Voluntary Commitment

Ladies and gentlemen, the theme for this week's blog entry is “Commitment”, and if you take a look at the photo to the right, you'll see my inspiration.

This photo has been all over the news lately.  But for those of you who haven't heard the story, the photo is actually a still taken from a video of a college baseball game that's been making the rounds on the Internet.    The video shows a player from Fordham University who, as he rounds the corner at third base and finds his way to home plate blocked by the catcher of the opposing team, leaps head first over the head of that catcher, doing a flip in mid air, and landing head first on home plate.  SAFE!!!!  Unbelievable, and YOU SHUT UP while you're at it.

Now, I can't help wondering what this guy's train of thought must have been when he rounded third base and realized, too late, that he was stuck between third base and home:  Unable to go back, unable to go forward.  I'm thinking he had two choices:  He could either give up and allow himself to be tagged out, or he could leap over the catcher's head!  Of course!  And that's exactly what he did, in the process becoming a poster child for the idea of commitment to a goal.

I confess that the first time I saw this video I'm not sure if I thought, “Wow.  Now that guy's committed”, or “Wow.  Now that guy needs to be committed.”  What I did know, however, was that I had my theme for this week's musings.

Too often it seems that the idea of committing oneself is seen as a negative thing.  If we are committed, we are “going out on a limb” or “sticking our necks out”, or, if things are really dire, we are out on a limb while sticking our necks out.  And my own personal favorite, comparing involvement and commitment with bacon and eggs:  “The chicken was involved, the pig was committed.”

Of course commitment involves some risk, because we are typically outside of our comfort zone while we're doing it.  But I for one believe that a little bit of risk in life can be a good thing, because that's how we grow.  While I'm not saying that we want to “grow” ourselves into a slab of bacon on someone's breakfast plate (like the proverbial pig referenced above), how else can we find out what we're capable of if we never stretch our limits?  If we never commit ourselves to a goal?

All too often, we are hesitant to commit to something because we are afraid of embarrassment or failure.  It seems to be a yardstick in our lives, a marker for our self-awareness and maturity.  When we're children, we're completely un-self-conscious as we explore new things, rushing headlong into our brave new world.  We run around naked, screaming at the top of our lungs with the sheer joy of being. If you did the same thing as an adult, you would be committed.

And when we hit puberty and our teens, life becomes just one big embarrassment.  And when we're teenagers, we're embarrassed by everything, aren't we?   We're embarrassed by our parents.  We're embarrassed by acne.  We're embarrassed by the massive faux-pas that is social interaction at that age.  And did I mention we're embarrassed by our parents?  We may be committed in our ideals, but often too embarrassed to act on them.  I'm not sure why that should be, but it be.  Religious allegories about banishment from the Garden of Eden due to that Tree of Knowledge thing, and high-fallutin' theories about the Songs of Innocence versus the Songs of Experience surely abound.

But what I do know is that this tempered approach to life all too often seems to follow us into adulthood, until we hopefully reach a point where we're secure enough in ourselves to not really worry about failing or until we're at least wise enough to realize that if we never really try, then we've already failed.

I want you to take one more look at the baseball player in the photo.  That guy did not fear failure when he made his leap of faith into immortality.  And neither should you.  Commit yourselves voluntarily...before someone does it for you!

Thought for the Day:

“Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life.  Don't be trapped by dogma—which is living with the results of other people's thinking.  Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice.  And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.  They somehow already know what you truly want to become.  Everything else is secondary.”  --From the 2005 Stanford commencement address given by Steve Jobs, Apple CEO.

Tiger in the Rough

Man, I don't know about you, but am I ever tired of seeing, hearing, and reading about Tiger Woods.  Everywhere you turn, it's all Tiger, all the time.  Which is why I think it's my turn to add my two cents to the cacophanous fray.

Let me first preface this commentary by saying that I really don't “get” the whole Tiger Woods phenomenon, probably because I just don't get the appeal of golf as entertainment.   There have been other golf superstars before Woods, and no doubt there will be many more after him.  But I simply don't understand how someone becomes an international superstar because he can play golf.  Oh, I get that there are lots of weekend warriors out there who fancy themselves Tiger wannabes, but where is golf's value as a spectator sport? 

Nor do I have any particular interest in Tiger's recent peccadilloes.  I don't admire him any less (mostly because I didn't especially admire him in the first place, given my documented disdain for the game of golf and for the cult of celebrity).  Nor do I feel all kinds of offended by his behavior, since it's not like he's my husband or otherwise owes me anything.  To me, he's just one more famous person whose reality is a lot uglier than his image.

So put another way, you might say I have no dog in this fight (but enough about Michael Vick).

But be that as it may, I do acknowledge that Tiger Woods is a household name and, until recently, that that name was gold in the advertising world.  And as I see it, how far he makes it back into the public's good graces (and therefore Madison Avenue's) depends on three things:  1)  that he continues to be a “winner” at golf;  2) that he's popular and well-liked (which for many people equates with winning); and 3) that he convinces the public that he's told us the “whole truth” about his transgressions and that he's sorry for having committed them (and whether it is indeed the whole truth or just a good acting job is seemingly irrelevant).   And this is never truer than in the world of professional sports.  And if that sounds cynical, well, it's meant to be. 

Truth be told, there's plenty of cynicism to go around, from the sports stars whose arrogance comes from knowing we'll overlook just about anything as long as they give us a wink and a smile (and a championship); to the public whose moral compass is incapable of finding True North when a "fan favorite" is involved.

Or perhaps it's the corporate sponsors who are the most cynical of all.  How can anyone view the latest ad from Nike featuring a silent Tiger Woods (prominently displaying the Nike logo on his cap) being "scolded" by his dead father and not feel manipulated by Nike?  Sad thing is, there's a significant segment of the population that is all too willing to be manipulated for commercial gain.  And for that reason, it's all too certain that Tiger's current and former corporate sponsors are sitting around and withholding final judgment on their association with Woods until they get a sense of which way the "Q factor" winds are blowing. 

What it all boils down to is that our capacity for forgiveness and compassion as well as our moral outrage are all relative and all subject to compromise.  Who we revile and who we revere in the face of public scandal says much more about us than it could ever say about the “scandalizer”, and goodness knows we've all had plenty of experience in being judge, jury and career executioner.

After all, celebrity is all about building a person up with unrealistic expectations and then knocking them back down with an overblown sense of moral outrage when those expectations are not adequately met.  Nor should it come as any great surprise that fame is a double-edged sword:  If you're big enough to be worshiped from the gallery, then you are certainly big enough to be taken down by a fickle public. 

That being said, whether a public figure ever makes it back up from the depths of public scorn is primarily a function of the public identifying with them while still being able to feel morally superior to them.  (Hence the inevitable jokes that will forevermore accompany mention of Tiger Woods and others in the same boat.)  And the lynchpin of that co-dependent process is the wrongdoer's primetime (and more often than not, self-serving) mea culpa, served up for your approval on the televised altar of public opinion.  

It's predictable and like a well-worn scene from a morality play:  For the American public to forgive the transgressor, he must first come clean about himself or else suffer the consequences.   As a case in point, Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens will forever be baseball pariahs not necessarily because of their “sins”, but because of their perceived arrogance.  In short, their refusal to tell us the truth about their use of steroids and/or performance enhancing drugs (also known as “PEDs”) is what sealed their fate.  Add to that the fact that Clemens and Bonds are not likeable characters.  Never were, and never will be.  And ultimately, there is no forgiveness where there is no good karma.  

And now it is Tiger who has taken his first steps on that well-traveled road to redemption, having gotten the public apology out of the way before venturing out this week into the safe confines of the Masters Invitational.  We'll soon see how well he's laid his groundwork, but judging from the reception he's gotten at Augusta, the early returns look good.   I'd venture to say that sometimes being “popular” (the definition of which varies from person to person) is all that's needed to make a sincere apology all but unnecessary and any transgression short of a felony irrelevant.  And even then, the felony had better be a big one.

If you are a thinking individual, perhaps such a schism should be a source of cognitive dissonance for you.  At the very least, it should make us all a little bit uncomfortable in making value judgments (be they pro or con) about total strangers. This is especially true when the only "value" involved is whether we think that that stranger is a “good guy” or even a “good-enough guy” because he's good at what he does with a puck, club, bat, hoop or pigskin.

It's all well and good to pillory celebrities, politicians and sports figures or to deify them.  Whether these people “deserve it” or not is beside the point, as it just comes with the territory.  But let's at least be honest with ourselves about why we're doing it and drop the pretense of moral authority.

Opening Day Nostalgia: Snips and Snails and Red Sox Tales

When I was growing up, I lived in a neighborhood with lots of kids and one of the things we used to do was play pick-up baseball games in the field across the street from my house.

We all had different skill levels, but my brother usually pitched (sometimes for both teams).  I remember that as I would flail away helplessly at each pitch, I'd hear him yelling at me from the pitcher's mound:  “Choke up on the bat!!” (the “dammit” being implied).  Well, I could hardly see him in the summer dusk, never mind the baseball, and I'm afraid it showed.  And “choke up on the bat?!”  What did that mean, anyway?  Did bats have necks??

As I stood in the “batter's box”, baffled, I could feel the disapproval of my silent teammates.  The air was so still, that above the steady drone of cicadas and tree frogs we could all hear our shortstop's mother calling him home for the night, but pretended not to notice.  This was serious business.

Eventually, my brother would stalk from the mound, rearrange my hands in what I could only assume was a “choked” position, and return to the mound—all so he could blow it by me with a clear conscience.  It was mortifying, but par for the course at that age.

You see, growing up I was the youngest of three kids:  My sister was four years older than me, and my brother, eight.  And those of you who are the youngest in your family know what that means:  I played the dual roles of being the pampered baby of the family (allegedly), while also being the constant target of gang teasing by my older siblings.  I was also the one who had to “ride the hump” in the back seat during family car trips, seated between my brother and sister and being constantly shoved back and forth if I dared to move in either direction.  (But I would have my revenge as only a kid could, for I was prone to carsickness and I knew how to use it!)

For the first fourteen years of my existence, I shared a room with my sister, and for seven of those years, we shared a double bed.  I refer to this period of my life as “doing time”.   Being older than me (and therefore bigger), my sister would hog the blankets and the bed until eventually forcing me out of bed and onto the floor.  It was a nightly ritual.  For seven years, I learned to dress for bed in layers and to wear a helmet. Being in such close proximity, it's only natural that my sister and I argued a lot, playing starring roles in each other's weekly confessionals at church.

But things were a bit different with my brother.  He seemed somehow “exotic” and “worldly” to me.  I don't know if it was because he was so much older than me, or just because I didn't have to share a room with him!    But for whatever reason, I looked up to him, and that meant trying to do the things that he did.  I read the same books, listened to the same music, even studied his Boy Scout handbook (especially the section on tourniquets with the gruesome illustrations).   But more than anything, that meant living and breathing baseball, whether I liked it or not!  And at first, I. DID. NOT.

But a funny thing happened:  Through osmosis, I learned to love the game on its own merits.  I remember racing home from school to listen to the spring training games on the radio.  I watched the regular season games on television, and I studied the box scores.  Summers were lived to the soundtrack of Red Sox baseball.

And then, when I was about thirteen, my brother took me to my first Red Sox game at Fenway Park.  It was like a Red Sox bat mitzvah!  I don't remember who won the game or even who the Red Sox played that day.  What I do remember is walking into Fenway for the first time and being shocked by the brightness of the colors.  It was like that moment in "The Wizard of Oz" when the black and white magically transforms into glorious technicolor.  In my mind's eye, I can still see the neon green of the field; the brilliant red, white and blue of the American flag snapping briskly in the breeze;  the dazzling white of the Red Sox home uniforms.   I was in awe at seeing my heroes live and in person.  They really did exist outside the confines of my TV set!

That was such an innocent time for me—and for baseball.  The game was still steroid-free, and it was still a game, not so much the business it seems to have become.  And it had a simplicity that appealed to me at that age:  There were clear cut good guys (the Red Sox, of course) and bad guys  (everybody else, but especially the New. York. Yankees).

A local columnist once described Red Sox fandom as being the equivalent of a yearly reenactment of  the “Stations of the Cross”.  But I could never be that cynical (and being raised Catholic, I could never get away with being that blasphemous either, but that's another story for another day).  Instead, what I did was revel in every Red Sox victory, whether they made the playoffs or not (which was just as well, since in those days they seldom did).  And I enjoyed the bond I shared with my brother over baseball.

Now, this is not to suggest that my relationship with my brother was perfect.  Far from it.  Like any older brother worth his salt, he was endlessly irritating.  He would tease me relentlessly (and still does), and he wasn't always the best of role models.  I can still remember that when he would babysit for my sister and me, he'd make raw cake batter for our supper and call it a night.  But I cried when he moved out of my parents' house.  It felt like the end of something.  And it was.  But baseball remained a constant between us.

At Christmastime, I'd give him The Baseball Encyclopedia and a subscription to The Sporting News.  He'd give me tickets to Opening Day, and we'd go together.  When I married my husband, my brother walked me down the aisle (but only after confirming I had not planned my wedding on a date that would conflict with the baseball playoff schedule (AS IF!)).

Through the years, common interests have come and gone, but baseball was always there to keep the lines of communication open between us, even during those awkward times when we otherwise didn't know what to say to each other.  Even today, when I hear Red Sox news, I find myself thinking, “I need to give my brother a call”.

For I like to think of baseball not only as a harbinger of spring, but as something that can bring people together who might never connect:  People of different nationalities; different political persuasions; and especially different generations.

And now, another new Red Sox season is upon us.  For all our differences, we will collectively watch that first pitch, sharing the moment but each alone with our memories.  Mine will be of a hot summer evening in a tree-lined clearing, my brother's voice calling out to me to “choke up on the bat!” (with the “dammit” being implied).

Photo credit:  
Photo used by permission and license of adjustafresh.