An Old World Seed-Eating Songbird Related to the Finches

When I was younger, I played baseball in Little League. And I was never particularly good at it.
And honestly I hated it.

In the outfield, my mind would wander. I would get distracted by the bats flying overhead during night games. Watching as they swooped in to catch the gnats hovering around the lights over the field. I would get bored, lose track of time, space out enough that when the ball actually came my way, I was not ready for it. I would lose sight of it in the air and let it drop at my feet, struggling to ignore the jeers of the parents in the stands who seemed to get off on reminding me of my mistake.

In the infield, my anxiety was through the roof. 60 feet. That’s all I had between me and the batter, who was hitting a small rubber ball wrapped in string covered in leather directly at me. And being the youngest of three boys in my house, my reaction speed was composed nearly entirely of flinching. Eyes closed, head turned away. Any ball hit at me was getting through.

And then there was batting. Fast pitch, slow pitch, inside, outside, ball, strike. Didn’t matter. If I swung, I would miss. Every at bat was a silent prayer for a hit by pitch. Because I would rather get hit with the ball and risk a bruise on my body than to strike out again and bruise my ego. There are those who believe sports build character and teach discipline. But tell me this, what did I learn from hearing the opposing team yell “Move in” or “Easy out” every time? What discipline was I taught by hearing the grown adult parents in the stands behind me laugh as I swung at bad pitches and struck out again and again?

The only thing I had going for me was my speed. I discovered after many years of playing (if you can even call what I did “playing”) that I was faster than nearly everyone else in the league. If I was able to somehow, through an act of God or Gods, get on base, it was almost guaranteed a run.
So all I had to do was bunt. I didn’t have to swing for the fences or worry about pulling the ball or hitting it the opposite way. All I had to do was stick the bat out, and tap it. It didn’t matter how prepared for it the other team was. They were already moved in for the easy out. The second my bat would make contact, I was gone. I was on base.

Now what’s the point of all of this? Why am I telling you this story? Simple. My point is that it doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad. Literally or metaphorically. I spent a good chunk of years thinking I was Bad. A bad person. Worse at life than I was at baseball. Easily distracted, too full of anxiety to function, and striking out at every opportunity I took.

But every now and then, after years of struggling, years of growing tired of failing again and again and not being good enough, you learn you can bunt. And it’s not the most glamorous move. It’s not as awe inducing as a home-run or as electrifying as a double or triple, but it’s enough. It’s the minimum. A run scored after getting on base from a bunt is still worth just as much as any other run scored. It doesn’t matter how you got on base. Your run counts. Your run is worth something.

So don’t believe the people who tell you to always swing for the fences. Chances are they have more strike outs than me. Instead, focus on what you can do. Focus on the abilities you have and master those skills. Learn what you can do, but more importantly learn what you can’t. Find your bunt. Because at the end of the day, no one will remember Little League. But they will remember the kid who bunted every at bat and always got away with it.