Onward and Upward.
My advisor ended her email with those three words.
She was replying to an apology email I’d drafted. One where I’d wholeheartedly taken the blame for a televised meltdown.
I wasn’t on the air having a viral moment. I was helping behind the scenes on a college TV newscast.
But the activity off-camera was hopelessly chaotic, and the broadcast had turned visibly turbulent.
I took this all personally. I felt that if I did my job better, everything would have fallen in line.
And so, I typed up that apology. And I hit Send.
My advisor wasn’t having it. She reminded me that we’d all played a hand in the fiasco, and that falling on the sword did no one any good. The best thing to do was to turn the page.
That’s what those last three words were meant to refer to. But they turned into so much more.
Football is a game with a staccato rhythm.
The offense huddles up. Then the players move to where the referee is holding the ball, flanking the width of the field in the process.
Defensive players stare into their eyes from inches away. It’s eerily still for a moment.
And then it isn’t.
The ball is snapped backwards. Burly linemen collide where the ball once was. Offensive playmakers run in various directions, hoping to help advance the ball. Defensive playmakers seek to stop them in their tracks.
A few seconds later, the action ends. The referee blows their whistle. And the offense huddles up again.
Each of these sequences is called a play. And in an average pro football game, there are 153 of them.
All those stops and starts can be a lot to take in, particularly for the novice fans in the stands.
But for the combatants on the field, they’re best encapsulated in two words.
Next play.
If you tune out the roar of the crowd, you might hear the captains on the field barking that mantra. Or maybe the coaches on the sideline.
What happened on the last sequence only matters so much. The next play offers a clean slate, a fresh opportunity. If the team is ready to seize it.
This thinking extends to other elements of the game as well.
Football is a violent sport, and injuries are all too common. When they occur, teammates will often take a knee, and maybe give the felled player a light pat on the shoulder as he is helped to the sideline.
But there is no more time to wallow in despair. There’s still a game to be won.
So, the captains and coaches will often bark Next man up. Next play.
Another player comes into the game, in place of their injured teammate. And the contest goes on as if nothing had happened.
It’s all so crude. And it’s all so real.
My advisor was not a football coach. She was a media professor.
And yet, something in those three words at the end of her email lit a fire under me.
Onward and upward had me ready to don my helmet, buckle my chinstrap, and charge into the fray.
Not in football. In life.
You see, up until that moment, I’d viewed my actions as cumulative. Everything I’d done would impact what I did next. The book on me had already been written, and all I was doing was adding words to the page.
To a certain degree, this philosophy made sense. I’d spent 18 years under the watchful eyes of my parents and another four on a college campus. Grade point averages, course credit accumulations, and internship assessments were my only guideposts to success.
But the weight of that legacy was starting to hinder me. I’d become cautious and tentative to a fault. With each small stumble, I retreated further into a spiral of fear and doubt.
And now, I’d stepped in it bigtime. I’d put something terrible on the air. The putrid evidence had beamed into television sets and landed on tape.
I was doomed.
But those words from my advisor changed everything.
They cast the next newscast as a fresh opportunity, clear of the baggage of the prior debacle.
And the concept didn’t end there.
The next adviser conversation, the next assignment, the next experience I faced – in the classroom or out of it – would offer a similar chance to cast a new narrative. All I would need to do is compartmentalize.
I got the message loud and clear.
Not long after reading my advisor’s email, I headed to class.
I had an exam in that course that day. And as I turned in the test paper to the proctor, I wasn’t quite confident I’d aced it.
By the time I made my way into the hallway, doubt had taken over my mind. I was second-guessing all my answers, my preparation, and even my self-worth.
But then I thought about the email, and those final few words.
Next play, I told myself. And I put the exam out of my mind.
Something similar happened when I slightly flubbed an assignment at my internship the next day. And when I put a typo in the script for a volunteer sportscast at the end of the week.
Both mishaps were unfortunate. But there was no need to make them catastrophic. So, I didn’t.
Next play, I reminded myself. Keep going.
I could feel the change in me. I was bolder, more productive, and more resilient. People were starting to feed off my positive energy, and I felt inspired by their belief in me.
It was a virtuous cycle, all fed from a shift in mindset.
Eventually, I graduated and left that college campus behind. But the next play mentality has stayed with me.
It’s guided me through a career in the news media, and a much longer stint in marketing. It’s steadied my hand as a writer, allowing me to publish a new article here on Ember Trace each week for nearly a decade. It’s helped me improve my craft at cooking and achieve great things as a competitive runner.
So much of my success comes from leaving my failings behind. By focusing on the challenge to come rather than dwelling on what could have been.
It’s a lesson that’s salient for anyone. But in my case, it was lifechanging.
So, I’m eternally grateful to my college advisor for guiding the way. And I thank my lucky stars that I took a moment to listen to that guidance.
Next play. Onward and upward. Keep going.