When I was in elementary school, I perceived my hours at school and after school as two different lives. In school, they taught us everything about fairness, honesty, and doing the right thing. After school, when I played sports, it was all about winning. By high school, I had figured out the difference and started forming my opinion of academia and the real world. However, when I was in elementary school, I thought all adults were correct and the dichotomy confused me. I was a catcher in baseball, and at a very young age was told to deny it if the batter ever hit my glove (that’s catcher’s interference). I remember our football coach in eighth grade started our first practice with this inspiration: “This is the last year for many of you before you go on to play freshman and high school ball. This is going to be a very fun year, and the only way I know to spell fun is w-i-n.”
I loved my coaches, and feel like I should send them a percentage of my income every year because of the real-world skills they taught me. I would not be where I am today without them. One more time … I would not be where I am today without my youth football, soccer, and baseball coaches. However, it just seemed kind of wrong to lie to the umpire or focus only on winning. If you’ve known me for more than 10 minutes, you’re probably shaking your head and wondering who broke into my blog and started writing. I realize that, and don’t blame you. I’m overly competitive. That’s how I am, but it doesn’t make it right.
Even though my coaches drive the “win at all costs” message, it was different one baseball game. I was in fifth grade. My team was playing Mr. Amster’s team. We were in the field and one of their hitters pulled a ball down the third base line. It was foul, but for some reason the umpire called it fair. One run scored, and the hitter ended up on second. I remember this scene like it was an hour ago – really, it’s that vivid to me. Mr. Amster, squatting outside the third base dugout, said “it was foul”. He then stood up and walked toward home plate with a clipboard in his hand and said it one more time: “Moe, it was a foul ball.” (Moe was the name of our umpire that game.) Since it was Little League and a very long time ago, Moe reversed his decision and thanked Mr. Amster for his honesty. I stood there in my catcher’s gear, stunned. He just traded a run and a runner on second for strike 2 – what? Wait … what?
I was also impressed. I admired his decision. I remember thinking to myself: “Isn’t that what we should be learning?” I also remember thinking that I’d remember this moment for a long time. I doubt anyone remembered it two innings later. It wasn’t talked about. Mr. Amster wasn’t heralded a hero or a goat for telling the truth. The game proceeded and we moved on, but it didn’t move on for me.
So, what was the lesson? At that point of my childhood, I was confused. I was getting attention and popularity because of my athleticism; but as mentioned above, many of my authority figures at school preached different messages than my coaches. I loved my coaches, so guess who I listened to?
When Mr. Amster said “Moe, it was a foul ball”, my internal reaction of admiration helped me understand something that was critical to a 10-year-old boy and an even more important lesson to an adult: I know the right thing to do. I know the right thing to do, and it’s up to me to do it. Until that moment, I thought I needed a teacher, coach, or parent to endorse my decisions. Coaches and teachers are imperfect. Mr. Amster went against the grain. He didn’t act like a coach that wanted to win at all costs – he did the right thing. That one act gave me the permission to do the right thing – regardless of my role or what I’m supposed to do… and I thank him for that.
