I Stepped up to the Plate
Hello fellow readers! Sorry I haven't been writing as much or keeping up to date with your blogs as much as I would like, but for the last couple of weeks, I've been focusing on my proposal for Grant for the Web. I finally submitted my proposal with 12 hours to spare before the deadline. What can I say... I don't like to wait until the last minute.
I'm really excited to see if my project gets selected, but I'll be all right if it doesn't. The way I see it, the judges are going to pick the projects that have the best chances of sparking interest in web monetization. Even if they don't select mine, somebody's else's selection could be the catalyst to send crypto, or XRP more specifically, into the mainstream. Who knows, stranger things have happened.
I'm also proud of myself for putting myself out there. Yeah, I know I said I'd be okay if my project doesn't get selected, but that doesn't mean I won't be bummed out.
So, why did I take a chance and apply? Well, that requires me to tell you a story from my childhood about a life-changing event that changed my view on taking chances.
...that's right, I'm going to reminisce about an event from my childhood, so be sure to pay close attention.
I know this is how you all feel about my childhood stories, and I don't care.
“STRIKE THREE! YOU'RE OUT!” The umpire shouted as the ball whizzed straight over the plate and into the catcher's mitt. This had become quite the routine every time it was my turn to bat. It was more of a formality at this point; I would grab a bat from the batter's box, walk up to the plate, stand there as the pitcher threw 3 fast balls, and I walk back to the dugout. Baseball was the one sport I was truly awful at. It didn't help that I was on the worst team in the little league for 12 year olds. We had not won a single game that season, and we were the laughing stock of the entire league. Hell, we had been mercied 3 games that season. That's when the other team is leading by such an obscene amount that the umpire will call the game because the parents would like to get home at a reasonable hour.
Feeling defeated yet again as I made my way to my seat in the dug out, my coach stopped me. “Jazz,” he said and continued, “Get over here.”
Oh yeah I forgot to mention, my nickname in all sports growing up was, “Jazz.” This nickname originated from my first football coach who wasn't able to pronounce my last name, so he shortened it to “Jazz” and it stuck. In case you were wondering, it wasn't from the fact that I had remarkable jazz hands at that age... like this...
FUN FACT: I despised the nickname so much that whenever I did do something right in whatever sport I was playing, I would immediately perform jazz hands. My teammates would laugh and my coaches would order me to 'take a lap'.
I took quite a few laps in my sporting days.
I dragged the bat behind me as I meandered towards Coach Posner. He was a good coach, but I didn't feel like a lecture at that moment. When I finally made my way to him, he looked down on me and I looked down at the ground. We stood there in silence until I realized he wasn't going to speak until I looked at him. I finally raised my eyes to meet his. He looked pissed.
“Jazz, there's something I just can't figure out and I was hoping you could help me out.”
I nodded.
“You see, I've seen you make crazy tackles when you're playing football, amazing 3-point shots in basketball, hell, you're even a pretty outfielder. So, why haven't you swung the bat once this entire season?”
“Because...” I trailed off.
“Because what? Are you afraid of getting hit?” Coach Posner pushed again.
I shook my head. I wasn't afraid of being hit by the ball. So, what was it then? Up until that point, I had never really put too much thought into why I wasn't swinging the bat. Then, the answer finally came to me and I replied before thinking about what I was saying.
“Because I don't want to miss. I'm waiting for the perfect pitch,” I blurted out.
“I got news for you kid. You're gonna be waiting a long time for the perfect pitch because I hate to be the one to break it to ya, but such a thing doesn't exist. Maybe that ball comes right down the middle for you, but it's coming in too fast, or maybe a hint too slow. It's kind of the pitcher's job to make you miss.” He responded with a smirk. He continued, “Look, what's the worst thing that can happen if you swing?”
“I'll strike out.”
“Right, now what is the best thing that could happen?”
“Home run?” I answered, confused.
“That's right! So, if you don't swing, you'll most likely strike out. Now, if you swing, you still might strike out, but there's also a chance you could hit a home run.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and added, “You might as well take a chance and swing.”
The next time I was at plate I hit a double, and drove a run home. We still lost that game, but the next game which was our last, we won. I hit every ball that crossed the plate on that game.
...and yes, when I crossed home plate there was a lot of this...
Coach Posner didn't know it at the time, and neither did I, but that one event shaped how I would approach taking chances in my life. Is there a chance I'll strikeout on an opportunity that I come across in life? Yeah, but I'll be damned if I strikeout because I didn't swing the bat.
Thank you, Coach Posner.
NickelNDime out!
Under this line is a bunch more great content. You should get a subscription to Coil, like, today!
Continue reading with a Coil membership.