My parents are no dummies – it didn't take long for them to learn how to get me to surrender and comply to whatever was asked of me, and do so with minimal complaining. All it took was the promise of food.
Go to swim lessons at the YMCA? Buy me a TV dinner at the grocery store on the way home.
Go to baseball practices and games and give it my all? Reward me with drive-thru junk food for each great play.
Go to Tuesday night Pentecostal church services that could range from anywhere between three to six hours? Give me a $2 spending spree at any fast-food chain afterwards. (Hey, in a time when McDonald's hamburgers were just 49 cents, two bucks was jackpot city.)
I'm not kidding. For better or worse, I'm that easy.
That agreement extended to volunteering, which is something for which my mom has always strongly advocated and hammered into my brother and my brain. Whether it was Ehrler's ice cream in Louisville or something salty and greasy from just about any establishment with a drive thru, my mom knew how to tug at my heart stomach strings and lure me in to whatever volunteerism she lined up for us, be it working at a soup kitchen, picking up carelessly disposed trash along roadsides, or feeding hungry soldiers.
Look, I'm not gonna lie and say I did any of these things out of the goodness of my heart. Quite contrarily, it was solely for the promised food that followed. So even in volunteering, it was all about me, me, me. Or at least that's how each volunteer opportunity started.
A couple hours in to serving plates of hotdogs and Ruffles chips or stabbing at old, littered Coke bottles, after my initial childish complacence finally wore off, the feeling that my not-exactly-voluntary labor might yield a reward greater and more satisfying than fatty calories for my spoiled self would indubitably sink in. Did I want to go into that soup kitchen and prep food for, and make small talk with, a bunch of homeless people who looked "funny" and smelled "funny"? Nope. Did I want to walk up and down a highway and make someone's irresponsible litter my sudden responsibility to clean up? Not in the least. Did I want to go all the way to Louisville every other Saturday night and spend hours setting up the same rows of chairs for, serving the same meals to, and hearing the same jokes and performances for hundreds of uniformed men and women as part of a ministry program to appreciate those in the military? God no. Absolutely zero of any of those things sounded remotely appealing. My time would be better spent watching a movie or building a town out of Legos.
That's how I felt beforehand. But then when I unfolded my arms and took my stuck-up nose out of the air and actually got to work, a conflicting feeling overtook me time and time again: I felt small for always thinking I was above meaningful work that positively impacted others, yet I felt big because I was contributing – willfully or otherwise – to something that was bigger than me. I thank my mom for that, for coercing me to give my time and efforts to others, for allowing me to see what my contributions could produce, especially in conjunction with others' contributions.
My mom didn't stop there, however. With her checkbook (my dad, too) she loudly demonstrated the equal importance in giving – and doing so cheerfully – from a monetary perspective, that organizations that serve and contribute deserve financial support from those of us who are blessed enough to provide such funds – and that true giving is giving because you want to and not because someone in power mandates it.
This isn't meant to be a self-righteous, hey-look-at-me statement whatsoever, but as a Christian, I'm an ardent tither to my church, because I feel led to, blessed to, and confident enough in how my church uses those funds to serve the many needs in my community to know that they're doing right by the money I offer up. Now, if you don't believe in tithing, or if you find the organized assembly of people before God to be evil and corrupt across the board, that's cool – there is a plethora of non-religious ways in which you can contribute your time, sweat, and/or money to people, charities, or other organizations in need.
She might not know she did, but my mom successfully taught me how giving in any facet is a privilege, something of which to be appreciative to even be able to do. It's an honor to give. I know that because the elated feeling and general satisfaction afterwards can't be matched.
And for the record, I haven't changed much; I'm pretty much a meal's bribe away from doing or attending just about whatever dreadful thing you want me to.
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.
Two things in this world freak me out far above anything else (and, no, the thought of a Nickelback/Creed supergroup isn't one of them – but that's a great guess, well played): bugs and public speaking.
Think debilitating fears.
Now, bugs are hiiiigh on that list, but they're nowhere near the stomach-turning, hands-dampening fright induced by the mere thought of public speaking. I'm talking a crippling fear, folks. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
Jerry Seinfeld has this bit where he talks about how absurd our collective fear of public speaking is, pointing out how it's the number-one fear among Americans, second to the fear of death, the punch-line being that more people would rather be in the casket than give the eulogy. The first time I heard that bit, I was laughing uncontrollably – less for its "gotcha" shot to the funny bone and more for its uncomfortable truth for me personally. Preach it, Pastor Rabbi Seinfeld!
My guess is that fact about me surprises you. Anyone who knows me tends to find that impossible to buy. But, so help me God, that's as truthy as truth gets.
Quite honestly, I hate being the center of attention, I kid you not. (I'm much more reserved than I present myself, but that's courtesy of an enormous amount of self-training and my mandatory "me" times, during which I charge my gregarious battery.) The pressure in the center of everyone often overwhelms me, essentially because it's there where I go from just talking to suddenly performing. In the back row you can fall asleep and fart, and no one notices. But the closer you get to the front, the more lines of vision you fall within and the less margin of error you receive. All at once your words have weight and your every nuance and idiosyncrasy and wardrobe choice are dissected by the masses (I know this because in the crowd I'm absolutely picking apart those ahead of me, limb by limb). It's on center stage where I catch myself in the silence found in between words realizing that the only sound at that moment is coming from my mouth – otherwise, there's a loud clash of nothingness. It also doesn't help that I speak with the articulation of a Word document in Wingdings.
As I left college and stepped into career mode, I gradually leaned in to that fear, looking for more and more ways to avoid being in the foreground, where I could be impactful in the workplace without being visible. This went on for years. And I knew the entire time that continuing this slow step into the shadowy back row would hinder me from career (and confidence) growth, where I would at some point hit what many would deem a job opportunity but I would deem my glass ceiling simply because that opportunity required a set percentage of public speaking – even if minimal – and I would end up deciding to stay within the confines of my comfort zone and thus stay put.
But then I learned some history about my parents. Growing up I always knew my dad had a slight stuttering problem – but I had no idea how far along he had come in improving it and how he had faced similar fears of public speaking due to this vocal impediment. I had never considered how he dealt with all the teasing a vulnerability like stuttering welcomed through grade school. That he, too, considered all the career paths that offered a safe haven from public speaking. That he, too, sweated the introductions of himself in meetings, even forgetting his own name and job title sometimes.
I also always knew my mom could never stand to be in the center of anything. A woman of numerous tangible talents, she has favored her very reserved, introverted side for as long as I can recall – virtually to the point where she would rather keep her talents to herself if the alternative meant public acknowledgement, especially in the form of theatre. Yet I never considered how much she wrestled with what she felt was a calling to be more open with her God-given abilities to play the piano and create calligraphic or sketched art. That she, too, enjoyed the practice but loathed the performance. That she, too, obsessed over the possibility of making a mistake and being scrutinized by her peers.
It was all too familiar to me. The palpitation, the perspiration, the panicky apprehension. The step in the public light might last only minutes, but the rush of worry and mental anguish preceding it would last days, weeks, months – there was no time limit.
And then my parents decided to face it, to punch their ugly fear square in the face.
My dad took a speech class in college. He even considered pursuing a vocation in speech pathology. He put himself in circumstances in his decades-long career in state government in which he'd have to speak, he'd have to address individuals, then groups, then crowded rooms. He pushed himself to considerably diminish his stuttering affliction, hugely aiding him in commanding great respect among his colleagues, climbing the ranks in state government and the Air Force, and becoming – all biases aside – easily the most likable person I've known.
My mom got involved in a ministry run by her church where she played piano at a retirement home. Which led to enough comfort to get behind the piano at church to occasionally provide ambiance. Which led to a fill-in role on the worship team as needed. Which led to a permanent spot on the worship team. And she grew more accepting to the idea of giving demonstrations of her astounding artwork in various opportunities at church, at her alma mater, etc. She now is beginning to teach calligraphy classes out of her home.
That affected me. My parents didn't change the world, they didn't cure a disease, and they didn't become filthy rich as a result, but they voluntarily went completely against their comfort level and marched toward their fear – the same fear I share – and they punched it square in the face. That greatly, greatly affected me.
It resonated with me over years, until I ever so slowly decided to just deal with my own stumbling block. I decided whatever opportunity in which I could speak to just a few people – no number was too minor – would give me confidence. If I could present in front of coworkers, if I could grab a mic somewhere and just hear my voice in the presence of strangers, if I could sit with folks I'd known for two seconds and make them laugh within five minutes, I knew I could push myself closer to that holy grail: to stand before tens, hundreds – how many ever – of strange and/or familiar faces and just speak comfortably, comically, competently, and confidently. So, that's what I'm pursuing now.
...I'm still working on the whole bugs thing.
