drinking like fish, playing ubiquitous bar games — I always encountered the same answer.

It’s the thing to do.

I was incredulous. I still am.

Our recreation time is best spent doing things we enjoy. And yet, we seem to gravitate toward someone else’s idea of fun while out on the town. All without knowing who that someone else was.

Eventually, I addressed this issue by dropping out of the bar scene. Giving up alcohol aided in that endeavor.

But friends still invite me to play pool or Cornhole these days at parties and gatherings. And I find myself with a tough choice.

Do I acquiesce and attempt to bury my disdain? These games are the thing to do after all.

Or do I stand my ground — forcing myself to answer for being so disagreeable?

The scales are tipping.

Baseball has long been a game of numbers.

Henry Chadwick invented the box score roughly 160 years ago. And we’ve obsessed about baseball statistics seemingly ever since.

I am no exception. I struggled with arithmetic when I was growing up. But I could tell you who was leading the league in batting.

So, when I heard about fantasy baseball, I was all in.

The premise seemed perfect. Draft a virtual team comprised of real Major League Baseball players. Their collective performance in real games would determine how your virtual team did.

I was decent at this endeavor at first. And I enjoyed it so much that I branched out into fantasy football as well.

But a few developments changed the calculus.

One of them, strangely, happened in the pages of a book.

Michael Lewis’ Moneyball was published in 2003. The book outlined how one team — the Oakland Athletics — found success in the early 2000s despite a small budget.

The Athletics valued different statistics than the baseball establishment did. And this unconventional thinking helped them find hidden gems that proved integral in the team’s success.

In the wake of Moneyball, the baseball universe took these revelations to the next level. Teams started using advanced analytics to assess players, position them in the field, and shift their approach while batting.

Fantasy baseball too became more complicated, as a flurry of new statistical markers entered the fold. It was difficult to keep up with.

But more than that, the premise of the endeavor had changed. Fantasy baseball was no longer a hypothetical exercise for nerdy fans. It was ever more an extension of what Major League Baseball teams themselves were doing. The two worlds were converging.

That alone was nearly enough to drive me from fantasy sports. But there was another development that set me over the edge.

As fantasy sports gained popularity, fandom changed. No longer was it sufficient to root for one’s favorite teams. No, fans demanded that all contests up and down the league play out in a particular way — just so that they could win their fantasy matchup.

A statistical anomaly or a quick hook from a coach — each immaterial to a team’s outcome — might be enough to make a fan hopping mad if it cost them their fantasy matchup. These selfish pursuits seem so pithy, but they’re all too real.

I grew tired of both these developments rather quickly, and I dropped out of fantasy sports some years ago. Friends and acquaintances struggled to process my decision.

Fantasy sports were the thing to do, after all. Wouldn’t I miss it?

The answer has been an unequivocal no.

Sure, I’ve deprived myself a key source of connection. And yes, it can be exhausting rebuffing requests to review someone’s fantasy team or provide draft advice. (I do neither these days.)

But I feel happier without the albatross of fantasy sports around my neck.

Others might take on tasks they don’t fully enjoy because it’s the thing to do. But I refuse to make that sacrifice any longer.

Our society is multifaceted.

From coast to coast, there are hundreds of millions of people who harbor different interests. And there are plenty of opportunities to engage with these interests.

As Americans, we can head to a concert, or a sports event, or a theme park if we so desire. We can go hike in a national park, hit the lake, or just sit out on the porch in the fresh air.

The choice is ours, free of compulsion or prejudice. And that is a great thing.

But we need to rethink the social baseline. We need to reevaluate what the thing to do means.

If we overhype an activity that only some enjoy, we water down our collective potential. We cause many people to go along to get along in our complex social labyrinth. And we prioritize groupthink over true zeal and engagement.

This has been our fate for far too long. But it needn’t be our future.

So, let’s stop using the thing to do as an excuse for group social activities. Let’s think critically and make room for people to walk different paths. And let’s not judge one another for abstaining from the popular choice.

It’s the best path forward.