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Greatness Comes With A Cost
A whole bunch of years ago there was a series on cable called Camelot. It was yet another retelling of the King Arthur legend, although with a grittier feel to it.
Of course one of the key characters was Merlin, the King’s magician/adviser. Normally he is portrayed as someone who can wave his hands or wand or whatever and easily conjure up whatever is needed at the time.
But in Camelot it didn’t happen quite so simply. On the rare occasions when Merlin needed to summon up some magic, it took all his concentration and an extreme effort, which would often see him bleeding from his eye before he finished.
When asked about it, he would painfully reply, “Magic has a cost.”
The same is true for learning how to play fastpitch softball. (You knew there had to be a point to this story somewhere.)
If you want to be great at it, or even really, really good, you don’t simply walk out onto the field and start playing. There is a cost to achieving greatness – a price to be paid in exchange for the glory you seek.
Often that price is paid in time. You may stay need to stay after practice when everyone else is going home to get some extra reps in or solve a particular issue.
It likely will also involve working on your own, even when you don’t feel like it, to improve a skill that’s deficient or take one that’s good to the next level. (Often the second one is tougher to get going on than the first, because it’s easy to convince yourself you’re already good enough.)
The price may come in terms of missed opportunities for other things. While your friends are all going to a concert or an amusement park or a birthday party or some other fun event, you’re going to a college camp or a tournament or maybe even staying behind because your team has practice.
The price could be financial. If your family doesn’t have a lot of disposable income you may need to pass on that new phone or skip getting a new outfit so you can pay for team fees or a new bat or a college camp – anything that’s outside of the core fees.
Or it could mean you’re not able to get a job to make some “fun” money of your own because your practice and game schedule doesn’t allow it.
The price could be pain from a particularly tough speed and agility class or perhaps the result of an injury – especially if you’re attempting to play through it. Or it could be the feeling of being tired all the time.
College players experience that a lot. Between early morning lifting, classes, practice (team or on their own depending on the time of year), study tables, and making up for lost time in the classroom due to games they can pretty much be in a fog much of the year.
The cost can manifest itself in many ways. But there is always a cost if you have that burning desire to stand out on the field and do all you can to help your team win.
This isn’t just for players, by the way. There is also a cost is you want to be a better coach.
You will find yourself putting in far more time than just the couple of hours at the field a few days a week or even the 12-hour days of a tournament. There’s practice planning, coordinating schedules, managing budgets, talking to parents and players, and a whole host of other tasks to be performed while still trying to stay employed at your day job.
If you want to be great you also have to allow for continuing education. You’ll need to take online courses or attend in-person clinics such as those offered by the National Fastpitch Coaches Association as well as local events.
You’ll invest an inordinate amount of your own money on books and videos as well as training devices – even if it seems they will solve one problem for one player.
And, of course, at some point you will miss a family birthday, or a school reunion, or a work outing, or something else because, well, games. At which point the cost will also include the internal stress it puts on your personal relationships because “you’re always at some field somewhere” instead of where others think you should be.
So is achieving your goals on the field worth the cost? Only you can answer that.
The key, though, is to understand that there will be a cost if you want to aspire to greatness – or even “really, really goodness.”
Your willingness to pay it is where the true magic happens.
Magician photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
The Essence of Being a Great Teammate
There have been tons of books and articles written instructing players on how to be a great teammate. Many of them talk about things like cheering loudly in the dugout or communicating well or standing up for a teammate if he/she is verbally or even physically attacked.
But one of the best things you can do is to simply step up and do something that needs to be done to help the team – even if it’s outside your normal role. I recently heard a great example involving one of my pitching students, a young lady named Sammie.
Sammie’s high school team was scheduled to play a game that day. They typically have just enough to actually play, so when they discovered that their one and only catcher had gone home sick from school it left a giant hole in the lineup someone had to fill.
I’m sure you can see where this is headed: Sammie said she would volunteer.
Now, as I understand it Sammie has never caught before in her life. Not even in rec ball.
She has always been a pitcher, and she has become an excellent pitcher. But she had pitched the day before while fighting through an injury so her pitching again wasn’t a possibility.
She could have just stood by and looked the other way, but the team needed someone and she said she’d strap on the gear and give it a shot.
That’s remarkable enough. But there’s one other minor factor that makes it even better.
If you look at the photo at the top of this blog post what do you see? Look closer. There you have it.
No, that photo isn’t reversed. Sammie is a lefty.
So basically you have a lefty who has never played the position before stepping up to play one of the toughest and most important positions on the field. And one with some extra risk of getting hurt through foul tips or chasing after pop-ups or plays at the plate or just flat-out missing the ball because you’re not used to catching it while someone is swinging.
In my world, that’s the essence of being a great teammate. Because if Sammie doesn’t step up (and clearly no one else plans to either) the team doesn’t play.
There are many ways players can contribute to a team. But when you’re willing to look beyond your own needs and worries and do something that’s well outside your comfort zone you separate yourself from the crowd.
Or as Mr. Spock would say:
Life in the Fastpitch Lane 