Month: September 2023

The Poison Hook

On a summer night in 2008, a left-handed batter won over the crowd at Yankee Stadium.

With mighty swing after mighty swing, the slugger sent baseballs flying deep into the bleachers. Some threatened to leave the stadium altogether. It was a sight to behold.

This man wasn’t wearing the pinstriped uniform of the hometown New York Yankees. And the bold AMERICAN across his chest did little to hide his status as the budding star of a league rival — the Texas Rangers.

But that mattered little to the New York masses.

As Josh Hamilton shattered the record for first-round tallies in the Home Run Derby, a chant cascaded from the stands.

HAM-IL-TON! HAM-IL-TON!

Hamilton didn’t win the derby on that summer evening. But he certainly won the night.

Not just because of his power prowess. But because of his story.

Hamilton, you see, had been a top baseball prospect a decade earlier. As a teenager, he’d appeared on magazine covers and was touted as the future of the game.

But after sustaining injuries in a car crash, Hamilton turned to alcohol and cocaine. And he soon became addicted to both.

The substance abuse sent his career spiraling. And he quickly found himself booted out of baseball.

Hamilton ultimately made his way back from this nadir, getting clean and returning to the sport. The journey eventually took him big leagues for the first time. Then found his way into the hearts of the New York faithful on that magical night at Yankee Stadium.

Hamilton followed that up by winning a batting title and a Most Valuable Player award. He powered the Rangers to their first two World Series appearances.

That mighty potential had been realized. Hamilton’s redemption seemed complete.

It wasn’t.

Hamilton relapsed, and everything fell apart. He started struggling at the plate and in the field. He took potshots at the Texas fans while departing for a division rival. And his marriage disintegrated.

It was a sad ending to a promising story.

The poison hook had the last word.

I was once a fan of Josh Hamilton.

I was in the stands that night he won over New York. And I proudly sported a Texas Rangers t-shirt with his name and number on the back for years.

But when things went south, I soured on him.

I was deeply hurt by Hamilton calling out fans like me. And I was frustrated with his inability to kick addiction.

So, I cut bait. I gave those T-shirts to Goodwill. And when Hamilton returned to Texas to close out his career, I refused to cheer for him.

This all might seem heartless. But given all I’d been through at that time, it made perfect sense.

Not long before Hamilton’s second fall from grace, I had tried to help some alcoholic friends. I’d bent over backward to keep them from hurting themselves or others. But when their demons returned, I was left holding the bag.

I ultimately cut ties with these friends, recognizing that my abandonment could lead to dire circumstances. It hurt my soul knowing that my choice increased the odds of a drunk driving crash or some other tragedy. But I had to protect myself.

This ordeal led me to form a dim view of addiction. I saw it as a lack of mental fortitude, rather than a powerful disease.

I hadn’t been in my erstwhile friends’ shoes, let alone Josh Hamilton’s. Yet, I felt that I had.

You see, I had picked up my own bad habits over the years. Nothing as illicit as drug abuse or alcoholism. But still nothing that would be considered healthy.

Month after month, year after year, I let these bad habits fester. Instead of doing what was sensible, I settled for what was comfortable.

At some point, I saw the light. I realized that better habits would yield better outcomes. And I sprang into action.

One by one, I kicked my bad habits. I learned to treat old tendencies as the enemy. And I fought like hell to keep from falling back into them.

I succeeded, over and over. And my life improved as a result.

This accomplishment was noteworthy. But it made me overly judgmental.

I believed that if I could overcome my vices through sheer will, others could just as easily conquer their demons.

How wrong I was.

When I returned to competitive running after a long hiatus, other runners would often ask me the same question.

What brought you back? Was it the runner’s high?

I had heard about the runner’s high before. But I wasn’t lacing up my shoes to capture any endorphin-fueled euphoria.

So, I replied truthfully. Running was a task, not a calling for me. It helped me stay in shape and I’d shown some prowess at it. There was nothing more drawing me in.

Yet, as the months passed, my relationship with running began to change. I was hitting the streets more often, and for longer mileage. Not by grudging obligation, but by willful compulsion.

I knew I was taking on more than my body could handle. But I found it impossible to stop.

What happened next was utterly predictable. An injury forced a full shutdown, and a marathon withdrawal. I was devastated and lost, unsure of how to start my day without pounding the pavement.

I poured my despair into injury rehab, determined to come back with a vengeance. But once I was cleared to run again, I did too much, too fast. I got hurt again, with this newest injury requiring surgery. I was on the sidelines for months.

As I worked my way back from the brink, I remained dedicated. But one day, during a grueling physical therapy session, I paused to ask myself a simple question.

Why?

Why was I putting myself through hell for a sport that had broken my heart, and my body, twice?

What kept drawing me back to running, against every ounce of common sense?

As the answer dawned on me, I turned pale as a ghost.

It was addiction.

I was addicted to running. Its poison hook had an impermeable grip on my soul.

I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. The act of running – as frequently as possible and as long as I could – was an involuntary compulsion

I’d keep thrusting myself into the fire, no matter how badly it burned.

This revelation shook me to my core. I realized that I was no better than those I’d cast off. Despite all my false bravado, I never really knew them at all.

Shame on me.

I still haven’t forgiven Josh Hamilton.

The man who lost his baseball career to addiction — twice — would later plead guilty for savagely beating his daughter. And that’s something I can’t abide by, demons or not.

Still, I wish I’d shown him a bit more grace back when he was playing ball and trying desperately to stay clean. I wish I’d done the same with those friends I turned my back on.

Their compulsions were certainly more unsavory than my running habit. But they deserved better than harsh judgment as they grappled with it.

The poison hook of addiction is insidious. It’s a powerful riptide we have little chance of swimming away from. The best we can do is try and keep our heads above water.

I recognize that now. And I’m committed to be better. To give those afflicted with addiction a second look. To provide more support, without prejudice.

May we all.

Keeping Receipts

What am I going to do with this?

Those were the first words out of my mouth when my father handed me an accordion folio.

It looked like one of those cabinet drawers at the local mechanic’s office, where the office manager stored invoices. Only, this one was laid out on my kitchen table.

My father explained that heretofore, I’d be keeping all my paper receipts in the folio.

This process would help me keep track of my spending. And it would provide a paper trail for tax filing.

I stashed the folio in my coat closet. It was bulky and unsightly, after all.

But each week, I’d retrieve it from its dark hiding place. And I’d proceed to fill it with that week’s paperwork.

So it went, week after week. Until eventually, more of my bills and receipts went paperless. And the folio in the closet started collecting dust.

The folio beneath my skull, though? That was another story.

An elephant never forgets.

This age-old adage is based in fact. The bulky, lumbering animal relies on its massive memory banks for survival. It’s a competitive advantage in a world filled with nimbler predators.

Humans don’t need to rely on memory for such existential reasons. But we still hold this attribute in high regard.

I know this as well as anyone.

When I was young, adults would marvel at my knowledge of car models or state capitals. It was trivial information, but the fact that I retained it was somehow considered notable.

Such is the allure of memory. It causes us to tilt at windmills, to fawn after window dressing.

Of course, there is some tangible value in memory. It helps us ace exams in school, thrive at work, and stay connected to our social circle.

But so many other applications are less than essential. Such as keeping receipts.

This is not the practice of filling up a folio with paperwork. It’s the tendency to fill our minds with all the slights volleyed in our direction.

Receipt keeping is an extrinsic motivator. It provides us a bit of edginess. It puts a chip on our shoulder.

It’s the reason why football coaches openly share negative mentions of their team with the players themselves. It’s the reason why scholars continue to seek out their next academic paper. It’s the reason why innovators turn It can’t be done into Watch me do it.

Without that virtual ledger, the spark would dim. Complacency would threaten to degrade the task at hand.

So, we endeavor to remember each slight. To file it away, and to get to work on changing the narrative.

It sure is satisfying to cash in those receipts. To prove the doubters wrong. To gain a level of redemption.

But such actions are not core to our survival. They might even prove detrimental.

I have a folder in my email platform, which I’ll often notice when checking my messages.

This folder is tied Rejections. And it has 151 items in it.

The Rejections folder had humble beginnings. I had just cannonballed into the job market after switching careers, applying to dozens of jobs each day. I needed a system to keep track of my applications.

Filing job rejection emails in a single folder uncluttered my inbox. And it allowed me to take those closed opportunities off the board.

But as the folder filled up, its purpose changed. Being told No 151 times – particularly for something that would help me put food on the table – was deeply agitating. And I started to take the rejections personally.

I was determined to prove all the doubters wrong. And even after I finally landed a job, I kept glancing at the Rejections folder.

Those who sent me the Thanks but no thanks messages knew nothing of this, of course. But I pretended that they had – and that the error of their slight had given them pause.

This all kept me deeply motivated. And I thrived in my new career as a result.

On the surface, keeping receipts had served me well. But all was not as it seemed.

The practice had made me more cantankerous, and those around me noticed the shift. Friends remarked that I’d hold grudges for months on end. Family would remind me that I had nothing left to prove.

I tried to take this feedback to heart. I yearned to change my ways and settle into my rebuilt life. But it proved difficult.

The scars of my recent job search were still there. The months of applications and interviews. The drawdown of my savings. The 151 rejections.

How could I just let that go? How could I let anything go?

There was no water to be found under the bridge. Not at that time.

Eventually, though, I did loosen up. I perused that Rejections folder less frequently — and eventually not at all. I let grudges go and leaned into forgiveness. I stopped keeping receipts.

And in doing so, I found a semblance of inner peace.

My experience with the job rejection folder is not uncommon.

Not everyone gets turned down for employment 151 times. And even if they do, they likely don’t keep those rejection emails in a folder.

But plenty of us have kept receipts in some form, only to see the exercise consume us whole.

We become chippy and vindictive. Settling scores obscures our joie de vivre.

This is not a desirable outcome. The costs outweigh the benefits.

And it’s not all that sustainable. If the outside noise quiets, the receipts dry up. And our motivation wanes.

So, it might be worthwhile to rethink our approach. To stop using those receipts as fuel. And to turn to intrinsic motivation instead.

Yes, everything we need to succeed lies between the ears. We can tap into confidence just as effectively as we can counter doubt. And the results can prove far more harmonious.

Let’s tap into that.

It may be tempting to prove others wrong. But it’s so much more rewarding to prove ourselves right.

Dereliction of Duty

The initial message from my supervisor was direct.

A co-worker had not reported to work in a few days. I was going to need to pick up the consults with his clients.

I quickly agreed to the mission. But it turns out my supervisor had more to share.

I know this isn’t ideal, she stated. I know it’s a new circumstance, and it puts you in a tough spot. But rest assured that I’m going to get to the bottom of this.

I read between the lines instantly.

You see, my colleague had pulled this stunt at the most inopportune time. Our team had gone remote due to a global pandemic. And this made it easy to slack off on the job without detection.

Timecard reporting and vacation requests were on the honor system. There was no foolproof way to see if any of us were at our desks.

My supervisor had only caught on to my colleague’s ruse when clients complained to her. Messages to him went unrequited. A forensic analysis revealed extensive work undone.

It was increasingly clear that my colleague had abandoned his post. He’d deserted his responsibilities. He’d committed dereliction of duty.

And now we were left to clean up the mess.

Dereliction of duty.

It’s a fancy term. But it often carries severe consequences.

We bristle at violations of the Ten Commandments — murder, theft, dishonesty, and so on. But of the offenses not etched in those ancient tablets, dereliction of duty might draw our strongest ire.

You see, despite our boasts of individuality, we rely on others a great deal. There is no i in team, and it takes a village to accomplish anything of note.

The biggest threat to group work is attrition. When team members don’t pull their weight, it forces others to fill the gaps. Balance evaporates, progress slows, and strain proliferates.

This is a significant problem. And when team members walk away from the mission, the problem grows exponentially.

Deserters do more than put pressure on those they left behind. They threaten to use that team’s operational secrets against it. And they cast doubt on the group’s legitimacy.

This is an existential threat. One that leads us to sound the alarm for dereliction of duty.

Indeed, soldiers who’ve walked away from their battlefield posts have been rounded up and executed. Athletes who’ve walked out on their team have been banned from their league. And those who’ve walked off the job have often been sued for breach of contract.

I don’t believe my employer sued my deserting colleague for breach of contract. But I’m sure he was dismissed with cause for what he’d done.

Such a fate would have been deserved.

But plenty of others in differing circumstances have received similar punishments. And those condemned masses likely got a raw deal.

The medical bill caught me off guard.

Eight months after forking over some money to get an MRI, I was being charged for the remainder of the cost.

That remainder was not cheap. And it complicated my attempts to pay off my credit card balance.

As I stared at the bill, I fumed.

Surely, there a statute of limitations for this. A reasonable period in which such residual costs could be collected. And eight months seemed beyond the pale of that statute.

I felt like I was being extorted. I felt used. I felt blatantly disrespected.

And I wanted a pound of flesh from the medical billing employees.

If I was this terrible at my job, I wouldn’t have one, I muttered.

It wasn’t the first time I’d uttered this phrase. But deep down inside, I knew it was all talk.

I wasn’t looking to peel people from their livelihoods on the account of incompetence. I’ve been laid off before, and I know how damaging job loss can be.

I was simply blowing off steam.

That said, many in positions of power have been less merciful. They’ve been quick to hit the Eject button on underperforming employees. And all too often, Dereliction of Duty has been listed as the cause.

If this seems like a misnomer, it’s because it is.

After all, these employees are not abandoning their posts. They’re just degrading the effectiveness of their positions.

The specialist tasked with my MRI statement likely reported to work each day, even as my bill lay in limbo for months. The corporate associate who missed their monthly targets still showed up to give it their best shot.

And yet, if they were to be shown the door, it would come with the stain of abandonment. Of desertion. Of dereliction of duty.

Do the power brokers casting these stones know what dereliction of duty means? Do they care?

They should.

Four times in my career, I’ve joined a new company.

Each time, the fresh start came with plenty of emotions — and lots of paperwork.

Most of the paperwork was standard — federal tax reporting forms, computer usage policies and the like. But twice, I also had to sign a non-compete agreement.

These agreements were defensive maneuvers. The industries I was preparing to work in were highly competitive, and company-hopping employees were a clear threat. By demanding that new hires sign a non-compete, businesses were minimizing the danger of job abandonment.

I’ve long associated these overt agreements with a tacit one. By signing them and abiding by them, I was proected against professional character assassination. If I showed up each day, stayed above board, and maintained a strong effort, I wouldn’t be accused of dereliction of due.

So far, that has come to pass. But that’s more by chance than by decree.

More and more companies assess employee performance by outcome these days, rather than output. Hitting the objectives of a role matters, but only if it leads to positive outcomes for the company. This could be revenue growth, increased market share, or a host of other corporate markers.

If employees deliver the goods and the company prospers, they stay on. If they only manage the first part, they could be dismissed. And on the way out the door, they’ll be slapped with the label of Dereliction of Duty.

This is similar to the mandate for football coaches. A coach can improve the readiness and performance of all the players on the squad. But if that positive momentum doesn’t lead the squad to win football games, that coach will get kicked to the curb.

But lay employees are not football coaches. There are no weekly scrimmages. There’s no central entity keeping score or handing out trophies at the end.

It’s apples and oranges. And it’s high time we start recognizing that.

So, let’s reserve Dereliction of Duty for those who truly deserve the label. Those like my ex-colleague, who pulled a Houdini and vanished into thin air.

And let’s stop smearing those who keep showing up and giving their best, just because the organization fell a bit short.

Team goals are shared responsibilities. Those who pursue them with strong effort and good intentions are derelict of nothing.

Soothing or Scathing?

The kids in the swimming pool were giddy.

They took turns jumping into the water, thrashing around like sharks, and splashing each other.

I sat in a lounger on the deck, cringing.

All the activity didn’t bother me. Kids will be kids after all.

But the gleeful shrieks they were emitting? That was something different.

The shrill noise hit my eardrums like a heat-seeking missile. It caused my heart to take off like a jet engine. And it put my nerves on red alert.

I had hoped to spend my afternoon relaxing poolside, but the shrieking left me in fight-or-flight mode. It was threatening to ruin my day.

I knew there was no easy antidote for my situation. The kids weren’t trying to trigger my body’s distress signals. They simply hadn’t learned how to control their voices yet.

I would need to wait out the soundstorm.

Eventually, the kids got out of the swimming pool.

Their parents wrapped them in towels, and the whole family headed on their way.

The area was quiet, once again.

Well, mostly quiet.

One end of the pool was flanked by a waterfall feature. The sound of fresh water cascading down offered a subtle soundtrack. And it had quite the effect on me.

My heart rate slowed down. My nerves went nearly catatonic. And I was tempted to doze off.

This is the vibe I’d come here for, I thought. The waterfall noises. Not the high-pitched shrieks.

But the more I thought about it, the more absurd that statement seemed.

Back when I was learning to drive, one phrase from my instructor stuck with me.

Driving is a non-contact sport.

The idea was to promote safe habits behind the wheel. Avoiding hitting objects — from stray animals to street signs to other vehicles — was paramount.

I was in high school at the time. And while I had opted out of studying physics, I still knew enough to find this advice darkly ironic.

The everyday world, you see, is full of contact. High-speed contact, to be specific.

All around us, particles are colliding with each other. Solids, liquids, and gases are pinballing off each other with great force. And as we drive, air is continually colliding with our vehicle.

The key is to not to avoid all collisions. That would be impossible.

Rather, our mandate is to avoid the big ones — with potentially deadly projectiles, with pedestrians, and with other hunks of sheet metal on the roads. The ones whose impact is accompanied by noise.

Yes, sound is an indicator of what we’re looking to avoid while driving. It’s a marker of the contact we don’t want to incur.

And so, we react forcefully when we hear a thud or a smash. We associate those sounds with a problem and seek to remedy the situation immediately.

Meanwhile, some other sounds hardly evoke a shrug. We’re apoplectic to the roar of the engine, the rush of the air conditioning or the pinging of raindrops off the windshield.

Mastering this dichotomy is key to becoming an effective driver. But the advantage wanes when we get out of the vehicle.

And that’s a problem.

I stared over at the pool waterfall.

The cascade of water sure sounded peaceful. Yet, the sight in front of me was anything but.

Gravity was causing this rushing water to collide with the water in the pool. The impact displaced the pool water, causing a series of bubbles and mild splashes in all directions. And those violent collisions were what caused that soothing rushing sound.

The mechanics of this auditory operation were quite complex. Far more involved than those that caused a shriek to leave a child’s mouth.

That too included a violent collision, between air and vocal chords. But the invisibility of that process made it seem innocuous to even the most trained of eyes.

The disconnect between my eyes and my ears was apparent. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

If sound is a universal marker of impact, how have we come to categorize it so differently? To recoil from some auditory cues and embrace others?

Some of this was likely learned. But much was innate, and likely without logic.

The rush of water might sound relaxing, but there is plenty of danger at the bottom of remote waterfalls.

High-pitched shrieking might trigger alarm, but it could just be a sign of glee.

Indeed, what we find scathing and soothing is mostly arbitrary.

It’s time to stop taking it for granted.

As I lay in bed, I could hear the commotion.

Outside my window, it was pitch black. But I still could hear loud booms and bangs from nearby.

Fireworks, I thought. It was almost Independence Day, and this seemed like a logical explanation.

I paid the noise no more mind, and soon dozed off to sleep.

But should I have been so sure? Gunfire does sound a lot like fireworks, after all. And the protocol for responding to it is far different.

If there was a shootout going on outside, would I be able to identify the auditory danger? Would my fight-or-flight responses activate in time? Would I get myself out of harm’s way?

I’m not sure. And that uncertainty is distressing.

Of course, I’m far from the only person to have this concern. But while many seek to root out the cause of such a dire situation, I’m focused on better identifying the symptoms.

No longer will I allow my brain to code sounds without reproach. Innate senses are not immaculate. What scathes and what soothes might turn out to be a red herring.

Yes, I am capable of sorting through the audible markers of impact. I can identify which ones truly present a threat and which do not.

This will require some intense focus, and some challenged assumptions. It might require me to stop shrugging off the booms and bangs of fireworks, for instance. And to start ignoring the shrieking of children.

It won’t be easy. But I’m here for it.

Sound is more than a sense. It’s a tool.

I intend to use it properly.