Man, I loved playing baseball. And between ages 5-18 I played a heckuva lot of it. Summer ball, fall ball, all-star team, traveling teams, junior varsity, varsity... As soon as one team ended, I was ready for the next one to start. Standing in the outfield, where between each pitch I'd meticulously dissect every possible scenario based on who's batting, how many runners are on base, how many outs we have, where the ball could be hit, and who's pitching for us, never got old. Running – no, stealing – no, stealing and sliding and scoring – never got old. Diving into first base to beat out what should have been a routine groundout never, ever, ever got old.
But being honest, I was, by all accounts, a very-mediocre-at-best baseball player. I understand adding "very" to "mediocre" doesn't really make sense. You can't just be sort of lukewarm, partially in the middle, or extremely average. Yet I was. I could run, I could throw, and I most certainly could catch. But, my goodness, did I suck at batting. Putting the bat on the ball just never connected for me – literally. I'm not going to tell you how low my batting average was my junior year, but let's just say that in my first at-bat that season I hit a triple – and then never got another base hit (true story).
So, as much as I loved baseball, it seldomly loved me back quite the same. And that saddened me for many years – namely said junior year – because God knows how much heart, blood, sweat, tears, and my parents' finances I willfully poured into that sport, thinking maybe, just maybe something long-term would result from it.
Nothing ever did. (Sorry if I ruined the surprise there.)
I sure didn't walk away from baseball empty-handed, though. Each season I carried off a bat bag full of realizations. For example, despite what you've heard, practice doesn't necessarily make perfect. Good practice can, but if you're practicing the same wrong thing over and over again, you're getting no closer to mastering how to do it the right way (see my batting above). Most of all, I walked away with the best piece of advice given to me thus far.
Have you ever been asked that question, what's the best piece of advice you were ever given? I have several times, and my answer is always the same. And it's only one word. My dad gave me it in a truck ride to a baseball practice.
"Hustle."
He said other things, all of which I've long forgotten. I'm sure they were wonderful words. But he kept going back to that word: hustle. Just hustle. If you achieve nothing else, achieve hustle. You can't always control the outcome, but you can always control your level of hustle.
Click! Light bulb activated.
It immediately resonated with me. I got it, message received. Matter of fact, the message was received so clearly that I wrote the word "HUSTLE" on the inside of my ball cap's bill just in case I needed a quick reminder a look-up's length away during the moments hustling felt like the nonessential I could short-cut out. So I ran, I slid, I dove, I pushed, I sweated. I ran to my field position, I ran to the dugout, and I ran during every play, even when there was nothing to run to. I decided that, though others would likely inevitably produce better results than me, no one was going to out-hustle me.
But the hustle didn't stop there. The more I kicked those two syllables around in my head, the more I understood how implementable they were in realms well beyond those of a baseball field. Friends, coworkers – people in general – like good results, and good results matter. But everyone loves and respects great effort, effort that emphatically yells undying determination and loyalty. That's hustle. Hustling shows that, look, I might not get this right the first or second time, but no one's going to question my desire and effort to along the way or in the end. People resoundingly appreciate that.
Hearing that advice from my dad also told me that, to him, he was less interested in what I ultimately accomplished – or whether or not I even accomplished anything tangible – and more concerned with, and able to be impressed by, my level of effort put forth. As I looked at all the screaming fathers around me who somehow attempted to vicariously live out the dreams they never achieved through the batting averages and strikeout counts of their sons, I realized how rare my dad's expectations of me and principles for me were. That earned my respect.
That said, he did become the screaming dad once, but of course only because of a perceived lack of hustle. During a game in my 13-year-old league, I wore a batting helmet that was too big and blocked my vision when running. I hit a ball to right field that yielded what should have been an easy stand-up double, but the helmet kept falling down over my eyes. I was tagged out nearly walking into second base. My dad exploded. He came into the dugout after that inning and called me out in front of my team for not hustling. Needless to say, I didn't dig that. So in my next at-bat, I reached first base. Then I stole second. Then I stole third. Then I scored on a wild pitch. After scoring, all the parents, including my dad, clapped and cheered. But as I walked to the dugout upon being called safe at the plate, I looked at him and yelled in front of all the parents, "There! Is that good enough for you?" Cue awkward silence. He and I still laugh about that often.
At the end of my high school senior year's baseball season, which proved to be my life's final baseball season, I was presented with the Hustle Award. Sure, it was a crappy trophy under 10 bucks, but I don't recall that award even existing before. And that was all the validation I needed. In my mind, mission accomplished.
Today I'm still hustling – which, granted, has different connotations here in Atlanta. But I can't not hustle, because I feel like I'd be cheating myself and, far worse, disappointing my dad. And that's the last thing I'd ever want to do.
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