The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [119]
Perfectionism is a funny thing. It won’t allow you to cut yourself even the tiniest bit of slack. It will insult you when you fail to achieve it and berate and belittle you until you’re your own worst enemy, an enemy you can never defeat. It’ll make you mad at those who try to tell you positive things. It’ll push people away. In the end, what was once a strong drive to do your best is now a wicked master who’s never satisfied.
I remember the times I did what he was doing now. Hell, I just did it—having a bad outing and then dialing friends and family for someone to dump on. This was the first time I’d been present for someone else doing it. I may not have been the pitching prospect Frenchy was, but I can sure whine like one when I fail.
When his cell phone died, Frenchy came back into the room. He flipped the dead phone onto the couch and collapsed on the cushion next to it. He stared at the floor for a second, then picked up where his battery left off, using me as a captive audience.
“I just don’t understand what my problem is. It’s like I can’t pitch anymore,” he said, staring at the wall as if it were a projector screen where his mind reviewed all the bad he’d done today. “Back in High-A, I was so much better than I am now….” He detailed a list of reasons, assumptions, and best guesses for his failure. Then, he began beating himself, calling himself stupid, worthless, incapable. It was as if he were a lawyer arguing for the death sentence—his own death sentence.
He ended his venting by fishing for compliments. I didn’t bite. He’d just tell me I was wrong for pooh-poohing him anyway. Intent on wallowing, he took my silence as affirmation he was indeed a lost cause, which started the process anew.
I had a lot on my mind today. I needed that outing in front of big decision makers to be good and I didn’t get it. My brother, who I felt would be better off dead, informed me how jaded my view on life was and asked for forgiveness. Now I was listening to a guy who got a win tell me he sucked. I didn’t feel like rehashing it, not from a kid with more talent than myself. “Frenchy,” I interrupted, “listen to me. You’re twenty-one and in Double A. It was a solid start. You pitched fine. We all saw that. But the worst part about your outing was that crap you pulled in the dugout and the stuff happening right here.”
He looked at me quizzically, “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean it’s over, and you are an emotional wreck about it. You are dumping this problem on everyone around you. This is what brings a team down, especially after a win. Your self-pity and negativity will make the boys avoid you, ostracize you. Throwing your glove, throwing a fit in the dugout after giving up runs, marching around mad hours after the game is over—it’s immature, bro. What, you honestly believe you’re above having struggles?”
“No, but—”
“This is a man’s game. You need to act like one.”
Frenchy’s shoulders fell; his head followed. The words struck a chord, and it made me feel guilty for speaking them. Frenchy was my friend, but sometimes friends need to talk to each other that way. Still, having been in his shoes, I knew it’s never fun to hear a friend say you’re whining.
“I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t know, but hey, we all fall short of our mark from time to time. It’s how we handle that fall that makes us the players we are. It’s not all about accomplishments, but how we soldier through disappointments.” And those were some of the best words I’d ever said to another person in baseball, and they were not mine. They were my brother’s, a person who never played a day of baseball in his life.
Frenchy stared at the floor for a second or two. Then his head started to bob, and he said, “You’re right man. You’re right.”
“I have pitched way worse than you did today. How about my second inning yesterday? I know that terrible, sick, bad-outing feeling you get when things don’t go right. I know what it’s like when