The sound rang metallic in my ears, a tone of alarm for what was coming.
The baseball was an ivory blur coming off the bat, directly toward me at third base. There was a buzzing hiss of seams tearing through the dusty air as it neared, and then…
…the too-familiar sounds of disappointment. The ball shot through my legs and into left field.
“C’mon, Freeman!”
I glanced at Coach and got the feeling he might have said more in private, but held his tongue in front of all the onlookers to the high school baseball game I was playing in. It was a classic mistake of mine, and it was costing my team. I was skipping ahead in my mind to the throw without watching the ball all the way into the webbing of my glove. Why couldn’t I just be dedicated to the act of catching the thing first?
Lesson One: When working on a problem with multiple steps, take them in order. Skipping ahead to something you’re more comfortable with could make you drop the ball.
I cursed my position again. Nobody but the pitcher stood closer to the batter than me, and if it was hit to me, it was as a matter of course hit hard. Figuring a conservative hundred miles per hour off the bat, I had a literal split second — 0.614 to be precise — to field the ball. Yet every other third baseman in the league was managing. And I’d been playing baseball since I was six years old without this much trouble.
What was the matter with me?
After the game, Nat, the father of one of my teammates, came to talk to me. I was always a little intimidated by him, to be honest. Cut out of the same cloth as my own father, he had a blue-collar back strengthened by both farm and factory, a look and voice that would fit in any Western you’ve ever watched, and a countenance that suffered no fools.
“You’re having some troubles with those hot ones down the line.”
Directly to the point and straight through my heart. It’s easy to tell yourself your failures are forgettable and your victories indelible. And that improving yourself is just a matter of deciding to be dedicated to trying harder.
I’d have expected nothing less from Nat, though — and having played baseball all through high school himself, he knew what he was watching. I murmured my agreement.
“I reckon it isn’t something we can’t figure out and fix. I’ll be at the field on Saturday. You got any interest in me having a look?”
I’d had plans for Saturday. They were cancelled as soon as he asked. I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to figure myself out. Improving yourself takes just that – nobody else is going to make that decision for you.
Lesson Two: If someone with skill offers to instruct you, take it. Skills and time are precious commodities in this world, and someone giving you both at the same time might as well be handing you cash.
Saturday came. It was a hot day, the Missouri sun further punishing the already baked soil of the baseball infield. Nat got right to it, hitting me hard ground balls in rapid succession. I fielded most of them, but bobbled or missed an unacceptable percentage of them. I could feel him scrutinizing me, and concentrated as much as I could on not making errors.
No matter. I still missed far too many.
Suddenly the barrage stopped. Nat took a step back from home plate, studying something about me as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked primed to say something, seemed to reconsider, and hit another succession to me. Afterward, he nodded grimly.
“Yep, that’s what I thought I saw. When the ball’s hit, for whatever reason you’re taking the smallest step back. I think it’s putting you on your heels to where you can’t catch up. Every time I swing, start taking a big step forward.”
The thought was daunting and counterintuitive. I’ve only got ninety feet to work with as it is — now I’m supposed to sacrifice three of them? How am I going to have time to keep from getting smacked in the face?
That’s when it clicked. He was right.
My problem was the fear of taking a bad hop to the face. It was making me retreat from the sound of the bat, and it was affecting my ability to field the ball. Summoning the will, I started advancing on every swing. I looked silly, as though I were stamping like a bull.
But I started improving.
Lesson Three: Be willing to look silly or unorthodox to get the results you want.
It wasn’t magical. I was still juggling a few. But that one trivial hack was paying immediate dividends. We kept at it long enough for me to develop motor memory, and then called it a day. I left brimming with confidence…now I could finally excel at third base.
Our next game came, and I was ready. I had my technique, and I was going to be a wall out there. I went into the dugout to see the lineup. I read my batting order from the posted sheet, but then did a double take at what I saw:
6 — Freeman RF
7 — Wright 3B
…I’d been pulled off third? Worse, I’d been relegated to right field? That’s where you put the weakest player to minimize their liability! Coach tried to downplay the switch, but it fell on my deaf ears.
I’d been banished. Exiled. Literally put out to pasture. So much for improving yourself.
I dolefully trotted to the outfield as the game started, the soft crunch of grass beneath my feet sounding like derisive laughter with every step. I’d done all that work to fix my problem for nothing. The position I wanted to be dedicated to being good at had been taken away.
This wasn’t the base stealing I thought I’d have to guard against.
Lesson Four: Sometimes your best effort won’t quite be enough to land (or keep) the position you want. That doesn’t define you – what you do afterward does.
I won’t lie. I played pretty listlessly for a while. I was too good to be there, you see. How can you be dedicated to the game when you’ve been made a public pariah? But the position’s unique challenges soon started manifesting themselves, and I had to rise to their occasion.
My throws to infielders were veering off course, so I started working on my long distance throwing accuracy. With the weight I had to put behind throws as, ahem, a rather stout lad, I could typically hit the basemen and skip the cutoff throw. Once my accuracy was better, I started throwing runners out at third and home when they got greedy. It happened often enough opposing coaches started holding runners when balls were hit to me, which in and of itself started saving runs. I started slowly learning the benefits of being dedicated to the position.
And that trick Nat taught me wasn’t for naught after all — it gave me the momentum I needed to chase down more than one fly ball I’d otherwise have missed.
I found redemption in all of this and embraced my new position, playing in right field the rest of my career.
Lesson Five: Find a way to thrive and be fruitful even when you’re planted where you think you don’t belong.
. . .
The sound rang electronic in my ears, a tone of alarm for what was coming.
“Priority assault, someone stabbed in the head with a knife.” The dispatcher’s voice, normally flat and deliberate, betrayed tension in its tone and cadence as she gave the address. “313, 214, show you closest and en route.”
Some ten years later, life had found me a police officer in a large city. It was New Year’s Eve, and seemingly everyone was losing their minds. I exchanged a look with the officer I was with — that address was about a block and a half away from where we stood, talking to someone about a noise complaint. Sprinting back to our cars and throwing apologies over our shoulders to the caller, we cranked our sirens and hurtled down the street.
My mind raced. This one was different than most. It was more than a brandished weapon, which I’d had calls for once in a while. Someone had already been stabbed. In the head. My heart found a new rhythm as adrenaline started coursing into my veins. I took a deep breath and tried to channel the energy.
Control scene. Secure weapon. Render aid. Preserve evidence. Take bad guy to jail. I had what I needed. I’d trained for this. It just took doing. I just had to be dedicated to trusting my training.
Lesson Six: When you’re under intense pressure, you’ll fall back to the motor memory of long-practiced habits. They’d better be good.
“313, we’re both out,” I radioed, hastily ditching the mic in the opposite floorboard as our cars came to skidding stops.
“313 clear, show you both out.”
Piling out of our cars and sprinting toward the building, we could already hear commotion coming from the back parking lot. Rounding the corner with our guns drawn at low ready, we were met with a scene of pandemonium. Around, in the bed of, and on top of a white Ford Ranger were six people, each one screaming at another. One was bloodied. Another was holding an object I couldn’t identify. A third was wearing a full length western duster jacket and looked like Jonah Hex.
My backup officer and I added our voices to the mix, bellowing to identify ourselves and break up the fracas. To no avail — our voices were lost in the cacophony. It took me double-clicking my patrol flashlight and splashing the group with strobing light to get their attention and compliance. My backup followed suit, and we turned the back lot of that apartment building into an impromptu rave until everyone registered our presence and started climbing off the truck.
Lesson Seven: If you’re not breaking through the noise, you can either scream yourself hoarse, or engage in a different manner.
One by one they started showing their hands. We started issuing directions for everyone to lie prone on the ground, advancing on the group warily. We were keenly aware one of them was almost certainly still armed with a knife. We kept everyone in place until a couple more units arrived, and then started putting people in handcuffs. I radioed dispatch to advise the scene was secure so staging paramedics could come in.
Turns out the guy who got stabbed was in a drug transaction with Jonah Hex when things went sideways for some reason never made clear. Jonah produced a knife and took a swing. Though the victim did indeed get stabbed in the head, thankfully for his sake the knife entered his scalp at an oblique angle and slid along the surface of his skull; he was transported to the hospital as a precaution, but wound up merely needing a few staples.
Lesson Eight: Wounds you think are mortal in the moment may actually be relatively minor. You’ve got a choice: Curl up and quit, or be dedicated to keeping up the fight.
Identifying that unknown object as the 911 caller’s cell phone and clearing everyone else of wrongdoing, I took Jonah and his duster to jail and then started working on the very complicated, very important report — as an assault with a deadly weapon committed in the course of a felony, there could be years of prison time on the line depending on the prosecutor’s discretion. Filling out the “Persons” tab in my reporting program took some doing with so many people on scene.
Finally I got to the victim, plugging his information into my system. Red light from the screen hit me.
“…huh.”
He had an active felony warrant for second degree burglary.
Lesson Nine: People are complicated and multidimensional. They don’t always neatly fit into the boxes we build for them, and very seldom perfectly match our first impression.
I didn’t do anything about it in the moment, as the jail probably would have refused him with a trauma that fresh anyway. The next night, I got another officer to meet me at the victim’s apartment.
Wait, suspect’s apartment. Suspect victim?
Whatever. The guy who got stabbed in the head.
I took backup not really knowing what to expect. After all, he had a felony warrant out for his arrest. He had every reason to fight or flee – people with warrants tend to know they have them and tend to be dedicated to preserving their freedom. I had my backup get in sight of the back door in case it turned into a foot pursuit, and then knocked. I heard footsteps, then the hand of a door on the knob. I felt the electricity of tensing for the unknown.
Opening the door and seeing me, he paused, seemingly thinking. “Oh, I remember you,” he said at length. “Thanks for coming last night.”
“That’s my job,” I replied, glancing to ensure his hands were empty. “How’s your gourd?”
“Huh?”
I tapped my head to indicate I was talking about his.
“Oh, not too bad,” he said, relaxing somewhat and touching the staples as though making sure they were still there. “I got really lucky. Or maybe that cowboy got unlucky. Anyway, I’m pretty sore, but okay considering.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ruin a second night in a row for you.”
He slumped his shoulders and sighed. “I figured you were going to arrest me last night. At this point I was hoping you’d missed it.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just figured your evening had been rough enough without me piling on.”
He managed a faint smile. “Thanks,” he said sheepishly, turning and offering his hands for cuffing.
Lesson Ten: Sometimes the people you expect the worst out of will surprise you if you look them in the eye, be nice, and be straight with them.
. . .
Hopefully nothing about your life entails running toward the sounds of gunfire like mine trained me to — but you’ll inevitably face your own moments of uncertainty and outright danger in life. Maybe you’re venturing into a new pursuit. Maybe you’re faced with an expectant audience. And sure, you can try to bob and weave and duck and dodge them all if you’re so inclined.
But is a guaranteed status quo worth forfeiting a chance at leveling up your life? What if you decided to be dedicated to improving yourself?
In the end, it’s life itself that’s the most uncertain. The most dangerous.
Lean into it. Be dedicated to improving yourself and your surroundings. It’s worth it.
A sound will ring in your ears soon, a tone of alarm about something to come.
What are you going to do about it?
—
This post was previously published on The Unbothered Father.
***
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