Last weekend, I spoke at the middle school ministry at our church. I was asked to speak about failure and how to experience it without letting it demoralize you or define you. I only had a couple of days to prepare, but I found myself filtering through more stories and illustrations than I could possibly use in a twenty minute talk. I realized how much I have experienced and learned from failure in my own life. So, I decided that I would begin journaling all of my so-called failures and what I have learned as a result. Our struggles and failures can shape us in ways that nothing else can. Also, I felt that if every time I fail, I can simply say, "Okay, well, at least I've got something new to blog about," it makes for a less traumatic experience. And since this blog is specifically designed for the experimental nature of life, I'm going to post my failure journal entries here. I'll still be primarily blogging about the baby and how that's going, but I thought this would be a good side project. So, without further ado...
It seems like the most natural place to begin in my journal of failure would be my earliest experience with it; namely, the arena of sports.
I have never been a good athlete. I wasn't even good at tee ball. When I was in little league (when they stopped letting us put the ball on the tee), I don't think I ever once got on base. I was afraid of the ball. I was afraid that the pitcher's accuracy was not reliable enough to be standing so close to where he was throwing. So, I became that kid who, if the ball comes anywhere near him, will duck and move away. If you had no idea where the ball was going but could only watch my body language, it would look like every ball was being thrown right at my head. When our team would win, which it often would, I even felt guilty about partaking in the post-game celebrations. I had literally done nothing to help us win. Unless the coach found it essential to have one kid standing in right field with his glove over his face looking at the sun through the cracks in the leather stitching.
This continued all through elementary school and into junior high. I very badly wanted to be good at basketball. I even spent two summers going to basketball camp. This did nothing except help me learn names of various drills that I wasn't any good at executing. Nevertheless, I kept trying.
During my eighth grade year, I was on the junior high basketball team. This was not an accomplishment. Our town and school were so small that there was no system for try-outs to be on a sports team. In fact, you were required (that's right, required) to be on a sports team. There was even an hour of the school day dedicated to forcing each and every junior high student to experience the joy of organized sports. So, there I was on the basketball team. My uniform staying clean and shiny all season long.
Despite my lack of athletic ability, the basketball coach seemed to like me. He was a really nice guy. I was doing well in his creative writing class (the only class in my entire career as a student before college that I genuinely enjoyed), and he was always really nice to me and my friends.
One night, we were playing an away game in a little town called Lookeba. I was sitting on the bench as usual. I was way down at the end of the bench, which allowed me to carry on conversations with my friends without the coach realizing that we were not paying attention to the game. Then, out of nowhere, Coach said my name. "Hey Rob!" He said. "Come here."
Of course, anyone who has ever played organized ball knows that when the coach says your name, you are about to be put in the game. I was about to play. I couldn't believe it. Maybe he had finally seen my hidden talent. I hustled over to the end of the bench where Coach was sitting (that's how you move when you're wearing a sports uniform; you "hustle").
"Move over," Coach said to the kid sitting next to him. When the spot next to him on the bench had been cleared, Coach gestured at me and said, "Sit down." I spent the next few minutes sitting next to the coach with my eyes glued to the basketball court pretending like I had been paying attention to the game the whole time. I wanted Coach to look at me and think to himself, "This kid is focused. He's got the eye of the tiger. He's ready to go out there and win this game for us." Of course, I was silently trying to remember the name of the team we were playing.
We sat watching the game for a few minutes. I kept waiting for Coach to lean over to me and share his game plan with me and tell me how he wanted me to execute it. Did he want me to guard that slow kid? Did he want me to shoot? Probably not. I was getting curious. Also, hadn't I been sitting on this bench for a while longer than normal? Usually when Coach would call someone to come and sit next to him, he would talk to them for a second or two and tell them that they could go in at the next time out. He had been quiet for longer than usual.
"Coach," I said tentatively. "Did you want me to go in?"
"Nah," he said absentmindedly. "Just keep me company."
I then realized what had happened. The kid who had previously been sitting next to the coach was, by every account, a really chatty and obnoxious seventh grader. He had been sitting next to the coach for the entire first half of the game, and had probably not stopped talking the whole time. Coach had looked down the bench and asked himself, "Who on this team is less annoying to me than this kid sitting here right now?" He picked me.
In the most bizarre way, I felt flattered. While I really wished I was good at basketball, I would almost prefer to be personally liked by the coach. I'm sure a lot of eighth grade boys in that situation would have been embarrassed, but I wasn't. The next day at school, I told this story to everyone. Not only was it funny, it was kind of cool. How many non-athletic kids are well-liked by the basketball coach?
So, my sports career was not filled with glory or trophies. The best I ever did at any sport was at Cross-Country. I wasn't necessarily fast, but I could run for a long time without needing to stop. When you grow up in a small town and you are bad at sports, this becomes a pretty valuable skill. During 9th grade, I ran Cross-Country and placed in a couple of tournaments. I loved the feeling of being good at a sport. However, it was Cross-Country, which means nobody watches the meets and you have to get up at five in the morning on Saturdays. I did not join the team for the following season. By the time I got to high school, there were other options besides sports, and I intended to take them.
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