As I strode up to home plate, memories flooded my mind.
Memories of the last time I’d dug into a batter’s box.
It was a couple games ago, on a baseball field 25 miles away. I had been summoned off the bench as a pinch hitter. And everything seemed to be moving at a million miles a minute.
I took a couple of pitches, with the umpire calling one a strike. Then I slashed a ball into foul territory.
I was down to my last strike. And I was terrified of looking like a fool in front of my teammates.
So, as the next pitch came in, I left the bat on my shoulder. It spun toward the outermost edge of home plate, landing with a dull thud in the catcher’s mitt.
Strike three, the umpire shouted. I made the short walk back to the dugout, all semblance of self-confidence extinguished.
So, as I dug into the batter’s box for this delayed second chance, I had just one objective.
Don’t strike out looking.
The pitcher wound up and hurled the baseball. It bounced in the dirt several feet to the outside of home plate.
I smirked. No one was going to swing at that. Not even me.
Still, now was no time to get cocky. With a pitch that bad, who knew where the next one was going?
So, I zoned in. I stared intently at the pitcher as he prepared his next offering.
It sailed toward the upper part of the strike zone. A bit away from my body, but still reachable.
I took a swing and felt my bat connect with the ball. Then I watched the ball head straight toward the second baseman.
He leaped, and my heart sank. Another at bat was about to go to waste.
But a funny thing happened on the way to despair. The ball kept rising over the second baseman’s outstretched glove, before dropping to the ground in the outfield grass behind him.
I’d gotten a hit — the first of my high school baseball career.
As I stood on first base, my coach gave me a fist bump.
Good job. Now, stay focused.
I nodded. But this would prove to be an impossible task.
You see, I was still flabbergasted. I’d shown myself capable of close to nothing up in that one prior at bat. But somehow, I’d just peppered a humpback line drive into right field. What was happening?
The disbelief continued into the next game. Summoned off the bench yet again, I rolled a ground ball past an infielder’s lunging dive. I had another hit.
Now, I was 2 for 3 on the season. And technically I — the last guy on the depth chart — had the team’s highest batting average.
Where had this surge of success come from? And what was I to do with it?
I’ve spent more than half my life trying to figure that out.
Those three at bats were my final ones of organized baseball.
I tried out for the team again the next spring. But this time, I didn’t make it.
I none too surprised. There was a reason I was the last guy on the depth chart the season prior, after all.
Still, getting cut from the team exposed me to the rawness of reality. If baseball wasn’t going to be my future, I needed to figure out what would be.
That quest took several years. And even when I thought I had it figured, life had a few curveballs for me.
A recession. A career change. A layoff. Several drawn out job searches. And more than my fair share of work projects that didn’t yield the expected results.
After more than a decade of these occurrence, I’ve come to expect the worst. I might stride to the plate with the best of intentions, but I know that Strike Three call is coming.
So, when it doesn’t, I’m dumbfounded. I find myself frozen in my good fortune, unsure what to do next.
It might seem like a good problem to have. But it’s still a problem.
There’s a scene in the movie Talladega Nights that’s etched in my mind.
Main character Ricky Bobby is out to dinner with his sons and his parents at Applebee’s. It’s the first time in his life when the family is enjoying a restaurant meal together.
Suddenly, Ricky’s father — Reese — causes a commotion. He quickly gets kicked out of the restaurant.
When Ricky chases after his father, Reese explains that things were going too well for his liking. He caused a scene to find an escape.
I’m nowhere near as ornery as Reese Bobby. I’m not inclined to sabotage my success.
Still, I understand his perspective.
For a favorable outcome means little in the grand scheme of things. In a world that’s often cold and random, a glimmer of light is just a flash in the pan. It’s foolish to make anything more of it.
Yet, our world relies on us making more of it. On getting base hit after base hit. On going on a winning streak.
Life favors those who can handle success. The optimists. The dreamers. The charismatic.
The rest get left behind. And if I’m not careful, I will too.
Own your wins.
I share these words with my co-workers whenever they deflect the praise I send their way.
Modesty is considered a proper approach in professional settings. But it condemns far too many of my talented teammates to the shadows. So I break through its defenses, time and agein.
But when it’s time for me to step into the limelight, I tend to resist. Why bask in the glory of something that I can’t explain or knowingly replicate? Why search for meaning in the meaningless?
After all, the struggles I’ve endured – the challenges, the failings – they matter far more. That’s what I’ve told myself for years.
Lately though, I’ve started to change my tune.
I’ve come to recognize that the narrative of a realist is anything but a best seller. The community around us will only be regaled in the woe of dead ends if there’s some hope on the horizon.
My wins – spurious as they may seem – provide that hope. They make my story palatable to others. Others who might, in turn, open the door to more opportunities.
So, I’m taking my own advice. I’m accepting my successes for the mysteries they are. I’m owning my wins.
I don’t know if my new approach will yield me more favorable outcomes. But one can hope.
And for the first time in a long time, I am.