If you've been a visitor here for some time, you'll know that the only professional sport Matt and I follow with any fidelity is baseball. Since moving to Seattle, we've adopted the Mariners as our home team. After all, years of being Rays fans taught us how frustrating it is when the stadium is filled with transplants whose loyalty hasn't shifted to their new hometown.
This year, we've been at a couple major games of the postseason, including the fifth game of the ALDS and game four of the ALCS. I won't go into details recounting those games, because this post isn't really about baseball, but I will just say that those games are definitely going down in franchise history.
Sitting here watching game six of the ALCS, watching the Mariners struggle as early as the second inning, I've come face to face with a stark reminder about myself.
You know that corny quote "shoot for the moon, because even if you fall, you'll land among the stars"? I've never been a "shoot for the moon" kind of person. I'm a "shoot for the stars and if you get farther, what a nice surprise! And if you fall, at least you tried!" kind of person.
When the Mariners moved on to the ALCS, I said, "I don't care if they win the World Series. It would be nice if we even made it in." Because to me, having the hope and audacity to fight for first place feels dangerous. Low expectations are safer. I don't want to deal with the risk of being letdown. I'd rather be pleasantly surprised than disappointed.
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| Winning is so fun, but it makes losing hurt that much more. |
I've always been this way. I hate the feeling of failure—I mean, who doesn't? But unlike most people, I've done my best to avoid it all my life, strategically insulating myself against it. I either learn to perform perfectly, or I refuse to try my best. It's not failure if you don't try. Because of this avoidance, I've never really learned to deal with failure.
Failure makes me so uncomfortable, I project my own desire to avoid it onto others...even professional athletes who love their job and get paid generously to do it.
Like, the Mariners will be fine if they lose. They don't need me to protect them from the sting of failure. But here I am, trying to temper the hope and expectation that we'll make it to the World Series, let alone win it.
The reminder of this character flaw brought me back to the first time I finally worked up the nerve to send Elizabeth a single paragraph of my novel. It reminded me of the number one reason I'm still uncertain if I'll self-publish that book, which I did finish revising and finally called complete back in August.
I would rather never try than face failure. I would rather never try than face criticism, even the well-meaning, constructive sort.
This sensitivity to failure, real or perceived, is something I've learned to overcome in many ways, but not when it comes to writing. Particularly, I'm much better at taking and incorporating feedback at work, because I've learned to separate myself from my deliverables. But when it comes to anything personal, I still live in my avoidance.
I set conservative goals for races. I don't finish writing projects, and I certainly don't share them. It's not failure if I do it to myself.
Anyway, it's funny how the postseason has dragged my perfectionism and the ways it has stunted me back into the light in such an unexpected way. As I write this, we are watching game six of the ALCS, and I have no way of knowing how things will turn out for this series, let alone the World Series, but it's been a good reminder that I need to do some self-reflection and decide if I'm ever going to work on this.
The saying is true: no risk, no reward. I guess someday I'll have to contend with whether my desire for the reward is worth the risk.
Ali
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