I have always been competitive. Now, I have lost my share----but every since I was a little guy, Hate losing. And I fathered three rather competitive sorts in my sons. I guarantee that this afternoon----in unison----we danced, whooped, and raised both hands---in two different states---when Albert Pujols cranked his second walk-off homer of the weekend against the Cubs.
Winning is sweet…no matter if it is a game of washers in the backyard…..or watching your favorite team crush their natural rivals.
Some of my more educated friends find my competitiveness to be childish. And maybe they have a point…But I have lived my life finding competitors and challenging myself to beat them. In my newspaper career, I focused on beating the local daily publication. In radio, I was trying to beat the newspaper and the other radio stations on the dial. My college administrator days have focused on growing institutions. If we aren’t growing……we are dying……at least in my simple estimation. Always beat last semester’s numbers…..
There have been times when this passion has been very healthy. Then there were the times when it got the best of me. Two different episodes come to mind.
The first was on the day of my 30th birthday. I remembered this story last week while having a Facebook chat with old buddy Steve Porter of the (Alton) Telegraph. We were both asked to participate in a media basketball game prior to a high school all-star game in Belleville. Just one of those fun sideshow games for the fans to fill the seats prior to the main event.
I was inserted into the game late in the first quarter with my team down by ten points. By that time in my life I had slowed considerably from my high school days (and I wasn’t that fast to begin with). A loose ball rolled in front of me and I instinctively dove on the floor to recover it. That stunned the other media types. Then, on a rebound under the other basket, I elbowed some poor radio guy from Sparta. I was feeling it. Before long I was pushing people and talking smack. It was pathetic. And it was all about the birthday. Thirty hurt…..and I probably thought it was important to prove something. I did---I proved to be an ass and was never invited to another media game.
But that pales in comparison to my role in my oldest son’s baseball team several years later. Andy was on a “coach-pitch” team where parents served up the pitches. In Bethalto, we were too poor for a pitching machine….instead…..we had parents don a glove and go out on the hill.
Understand-------the parents are pitching to their own team.
One night, our designated parent pitcher had to work late…..so the other parents asked for a volunteer to pitch to our team. Finally, I was drafted.
I loosened up….and jogged out with the opposing team to deliver pitches to my son and his buddies.
The first player up was one of our better hitters and liked balls lower in the strike zone….so I tried to keep my pitches low to help him. But alas, he struck out swinging.
Next kid liked them outside….and I tried to accommodate…..but he whiffed too.
All of a sudden, I’m starting to feel it. Some strange feeling came over me as I started trying to hit the corners in striking out the side.
In the second inning, my son batted and was crowding the plate a little too much. I own the inside of the plate. I put one under his chin. Then I got him to chase an outside pitch. Another K!
I’m pitching a perfect game!
By the fifth inning, when I threw a slider to get our clean-up hitter out……..the parents were in full revolt. Everything was working for me. I had a fastball….a slider….and my hook was killing.
That was my last inning of work.
But I am proud to report that while none of the parents would talk to me for the rest of the season……I was pitching a shutout when they went to the bullpen to put Billy’s dad on the mound. My season ERA was 0.00. Better than Gibson in ’68.
So you can see….I am not one of those guys who can embrace the soccer leagues where they don’t keep score. Why even have a goalie if that is your attitude?
I can report that age has mellowed me a bit. I’m not quite the competitive jerk that I once was……
I control it….until some no-name Chicago Cub manager decides two days in a row to pitch to Albert Pujols with the game on the line in extra innings. And when that happens….and Albert launches one into the seats….
I dance….I laugh….I realize.
I still value winning way too much.
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