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A version of this story appeared last January, and it is provided for new subscribers and those who liked it the first time. I figure people watch reruns of tv shows all the time, why not Weblogs?

Sports were very important to me when I was younger, and many of the principles that shaped me, and others, were developed as part of a team. This story is about disappointment and one of the lessons it taught me when I was 13 years old.

 There was a movie I never saw but has been quoted over and over that ‘there is no crying in baseball.’ I broke that rule when I was 13 years old, and it changed my life.

 

When I started 7th grade at East Junior HIgh in Braintree, Massachusetts, I was absolutely certain that I wanted to be a catcher for the Boston Red Sox. 

The fact that I lacked size and talent in no way affected my ambition, so I tried out for the baseball team. 

 

It was big jump moving from playing in Little League in the 6th grade, with bases that are 60 feet apart, to the ‘major league’ bases that are 90 feet apart starting in junior high. 

So, if you are a catcher, the throw to second base to catch someone trying to steal is exponentially greater because of this change. I’m sure there is a hypotenuse or something in there somewhere to figure the difference. I chose the simpler 'exponentially' to explain.

The tryouts that April were the first time I had attempted 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 young players down to the minors for more experience or seasoning, and I rationalized, that’s what was happening to me.

Before I arrived home, I had already resolved to try out again the following year. That long walk with tears in my eyes was the day before April vacation, and I was jealous that all the guys got to practice the following 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,’

but 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 consider 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 that Spring.)

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 yourself doesn’t have as many benefits as NOT feeling sorry for yourself.

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.

My final year in junior high, 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 an illness in high school caused me to miss a season, I handled that disappointment the same way: I turned to ice hockey full time. The fact that I lacked talent and size in no way affected my ambition, and as a Senior, I was eventually named to the Bay State League All-Star Team, In my high-school hockey career, I played against about a dozen guys who went on to play in the National Hockey League, including two boys who went on to become Head Coach of the Boston Bruins (Robbie Ftorek 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 co-captain of a soccer team that was nationally ranked.

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.

A recently awarded trophy. The inscription reads:

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