Apologies to everyone who received a scam email from me last week. My LinkedIn account was hacked. I received the same email from a contact that you received from me.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered someone had replaced the email address in my profile with their own, and I could not get into my account to change it. I reported it to LinkedIn but they took their sweet time and five days to resolve. So, the next time you will hear from me in LinkedIn, will be to apologize there and promise to reach out with a real message.

Apologies as well to all who were offended by my characterization of the "Post Office in December" in last week's edition as Cheap and Good, I hope you receive all your mailed packages by February.

 The tryouts that April were the first time I had tried to play on the big field for real. The fact that I couldn’t reach second base without bouncing the ball at least once because my arm was so weak in no way affected my ambition.

After the week-long tryouts, a list of those students who made the team was posted on the bulletin board outside the locker room, just like in a movie or two we've all seen.

Try as I might, I couldn’t find my name on that list, and trust me, I read it several times. I did what any crushed 13-year old boy would do: I walked home and cried the whole way. In between the tears I rationalized that the Major Leagues often sent down young players to the minors for more experience or seasoning, and that’s what was happening to me.

Before I arrived home, I had already resolved to try out again the following year. That day that I walked home with tears in my eyes was the day before April vacation, and all the guys got to practice that week and not have to go to school. It must have been cool.

Wouldn’t you know that the very first period class the day after vacation for me was Art. My teacher for that class was Mr. Colley, and of course, he was the Junior Varsity Baseball Coach, and yep, he was the one who cut me from the team.

It could have been an uncomfortable class. To this day, I’m not sure why I acted like I did, but as I walked into the class, I smiled (in those days it was real boyish charm), and said ‘Good morning, Mr. Colley, how is the team shaping up?” I could tell he was taken aback for a second, (writers love the expression ‘taken aback’ by the way) and it was probably not the reaction he expected from a rejected 13 year old. He said something innocuous like ‘pretty good.’

When the bell rang, he asked me to stop at his desk on the way out. 

He told me that one of the catchers was unable to continue with the team, and would I mind taking his place? I quickly accepted, fighting back a different kind of tears.

I was so happy to be on that JV team, that I personally carried the bats to every practice that year, (to a field about 3/4 of a mile away, through the woods and down the railroad tracks, the same route I had cried along earlier) My shoes were always shined and my uniform with E A S T on the front was always perfect. I was the typical runt: first one to practice, last one to leave. You know the story by heart, because I didn't invent it.

That season, I played 2/3 of an inning (that’s 2 outs).

In left field.

I did not bat a single time in a game, not once.  But that season changed my life.

I learned that when you are disappointed, there is a right way to behave. I learned that feeling sorry for myself doesn’t have as many benefits as NOT feeling sorry for myself.

I went on to become a pretty good player. The next year, I was the last one cut from the Varsity and became a Captain for the first time for the JV team I barely made the year before.

As a ninth grader, I made the Varsity and played with and against several kids who made it to the major leagues. Oh, and I still couldn't reach second base with much authority when trying to catch someone stealing the base, so I played first base and outfield-using borrowed gloves, because my only glove was a catcher's mitt.

When I was no longer able to play baseball because of an illness in high school, I handled that disappointment the same way: I turned to ice hockey full time, and the fact that I lacked talent and size in no way affected my ambition, and as regular readers will remember, I eventually made the Bay State League All-Star Team, and played against about a dozen players who went on to play in the National Hockey Leauge, including two boys who went on to become Head Coach of the Bruins (Robbie Ftorerk and Mike Milbury).

When I flunked the eye test during the Umass Athletic Department Physical, any hopes I had of playing hockey at the college level disappeared and I handled that disappointment the same way: I focused on soccer and eventually was the captain of a soccer team that was nationally ranked. 

You saw my legs and mustache last week and there is an action photo to come.

A lot of the life lessons I’ve learned, I learned through sports, and some of the most important of those, I taught myself.

I attribute much of the success I enjoyed in sports and in my business career to my attitude and to Mr. Colley. Looking back, he probably didn’t have a catcher who couldn’t continue, but he was so impressed with my reaction to disappointment, that he added me to the team. At least that is what I've always believed.

I wonder how many Mr. Colleys are out there? People who help us along the way because of our attitude, maybe even lying to us to do so. I may have even been a Mr. Colley a time or two myself, giving someone who cared enough a chance.

Disappointment can be a knockout blow, or it can be a catapult to success. That’s really up to you, and it depends sometimes on what you do when the crying stops.

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