I don’t know what made me think I could steal home.
There I was, standing on third base. Eleven years old. Valley Stream Little League. Representing K&K Delicatessen, a shop I had never stepped foot in let alone known where it was actually located, who sponsored the team.
One out. Down by one run.
Winning run is at the plate and, somehow, the pitch gets past the catcher.
I had taken a pretty big lead. I hesitated but then made a break for home.
The whole season had been a disappointment, honestly. First, it was my coaches who picked me in the first round of the draft only to learn that, just because I was a gigantic kid, did not mean I had any skill, power or actual athletic ability. Second, was my own disappointment of quickly being demoted from first base where all the action happened to right field where no one ever hit a ball.
Listen, I was an art kid. Much more comfortable alone in my room trying to draw comic book superheroes than I was in the middle of a grassy expanse with a too tight baseball cap on my head daydreaming about my sticker book collection.
It’s not that I didn’t like sports. I did. I spent many an afternoon playing street whiffle ball or shooting hoops on a makeshift plywood backboard that my Dad attached to our backyard oak tree. The ball ricocheting every which way when it landed on the roots below.
But I wasn’t super coordinated. Such is the price you pay for being taller than your teachers by the time you hit fourth grade.
Back to the game.
By the time I made my break for home it was already too late. The catcher had retrieved the ball and probably could have eaten half a Twix bar waiting for me to arrive in time for him to tag me out.
My stomach sank.
I looked back at the third base coach who was actively stomping up and down on his hat as I rounded the backstop and took my seat on the end of the bench.
Sure, we still had one out to go but the disappointment that lived in my chest was already overwhelming. And by the time our last chance had grounded out to the second baseman the heartbreak had already set in. I had let down my team.
I’ve always been a team sports person. This is for two reasons, I think.
One is that, as mentioned, I’ve never been that athletically gifted. And more individual sports really require that. You need a diverse or advanced set of skills to really shine as a wrestler or gymnast or track athlete.
Second is that I am much, much more inclined to put in a big effort when someone else’s success is dependent on me showing up for them. This is probably why I was named Captain of the high school basketball team (it sure as shit wasn’t because of my ball handling skills) and even why I opened a business.
If I was the only one affected by my success and effort I’d probably be laying on the couch watching Bob Ross reruns right now.
It was the last game of the season so we all piled into my coach’s car for a short ride down the street to the requisite end-of-the-year team party at Anconas Pizza.
As I walked towards the mini-van that was going to lead me to my maximum allotted two slices and a small rainbow Italian ice, I didn’t want to get in. I was certain that the other kids on my team were going to blame me for losing the game. That the shame and disappointment I was feeling was one comment away from manifesting itself as tears streaming down my face in front of my teammates. An absolute nightmare for an eleven year old boy.
But none of that happened. No one said anything. In fact, when I was one of the last ones to get in and struggled to figure out where to sit, one of the other kids squished over and called me over to sit next to them.
By the time we got to the pizza place and were half a pepperoni slice in, no one was even thinking about the game anymore. Our only ties to my reckless decision to slowly storm home plate or baseball at all were the dusty uniforms we were still wearing. Instead we were wiping grease from our faces and trying to get the pinball machine to give us a game for free.
And this dear, patient reader (you gotta admit this intro story was long, even for me) is my ode to doing as much as you possibly can in teams.
In these days of interconnectivity, you have to admit that we are more isolated than ever. And that is what makes teams so awesome. They will make things more fun. They will - certainly in my case - make you work harder than you ever would on your own. They will help you realize that what you were sure was going to be viewed as absolutely catastrophic by others really isn’t that big of a deal.
We put a lot of effort into our training programs. The exercises. The percentages. The organization. All of it.
But the best thing about our gyms are the teams. Other members in your sessions and the coaches who are leading them who make you push hard, have fun and be a part of something bigger than yourself.
It is absolutely the magic part of what we have created. And if you aren’t part of a team - whether that’s organized groups like we offer or just a couple of good training partners or a running buddy - you are missing out on so much that training has to offer.
Because a good team will be there when you need a spot. Or that little bit of encouragement to push past a sticking point. Or do that extra mile when you don’t really want to.
Or invite you to sit next to them on the van after you get tagged out at home.