I grew up playing baseball and it meant the world to me. My early experience was in little league with a season that ran from April to early June. At the end of each season, the top performers were selected for the All-Star Team. The All-Star Team would then continue playing throughout the summer.
Year after year, the same kids tended to make All-Stars. It was typically a fair process, though each year included some degree of drama and politics. There was inevitably a coach’s son who made All-Stars over a more deserving kid, but generally the best kids made the team.
I was an All-Star every year and it became part of my family’s life. We didn’t have summer vacations. Instead, we spent June and July traveling to little league baseball tournaments. The parents of the perennial All-Stars were all friends and everyone looked forward to these summer weekends together.
The party stopped in my final season of little league. I’d had a decent season, but nothing spectacular. I was one of four kids on my team who were among the annual All-Star alums and I knew my season would rank as a distant 4th. But, I still hoped for the best.
The previous year, I’d had a stellar season. I’d hit in the .400s and been far and away the best player on my team. I remember the phone ringing after our final game. When I answered, my dad had already picked up and I overheard my coach inform him that I’d made the All-Star team. I was ecstatic. At 13, it was the most exciting thing in my life.
Coincidentally, the same scenario occurred a year later, when I’d had my marginal season. Following the last game, the coach called the house and just as before, I’d picked up the phone at the same time as my dad and overheard the conversation. My adrenaline spiked when I heard his voice, thinking I’d squeaked by and made the team. But, that wasn’t the case. He was calling about a lost piece of equipment thinking my dad may have picked it up. I sank, and was crushed by the reality that I wouldn’t be an All-Star.
Even at 13, I’d understood. I can’t recall Christmas of that year. Nor do I remember my birthday. But, I can vividly recall the reality of that moment. I knew I didn’t deserve it. I knew my production had not merited a selection, yet still I had hoped for the best. I hoped maybe I’d make it on reputation or scheduling. I hoped I’d make it for any reason other than my performance because I knew that wasn’t going to cut it.
Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the last time I felt that desperation of hope. There would be final exams I hoped to get lucky on because I knew I wasn’t prepared. There would be years that I hoped a big deal would surface in the fourth quarter and save my annual performance. There would be countless times that I hoped tensions would blow over without having to engage in a difficult conversation. It was never lost on me that I could have done more to avoid the helplessness I felt in those moments and I was never fooled into thinking I’d done my best.
You know when you’ve earned it, and you absolutely know when you haven’t. In those desperate moments, your only option is to pray that fortune falls your way. But, when you’ve put in the work, the real work, the results speak for themselves. It never occurs to you to hope. Instead, you know what you’ve done. You know what you’ve created. You know what you’ve earned.
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