Failure (1)

What a flat title.

But that’s how failure feels, right?

FLAT.

“You fell flat on your face” – the common expression.

I’ll share an easy failure first, so I can warm up to the topic. Perhaps it’s an outer layer.

We’ll peel back the onion over the coming weeks and months. The onion is scary. It smells so strong. It has so much power. Too much of it can ruin a dish. Ruin your tastebuds. Even ruin your stomach. But just the right amount can season a meal to perfection.

“Let me cook!” as the kids say.

Failure 1 goes back to high school. A lot of people know I played college football. But almost no one knows how my football career actually started.

QB Is Not For Me

Growing up, I was an athletic kid. Practiced hard, played hard, won a lot of trophies, even had a couple MVPs. The trophies were in soccer, basketball, and most of all, baseball.

In middle school, I switched from soccer to start playing football. Honestly, I don’t remember if I wanted to, or if my dad wanted me to. Our school district didn’t have football for young kids. You couldn’t start until 7th grade.

But here I was, playing football competitively for the first-time ever. Tried quarterback and frankly wasn’t good. I was smart. I was kind of fast. But I was not a big kid. Barely over 5 foot. Hadn’t touched 100lbs yet. One practice, I tried to scramble out of the pocket and got chased down and tackled by a kid who had already hit puberty. He had chin hair in 7th grade for goodness sake!

He hit me so hard that I ended up in the cornfield next to the field. I had dirt and small rocks embedded into my elbow. My knees hurt. My back hurt. Everything hurt.

Literally ate dirt that day.

After that tackle, I didn’t want to play QB anymore. No more scrambling and running for my life with a massive target on my back.

I preferred wide receiver, safety, or cornerback. The more I could avoid contact, the better.

Play football the rest of 7th grade, and play again in 8th grade, but it still wasn’t my thing.

Scout Team Defense

Now, I’m a freshman. I’ve started to grow a little bit, but still a scrawny kid. Probably 5’6″, 125lb soaking wet. Freckled, no muscles, no chin hair.

Coach is trying to put together the good ol’ scout team defense. I know I don’t want to be a benchwarmer forever. I also know there’s not a chance I’ll be on varsity as a freshman. But I need to start to make a name for myself.

I’m a willing, but timid participant.

An assistant coach is looking at a group of us scrawny freshman. He looks at me directly.

“Are you fast?”

“Yes, Coach. What do you need?”

“Well, we’re lining up against first team offense. They run the ball 95% of the time, and only have one wide receiver.”

“Do you want me to be a backup receiver?”

“No, no. That receiver doesn’t do anything anyway. I need defense. I need guys who can stop the run.”

He looks at the 4 other guys standing next to me and just shakes his head. They’re as small and scrawny as I am. All the big kids, who love to tackle are already on the field.

He looks at me again, “Do you play defense?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What position?”

“Corner or safety.”

“We have a safety. Ah hell, go be a corner. Don’t let that guy catch anything and don’t get caught picking dandelions.”

“Yes, sir.”

I strap up my helmet, put in my mouthpiece, and hustle out to the far side of the field. Out on an island, guarding the senior wide receiver, knowing that they’ll probably throw the ball to him one time the entire practice.

I think to myself “Good! I got this. I’m probably only a half step slower than him, and I’ll stop him from catching anything. Otherwise, I get to stand here and not have to hit anyone.”

Five plays go by, no action. The offensive coordinator hollers at the O-line that they aren’t doing their jobs. They’re missing assignments and the offense isn’t looking like it should.

I hear it, but I dismiss it. I’m on defense. It’s kind of fun to hear them get hollered at. I’m out on my island, guarding this scarecrow of a wide receiver. He doesn’t even block me. I just backpedal, then the whistle blows, repeat. Nothing.

Ten plays go by, still no action.

But now, the Head Coach is yelling at the O-line, because they’re still missing assignments and not blocking like they should. He ups the ante. He gives everyone on offense some up-downs.

“You should be scoring a touchdown EVERY SINGLE TIME! You guys are juniors and seniors. You’re going against the scout team. Get your asses in gear! I want to see some blocks! Let’s see some hits!”

I laugh to myself. What a great day to be on defense!

The scarecrow wide receiver runs back to the huddle and gets the play. He comes out to his post, shaking his head. I smirk. He’s probably mad he got up-downs.

QB calls out his cadence, ball is snapped, and my receiver runs diagonally in toward the line.

“What the heck?!” I’m processing as I watch him run in toward the linebackers. He hasn’t done this before. “What’s going on?” I wonder.

By the way he is running, he’s not running a route. And I know, as scout team defense, on this play, we’re supposed to imitate a zone defense.

I recognize something strange is happening. Two linebackers are turned and starting to run my way.

Oh shoot! The receiver is doing a crack block!

“Crack, crack!” I holler. I’m putting the pieces together in my head, micro seconds.

That means the play is coming toward me. It’s a run.

Just as the realization hits, I turn my head.

Suddenly, this huge offensive lineman is facemask to facemask with me. His hands are under my pads. My feet are coming off the ground. My head goes backward. I’m weightless.

“Oh no! He’s the pulling guard. He’s got me!” It clicks in my brain.

Then, just like that, boom, crash, my ass hits the grass.

But it’s not grass. It’s more like concrete.

Butt, then back, then head. They hit the ground in sequence. Feet still in air.

The offensive lineman runs over my limp body. Then, the running back hurdles over my limp body.

A few seconds later, I hear the varsity guys celebrating in the distance. They had scored a touchdown. I hear the offensive coordinator clapping. I hear the head coach shouting, “There you go boys! Now, that’s what I want to see.”

I’m laying there, still limp, gasping for air.

The offensive lineman comes back by me, bouncing and laughing.

“Yeah! Yeah! Hey little boy, how’d you like that pancake?!”

Pancake.

I had just been pancaked.

My second time ever having the wind knocked out of me.

Bumps and Bruises

Honestly, I don’t remember how I got up that day. Did the receiver come back and help me up? Did a fellow defensive player help me up? Did the assistant coach help me up? Did I just peel myself off the ground like Wylie Coyote?

Who knows?

What I do remember is that I left that practice and it hurt to sit in class for over a week.

Bruised tailbone.

Bruised ego.

Got to hear about it from that lineman the whole week.

Never again would I get lulled to sleep at the cornerback position.

And best believe, I’m still always on the lookout for that crack block.

Indulge Me For A Moment

Indulge me for a moment.

I’ve been stewing on this idea for awhile, and I’m not exactly sure how it’ll pan out. Fiction writers talk about pantsers vs. plotters. Plotters have it all mapped out, outlined, and then just write according to the outline. Pantsers write by the seat of their pants. They don’t have an outline, don’t know where the story is going, but figure it out as they go. Normally, I’m a plotter. Tonight, I’m a pantser.

What is failure?

That’s the question worth asking. I’ve always hated failure. It feels:

  • like a dirty word,
  • like an undesirable event,
  • like a terrible experience.
  • Something I try to avoid at all costs.

I won an award for failing fast one time, and it felt like a slap in the face.

In school, never wanted red marks on my papers, never wanted grades below an A, so I worked my ass off to keep straight A’s.

In sports, never wanted to be a benchwarmer, never wanted to be a backup, so I worked my ass off and became one of the top athletes in my class and went on to play college football.

In the career, never wanted to be low on the todem pole, so I worked my ass off and became one of the top performers at each company I worked for.

In writing, never wanted to be a broke artist, so I worked my ass off and wrote multiple books, two of which have sold thousands of copies. On The John sells really well this time of year (Christmas gift for dads and/or new year wanting a new devotional).

But honestly…

I’m still a broke artist. My writing doesn’t pay the main bills.

My career still isn’t where I want it to be. I don’t make as much as I should, and I haven’t built all the things I want to build.

For sports, most of my competitive games are behind me. I might pick up cycling or golf, love to lift and walk, love to play catch, but mostly I pay for my kids sports and watch them compete.

For school, I’m done with the formal part, but this is probably the only area I don’t feel like a failure. I still love learning, still practice it daily. It could be reading, online courses, building new skills, listening to podcasts, whatever the case, I’m an avid learner.

Now, in my late 30s, I look back and see how many things I’ve failed at.

Honestly, failed at a ton of things.

By outward appearances, I have my life together and I have an awesome family. People have joked that they want to be like me when they grow up. On one hand, I appreciate it. I do hope my life is admirable and worth imitating. I want to be a good example to everyone.

But the truth is, it isn’t all rainbows and butterflies. I don’t feel like I have parts of my life together. I’ve failed hard at a lot of things. I’ve bit the dirt, ate shit, and barely lived to tell about it.

So I’ll start unpacking some of that in coming weeks and coming months.

It won’t come all at once. I have to figure out what’s worth sharing and what’s going to actually be beneficial. Perhaps I need to “plot” it out, not just “pantser” it.

But I need to open up about more of these failures.

I hate being vulnerable. I don’t like to let people in.

Yet every time I’m vulnerable, I hear how much it helps people.

So cheers to future vulnerability. Whoop-de-freaking-do. How exciting. So pumped. Not.

That’s a wrap for this post. Thanks for paying attention.

Future posts may include…we’ll get there when it’s time.

A Nod to Goats

I saw a post saying that it’s been 28 years since Kobe and MJ faced off for their first game.

MJ was a dominant force at that time. It was 1997. Remember the streak? 1991, 92, 93 NBA championships. Leaves for 1+ year to play baseball. Comes back and wins championships in 96, 97, 98. He’s older, stronger, more in the fadeaway era than the insane dunks era. But MJ is still very much in his prime.

He’s also playing with a dislocated index finger.

Kobe was a young gun, fresh in the league, minimal NBA experience. He’s actually coming off the bench, as a 19-year old, green, but determined. You see it in his eyes.

He’s trying to prove himself.

The game wasn’t a playoff, championship, or anything like that. A simple regular season game. Barely of consequence.

But the meeting of the two men was so much more…

I’d equate it to a heavyweight fight. A young Tyson vs. an old Holyfield.

In hockey, a young McDavid vs. an older Crosby.

Someone called it: Air vs. Heir.

Here’s how the game went down:

Kobe ended with 33 points in 29 mins played off the bench.

MJ ended with 36 points and the win.

The old goat beat the young goat.

Why does this matter to anyone?

Other than a few old washed up athletes, no one cares. But I care. As a fan of both, I saw something in that game. And now as a grown man, I see more in that game.

From the young goat’s perspective, this is the first time you go toe-to-toe against your childhood icon. It’s something you’ll never forget. Meeting them is one thing; going against them in competition is another thing entirely.

From the old goat’s perspective, the first time the old goat gets challenged by a younger goat, he rejoices. Someone is here to challenge me! And he remembers. You see it in Jordan’s eyes. He’ll rejoice and remember this guy.

Learn from your mentors.

But never be afraid to take them head-on.

When they leave the stage, it may be your time to step up.

More Talk = Less Truth

You ever put your foot in your mouth?

I’ve put my foot in my mouth more times than I can count, usually in conversations with my wife.

Anyone who knows me, knows I try to stay quiet most of the time. In fact, I’ve had many people tell me they wish I’d talk more. 

But when I open my mouth in normal conversation, I struggle to fully communicate what I want to say. I’m monotone. I speak slowly. I don’t get my emotional tone across well enough. Give me a stage, a microphone, and time to prep, then I can speak well. But in daily life interactions, I am a better written communicator.

So, I write. Daily.

Either way, whether writing or speaking, I measure my words. At least 90% of the time, I do.

And that 10% of the time where I don’t, I get myself in trouble.

The tongue is a powerful thing. It holds in it, the power of death or of life. It can build up or tear down.

The more talk, the less truth; the wise measure their words. – Proverbs 10:19

The standard phrase used by most is, “Think before you speak.” 

But I like the way it reads in this translation: “The wise measure their words.”

Picture the words you’re about to speak spread out on a sheet of plywood. Use your brain as the tape measure. Determine how many words you need, and which angle you need to use. Then run the words through your mind again and cut them properly. Measure twice, cut once.

Then, and only then, deliver them. Wisely.

Proverbs 10:4-5

4: Lazy hands make for poverty,
but diligent hands bring wealth.

5: He who gathers crops in summer is a prudent son, but he who sleeps during harvest is a disgraceful son.

When you live in an agrarian society, these Proverbs are literally true.

You don’t work; you don’t eat. You don’t work; you have nothing.

But when you live in a welfare state, when you have an industrial (or post-industrial) society, the lines are more blurry. You can not work, but still eat. You can not work, but still have clothes, a place to live, transportation, etc.

  • Some do it via welfare.
  • Some do it via unemployment.
  • Some do it via disability.
  • Some do it via prison.

There are situations where welfare, unemployment, or disability are legitimately helping those who can’t work. But there are some who are on it and don’t need it. Some who are wealthier living off the system than contributing to the system. It’s kind of crazy honestly.

But there are other people who have found ways to not work, and they are some of the wealthiest of all. The 4-hour workweek folks. The patent owners. The land developers and real estate investors.

Work once to close the deal on that property, then leverage that work for decades. Work for a short burst, reap the benefits for years to come. License something so you’re paid every time other people use it. Super smart.

Back to the harvest idea, here’s our current reality…you can sleep during harvest season and still reap the benefits of it. In fact, its popular to treat fall, aka harvest, as warm and cozy, settle in for s’mores, campfires, and pumpkin spice lattes. Chill out and watch football time. Very few people in our society actually work their hardest during literal harvest time.

But I know some farmers. It is truly the busiest time. Work past midnight, up at 4am. Run hard for 4-6 weeks. Get all the crops in before the first snowfall.

Metaphorically, there are many seasons of harvest. It could be

  • Your company’s biggest conference.
  • Your business’s busy season.
  • Your launch time of a new product.

The truth is, if you really apply yourself, if you really do your best, if you really give it your all, your diligent hands will bring wealth.

Be prudent. Be diligent. Reap the benefits.

Put Me In The Zoo

When my kids were younger, I read them a bedtime story from Robert Lopshire called, Put Me In The Zoo.

PutMeInTheZoo-cover

It’s about this big gangly creature who wants to live in the zoo. Unfortunately, the zoo keepers aren’t keen on him. But a couple of kids take notice of him, and he begins to do all kinds of tricks for them. He gets their applause, admiration, and approval.

Then he asks them, “Tell me. Tell me, now, you two. Will they put me in the zoo?”

As he asks that question, I can’t help but think of the millions (if not billions) of people that are asking that question every day. I’ve been one of them too. We just ask it in a different way.

We ask,

  • Will they pick me for their team?
  • Will they place me on their staff?
  • Will they give me that position / title?
  • Will they invite me to their party?
  • Will they like my post?
  • Will they follow me on Instagram?
  • Will they re-tweet my stuff?
  • Will they buy what I’m selling?
  • Will they…

You fill in the blank.

We’re all looking for the exact same applause, admiration, and approval.

It’s a kids’ book, but it is a lesson for parents too.

We’re all looking for “our place” in life.

As for the creature who wanted to live in the zoo, the kids responded to his question perfectly:

“We like all the things you do. We like your spots, we like you, too. But you should not be in the zoo. No. You should NOT be in the zoo. With all the things that you can do, the circus is the place for you.”

Are you looking to be placed in the zoo when you should be performing in the circus?

A Legacy: George Ogle

Have you ever heard of him? Me neither.

In 2022, I went to Ireland. For half a day, I walked through St. Patricks Cathedral and hung out at the grounds. One thing that struck me — just how many sculptures and art pieces were in that cathedral.

The statues were so detailed, so intricate, so lifelike. Under each statue, or beside it, would be a dedication or inscription to the person.

This one caught my attention, this statue and inscription for George Ogle. Why?

I stopped to read this one because:

  1. It seemed like it had a typo in the header (HON- BLE, probably an abbreviation for Honorable)
  2. It was so long.
  3. It felt so over-the-top in its language.

It felt like someone was asked to come up with the highest possible praise of a human being, and at the same time, use the largest words possible.

Now before I share it with you, I want you to know:

I ran it through the Hemingway app just to be certain I wasn’t off base. Without the dates at the end, it says it is 258 words, but only 5 sentences. That’s over 50 words per sentence. All are considered “very hard to read.” Grade-level for reading: post-graduate level. It’s the first thing I’ve ever put in Hemingway at that high of level.

I’ve read post-graduate books before. They aren’t for the faint of heart. Neither is this dedication to George.

Give yourself a challenge and see if you get something out of this.

Just take a look at it with me for a minute.

the statue text / inscription for George Ogle

But once you get past the difficulty of it, and you actually process what they’re saying, it sounds like George Ogle was an admirable guy.

  • “Incorruptible integrity.”
  • “Scrupulous sense of honour.”
  • “Shed a lustre on every society in which he moved.”

In fact, I hope people write things like this about me.

It doesn’t have to be so over-the-top. But something better than, “He was a good dude.” “Great guy.”

When people write something like this about you, you obviously left an impression. “Enthroned in the hearts of all.”

People commissioned a statue for him, then wrote something like this for him. Wow.

Would people do that today?

Can you leave that kind of legacy today?

Such that a guy born 170+ years later, seeing the statue over 200+ years later, might actually pay attention, look you up, and wonder what other contributions you made to humanity. Wonder what your life amounted to.

That’s what legacy is all about.