“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” – Confucius
This isn’t a story about me falling on my face (although I have plenty of those stories) but a recent incident when my 6-year-old son, Mr. D, fell on his. Although I’m sure I echo the sentiments of many parents when I say I’d happily take my kids’ falls for them if I could.
It happened when we were playing Little League summer ball. Ten-year-old Miss O was able to play on the team too and it was an informal sandlot team that would divide into two teams and scrimmage with whoever showed up.
There was one difference between summer ball and the first season of baseball that Mr. D played – they played outs. If someone got the ball and forced an out or tagged an out, the player would go back to the dugout.
But in this hodgepodge of rules, the teams still batted everyone in their lineup each turn at bat. The last person at bat was the “homerun hitter” meaning they and anyone else who was on base would run home.
On the last inning of a scrimmage one night in July, Mr. D was the homerun hitter. He hit the ball squarely. But by the time he’d gotten to third base and was rounding to home, the other team had gotten the ball. All the players on the other team were chasing him down the third base line. It was only about five of them but it still felt like a terrifying and mad pursuit. That’s when he fell on his face.
He was furious! His sister tried to give him a hand up and he slapped it away. So she was furious because he’d refused her help. I tried to help too but he was inconsolable. Since he was the last hitter of the last inning of the game we managed to get to the car and leave but not before everyone was well aware of our upset.
On the way home, we talked about how sports makes us want to try and how it hurts when we don’t make the play. But the tradeoff is not trying at all. Actually, Miss O and I talked about that, Mr. D said very little.
At bedtime, Mr. D went to get his journal and wrote the very first thing he’s ever written in it. He asked me, “Mom, how do you spell ‘Slide like this?’”
The next morning he told me he wouldn’t be able to go to camp because he was still thinking about the baseball thing. I responded that he’d probably think about the baseball thing all day and it would be more tolerable at camp when he was busy than at home when he was not. He finally agreed to go to camp.
When we picked up the boys we were carpooling to camp with, he said to them, “I have to tell you a baseball story. It’s not good.” I was astounded. He’s not nearly as verbose as his sister.
It was only when he told the story to them that I understood that he didn’t fall on his face – he was trying to slide. But he’d never tried it before and didn’t know that you can’t slide from halfway down the base line. Or maybe you can – but it takes a lot more practice.
So, he fell on his face. He wrote about it. He told others about it. And once he did, seemed to be over it.
Here’s my takeaway. Sometimes we try new things and it doesn’t go well. It hurts like hell but you recover more quickly when you share.
(featured photo from Pexels)
You can find me on LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/wynneleon/ and Instagram @wynneleon
I host the How to Share podcast, a podcast about collaboration – in our families, friendships, at work and in the world.
I also co-host the Sharing the Heart of the Matter podcast, an author, creator and storytelling podcast with the amazing Vicki Atkinson.
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