Like a cat ready to pounce, I waited eagerly for the question.
I had read the case study and identified the big ideas it entailed. All I needed was an opening from the professor to share it with the class.
I normally wouldn’t be so cavalier in sharing such insights. I’m an introvert, more apt to stay silent than to toot my own horn.
But this was business school. Discussions like these were part of the fabric of the experience. And class participation was part of the grade.
So, I waited for my opportunity, and raised my hand when it came. When the professor called on me, I shared those big ideas I’d identified.
But the reaction to these insights was not what I expected.
Instead of affirmation, there was silence and bewilderment throughout the classroom.
Okay, the professor said, after an awkward pause. But what else did we learn about the company from the case study?
One by one, my classmates would speak up, repeating facts so clearly written in the text that a sixth grader could have shared them. And time after time, the professor would approve of their simple commentary.
Now I was the one bewildered.
Why were we spending so much time on obvious points? Was this really the best use of our time in class?
I had to be missing something here. But what was it?
I racked my brain for a while, until I came up with the only that seemed semi-reasonable.
I was going for home runs, not singles.
When I was growing up, I played baseball.
I was an outfielder on my middle school team. And I was on my high school’s Junior Varsity team for a season as well.
I didn’t play much, because I wasn’t very good. I had trouble running down fly balls. And when I threw the ball, it would tail off to the right.
But I wasn’t entirely a lost cause.
In fact, I got a hit in two of my three at-bats in high school.
One of those hits was a ground ball to the right side, which I beat out for an infield hit. The other was a soft line drive over the second baseman’s head that landed in right field.
These were the kind of results that would make star batters blush with embarrassment. If they were right-handed like me, they’d much rather crank a ball to left field.
But I was just fine with my two base hits. I was most comfortable extending my arms and serving a ball on the far side of home plate into right field. That was my natural swing.
I was a singles hitter. And that was alright by me.
Then again, this approach wasn’t going to get me a ton of playing time. And it wasn’t going to help me make the Varsity team in the future.
The prominent roles on both squads were filled by the impact players. By the kids who could hit home runs, not just singles.
Home runs guaranteed that the team would score at least one run. Singles only got the team one step closer to scoring a run.
(For those uninitiated with baseball, runs are the same as points or goals in other sports.)
In other words, home runs meant more.
I must admit that I envied my teammates who were impact players . For I was a scrawny teenager with limited athleticism and a long swing. I couldn’t easily relate to their abilities, as much as I yearned to.
There was one day when I got a taste, though. We were taking live batting practice, and a got a hold of a pitch. I watched the ball sail down the left field line, landing about 300 feet away.
It was exhilarating.
Wow, I thought to myself. I can actually do that.
But then, the next pitch came in. I took a swing and hit a weak ground ball to the right side.
Back to normal.
My time playing organized baseball is long gone.
And so, it seems, is my singles-hitter approach.
These days, I’m all too tempted to swing for the fences. To try for the bold and profound.
For I know all too well that the world can be a ruthless, competitive place. Hitting home runs seems like the best way to rise above the fray.
But is it? Probably not.
Swinging for the fences is the very definition of a high-risk, high-reward strategy.
The successes can be majestic. But the odds of swinging and missing are much higher.
At a single moment in time, this dynamic can provide a thrill. Just like gambling, the uncertainty and potential can enrapture us.
But our lives are filled with quintillions of moments. And over that large of a sample size, the failures of a home run strategy loom large.
It’s much better to consider the merits of the single.
I often speak of incrementalism. Even as I appear to be doing a poor job of practicing what I preach.
I’ve brought up this principle mostly as an antidote to the dangers of radicalism. As proof that taking a series of gradual steps can bring smoothly needed change to society.
But there is a second reason this philosophy holds water. It gets us to adopt a winning strategy when it comes to singles and home runs.
We are not following that winning playbook right now.
As the line in the old Nike commercial goes: Chicks Dig the Long Ball. Truth be told, we all do.
Going for it all — calling our shot and taking a mighty swing — this is more than brash expression. It’s the opportunity we see to swat our problems into orbit. To find a panacea and live happily ever after.
These urges are part of human nature. After all, who would rather keep suffering than find a quick cure?
But these desires are also self-serving. And with the home run strategy gaining mass appeal, this attribute can cause problems.
For what ails us might not ail others. And our instant cure might cause others collateral damage.
All too often, this is exactly what happens when we swing for the fences. And while the downstream impacts might be unintentional, that doesn’t make them any less catastrophic.
It’s time for us to get ourselves out of this downward spiral.
Let’s keep the line moving with singles, instead of going for the home run. This way, we can leverage the upside of progress, while minimizing exposure to the downside.
This might be tedious. And it might go against the grain of how others approach problems.
But it’s a move in the right direction. An approach that can pay massive dividends over time.
So, let’s kiss the long ball goodbye. It’s time for us to dig the base hits.