The Field of Failure

Day 22 in my @BestSelfCo Edison Deck Challenge looks at life and asks, “what activity or sport did you try as a kid and fail at?” I found this question curious; do we really expect to be excellent at a new activity or sport the first time we try? And how is failure determined? By lack of mastery, by a jury of your peers, or by self-judgment?

In my experience, games came first, most prominently recess games. It’s where you would eventually learn the games that turn to sport (dodge ball to baseball, tether ball to volleyball, a foot race to track and field, a game of HORSE to basketball, etc.). Honestly, my memory is that as a kid I probably would have been considered a failure at most sports. I was small, and when it came to picking teams, I was guaranteed to be one of the last chosen. Once chosen, I rarely got the chance to play. Those of us that have stood alone, knowing that no one wants us on their team, feel the humiliation long after, especially if you were as painfully shy as I was. It wasn’t that I wasn’t coordinated, athletic, or competitive. I was all three, but I rarely was given the opportunity to try. I went through my childhood convinced that I wasn’t good at sports. I bought the lie, hook, line, and sinker. It wasn’t until I was in my 40s that I discovered that not only was I good at athletic endeavors, I was competitive. When I think about this question on my childhood activities, there is no soundtrack that begins with the “Theme from Rocky” but rather one that begins with the chant to “Red Rover” and ends with Randy Newman’s diatribe on “Short People.”

I do believe that failure is necessary to achieve mastery and excellence, and it is in that regard I ponder what could be considered my early athletic failures, but more importantly, what I learned from them.

Red Rover: This was the childhood recess game that was popular when I was young but eventually banned due to multiple injuries and fractures. Basically, two teams were chosen and then aligned themselves in a face-off with arms linked. The chant began, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send (insert name) right over,” and the goal was to select the person who would be the weakest, so they could not break through the opposing team’s chain. The person called would survey where they felt the entwined arms would give way as they ran full speed toward the weakest link. If they broke through, they got to choose whoever they wished to come to their side, (usually the strongest) and if the chain held, the person who didn’t break through became part of the other side. Inevitably, I would either be the first part of the chain targeted by the other side, or the one called over. I always felt that I was a pawn in a game where I was neither wanted nor appreciated. What I learned? The weakest link is never created by one individual. The weakest link happens when the person holding your hand in solidarity lets go just when the going gets tough. And the opposite of breaking through and taking a prisoner is running toward a welcoming embrace and a place. That is a game I learned later. It is called empathy and compassion.

Sink or Swim: Before I was enrolled in YMCA swimming lessons, I was taught in the sink or swim method. First at a small lake, with the assurance of flotation with a hand under my belly as the dog paddle was explained. My dad walked backwards until he was shoulder high in water. He let go and said, “Swim.” I felt myself sink, my heart pound, my nose and mouth fill with water and my survival instinct took over. I coughed and sputtered to the shore. At the age of six, we moved to a house near a river, and again, I was taken to one bank of the river and told that the current was my enemy. To go to the popular swimming hole, you had to be able to swim against the current. I headed upstream and swam as if my life depended upon it, making it to the other side where it was deep. I held onto the tree roots jutting out of the bank and caught my breath as my legs dangled into the darkness below. My dad didn’t mention that I would also have to swim back. Eventually, I learned to swim with the current and against it, moving beyond adrenaline and panic. With formalized instruction, I learned to breathe with properly, swim underwater, dive in headfirst, and master the various front and back strokes. What I learned? When given the choice of sink or swim – I swim.

The Foot Race: In first grade my teacher put together an end of the year walking race, with the instructions “heel toe, heel toe, no running, heel toe.” We were put into heats, and I won each of my rounds. At the end, the boy I “walked” against in the final heat, protested when I won. He claimed that I cheated. I was too small, a girl, and I must have run rather than walked. In an act of diplomacy, the teacher called the result a “tie” with two winners, one a boy and one a girl. What I learned? When a girl succeeds, it is circumspect. And a girl’s achievement is most often sacrificed for a boy’s pride.

Field of Dreams: I grew up in a suburban development that was stalled for several years due to economic uncertainty. To us kids, that meant many empty lots were available to become our playground. The boys set up a baseball diamond but refused to let the girls play. So, being girls with both initiative and desire, we set up our own diamond, purloined our brother’s/father’s mitts, scavenged the lost baseballs from the boys’ field, and set up our own game. We didn’t care about RBIs, ERAs, or whether it was better to pitch overhand or underhand. We joyously ran around the bases and felt the thrill of the bat hitting the ball. I played shortstop/outfield (we doubled up on positions due to our small numbers). The game came to a halt when the boys showed up to reclaim their equipment, including our bats. The last bat was in my hands. I refused to voluntarily give it up and dared that someone would have to try and take it. I started spinning with bat in hand. Centrifugal force combined with sweaty palms sent the bat flying across the field beaning one of the taunting boys in the head. No permanent damage, but my parents put me in the penalty box that included no participation in any further field games. What I learned? Don’t fight for your rights with bat in hand. It might just slip through your fingers and do unintentional harm. When that happens, you never get the bat back.

The Last Hurdle: In junior high, I was talked into going out for the track team. I had loved every part of track and field, inspired by the summer Olympics. I joined my brother and sister to compete with our dad in wind sprints around the block. We challenged each other in the running long jump, standing long jump, and the triple jump, using the backyard vegetable garden plot and rocks to mark our efforts. I can’t remember who won as it was a never-ending leapfrog of competition with a close tally and ever-changing rules. At school during P.E., we were introduced to the hurdles. For the girls, there were no high hurdles or low hurdles, just the hurdles. I loved running and jumping, so my hurdling style was much more like a bunny rabbit than a gazelle, but I felt unbridled joy. I never thought about missing a hurdle until I was told that even though I was fast, I was running them incorrectly. Hurdles were meant to be run through not hopped over. Based on my height, hurdles were best left for the taller girls. My speed was redirected to the 400-meter relay where I ran the third leg. What I learned? There is no hurdle that is too high to overcome. The only hurdle that is unsurmountable is the one that is taken out of the competition.

I truly believe there is something to learn and gain from every activity and/or sport. Failure? For some perhaps that is the focus. For me failure is simply a necessary step of learning and becoming better. It helps define who I am and who I am yet to be. And in that vein, perhaps failure is only in the eye of the beholder, as the beholden are too busy moving on to the next challenge.