Winning Through the Letting Go of the Need to Win
Author's Note: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals mentioned in these stories.
I don't remember a whole lot about high school. I remember studying The Scarlet Pimpernel ("They seek him here, they seek him there, those Frenchies seek him everywhere..."). I remember watching The Hunchback of Notre Dame and hobbling around the halls like Quasimodo in between classes — a backpack stuffed under my jacket to give myself a "hunch". I remember a bit of Algebra. That is to say, I remember taking an Algebra class at one point. I remember taking Spanish. And I remember two conversations that I was a part of that stuck with me. These are conversations that I think about every so often. They were poignant to me then and remain significant to me now all these years later. One interesting aspect about these two conversations: I was present for them, but I didn't contribute to either one of them in any way. I was just a listener, taking in what was said.
The first of these conversations happened on a baseball field, in a dugout, to be precise... after some random practice in the late evening as the sun was setting. I was on the baseball team in high school and I was mediocre at best. There were other players on my team that possessed far more talent than I did, but I enjoyed playing and I don't recall myself being catastrophically terrible.
Anyways, back to the dugout. Most of the players had left for the evening. The only players that remained were me, some other guy who thought he was God's gift to baseball, and our first baseman, Rob.
I don't recall the name of the player that thought he was "Johnny McBaseball", nor do I remember what he looked like. I just remember his attitude. He was absolutely full of himself. He really did think he was the best player on the team and gave no indication to the contrary. He was arrogant and a show off.
Rob, on the other hand, I remember more vividly. The interesting thing about Rob was that he grew up around professional baseball. His dad played for the Los Angeles Dodgers and was with the Dodgers when they won the World Series back in the '80s. Rob knew baseball. From a very young age he had been in close proximality to big league players and — being in such close proximity — Rob knew the caliber of play those players put forth day in and day out.
All that to say, Rob could be relied upon to know where he stood in terms of the quality of player he himself was. So Rob and this hot dog of a player are sitting there carrying on a bit after practice and I'm just there... probably cackling and cutting up with the two of them, but at one point Rob turns to this guy... the guy who thinks he's amazing at baseball and says to him, "You know, the only thing different about me and you is that I know I suck at baseball and you don't have a clue." Ouch. I don't remember what was said before or after that. Looking back on the event, I suppose a silence followed. I can't imagine what could have been said after that statement landed. I remember thinking to myself, "If anyone could have said that with any degree of authority, it would have been Rob." He knew that he was not going to be a professional baseball player. He knew that this hot dog, show off, of a player was not going to be a professional baseball player. And there I was, just listening in on this conversation, knowing full well that both of them were leaps and bounds better than I was ever going to be. The "hot dog" had been thoroughly put in his place.
A careful examination of myself reveals that I'm not all that competitive when it comes to games. Perhaps I was at one point, but not anymore. When I do compete, it's not as if I don't try... but I don't get worked up about winning. I sometimes wonder where my competitive nature went, and I look to this day in a baseball dugout in high school as a starting point.
Jump ahead to August 2024. I was at a wedding reception and a group of friends and I were playing cornhole. I was teamed up with my friend Sam and we were competing against our mutual friend George and another person I can't recall. George is quite competitive. I remember giving it my best effort, but George and his partner ended up beating me and Sam pretty thoroughly. I remember George delighting in his victory, but more to the point, I remember myself feeling the joy of his victory as well. He looked so satisfied and pleased with himself.
The next game I was partnered with George and I again gave it my all. The game was much closer this time around. I had a few highlights here and there, but George took on the heavy burden of carrying our team for the most part. We ended up winning by the narrowest of margins and George again reveled in his victory, but I again reveled in his victory more than I did my own.
I suppose I know I'm not a great athlete. I'm no great savant when it comes to academic challenges either. I know that there is always someone out there profoundly better than me. I don't know that I'm particularly bothered by this. What does that say about me... that I enjoy seeing other people win more than I enjoy winning myself?
Contemplating this simple interaction from my distant past, I'm not sure there's any profound take away except that I have found relief in the letting go of a need to be the best.
As the Buddha noted 2,500 years ago, suffering arises from longing, craving and attachment (The Second Noble Truth). One can only find peace when one's attachment and craving loosen (The Third Noble Truth).
Thirty years removed from high school, I now find myself playing softball with a small group of friends and co-workers, and I'm noticing that I'm just having fun. I'm not too hard on myself for striking out, dropping a ball, or flubbing a play. I think a former version of myself would ruminate on the errors made in a game long after that game's ending. I just don't hold to that level of self criticism anymore. I've found peace in the letting go.
Next week I'll dive into the second of the high school conversations that have stayed with me all these years later.
