Losing and #winning

Blog friends, blog foes and all those blog who I just don't knows!

That blogging bastard beautifully bracing you for bales of billowing blog!

How goes your Good Friday? Is it good? Great? Are you staying away from the McFish? (How traditional of you!). Today the big guy got strung up for our sins and we choose to celebrate this sombre occasion by calling the day "good". For me, that would be problematic. I wish for the day I die to be referred to THE DAY WE CRY. Half price wings and patio beers, now that's a good Friday. A man being nailed to wood as people weep? Not so good.

But I am good! Winning even! And although I recognize that this expression conjures up the gaunt face of a bleary eyed Charlie Sheen, I choose to take his butchered word use and turn it into today's blog. Because although I may be winning, life is not about wins and losses. Well sort of...

I guess you could say I don't win very often. Not in the traditional sense I mean. When it comes to the games we play (PS3, Sports, love, money, etc.) I usually find myself off the podium so to speak. Don't get me wrong I'm pretty competitive. But that usually just means I sweat as I lose.

But losing ain't so bad. Baseball has taught me this.

For one: take batting averages. A successful batter hits over .300, that's under a third-of the time. In most things, anything below half is failure, but in baseball, a game where a ball is chucked at you moving over 90mph, we smile when we hit it 1 in every 5 at bats. I think life is very similar. Unlike swinging at a round object with a wooden stick, life is a great deal more complicated. In a sea of Smart phones, health concerns, career choices, Arbys, Twitter, parents, transit, voting, War, new Mortal Kombat, religion, ice climbing, dating, nuclear power plants, pollution, Pepto Bismal, Tsunamis and Charlie Sheen, we'd be lucky to hit .150.

But then there's the small things.

Extra mayo on your bison burger. A streetcar that arrives just as you do. A ten dollar bill in the pocket of your old jacket. A friend telling you that another friend of theirs thinks you're cute. The person who budded in line but ends up not getting in with their expired ID.
Add these up, throw in the fact that you have friends, food and a place to sleep....hell, I think we're batting at least .250. Think about life as a batting average and we're all in the major leagues, even if we're just the Kansas City Royals.

Point the Second: Pressure. I remember when I played baseball there was always alot of pressure. I was ninth in the batting line up and yet it seemed whenever we were down a run with two outs and a man on third, I was always the man to go up to bat. And strike out. At first I thought I just sucked, well actually, no, I totally did.
But what I didn't realize at that time was that it wasn't ALL my shitty skills fault. My father had something to do with it. My brother and I played baseball simply because he wanted the next Jose Canseco (pre-MMA) and he was determined to have it. On weekends he would don his fanny-pack full of baseballs and get us to the park to field line-drives until the sun would go down and we couldn't even see the ball whizzing by our heads. Every game he would be standing, his nose through the chain fence behind the batters box, and watch. He would comment on every pitch, react to every strike, and even once yelled out "WHAT ARE YOU SWINGING AT? FLYS?". When I went up to bat, I was terrified of his reaction, of disappointing him. It wasn't even about the game, it was about me making him proud. I rarely did.

Then on one fine spring day, an early game appeared on the schedule and he couldn't be there. It was the only game he didn't attend. That day I hit a two-run double. Twice. After the first one, I found myself going up to bat in the same situation, man on second and third.

Young Luis: (cocky) Looks like I'll just have to do it again.

Asshole friend: Yeah right.

Young Luis: I am.

Asshole Friend: PFFT. I bet you a million dollars you don't.

Young Luis: (using his incredible cunning) Shake on it.

Asshole Friend: Done. (they shake)

And then I hit another two-run double. He never did pay me, that asshole friend.

I also made a couple sweet catches in the outfield. So without good 'ol dad, I was cocky. I was comfortable. I was relaxed. And I kicked some serious ass. In life we have alot of pressure from outside forces that sap us of our natural ability to achieve. And so its that anxiety that leads us to believe that we can't win. Identify those pressures and get them out of the ball diamond and maybe you'll start winning too.

Point 3.0: Then there is Joe Carters home run to win the World Series in '93. When I watched it, my family (brother, mother, dad) was sitting in our living room with their two friends Matt and Lola. Matt was a proper Brit and could give a shit about baseball. He sat there with his Pinot Grigio and rooted for the Philly's simply to get a rise out of us. The prior year, when the BlueJays won the first time, my brother and I sat up alone in our basement while my parents wooped it up in Tdot streets. This year we were promised to go with them if they won. So as the game appeared to be a dud, Matt continued to sneer.

Matt: (in thick British accent) Looks like the boys aren't going to celebrate tonight.

I guess not all the dicks in Britain are spotted and edible.

And so it was with the game nearly over that Joe Carter would step up to bat.

Mom: OH he's going to hit a homerun!

Dad: Yeah right, Ang.

Mom: He is.

And he did. (my mom has an uncanny ability to call shit. Mutant power?) WE all erupted in joy. My dad, jumped up on the table and mooned Matt. It wasn't just your regular moon either, but a spread cheek red eye. And I was sitting next to him. So I saw my dad's asshole. Gross yes, but Matt deserved it. His face scrunched up as he was truly offended. I would pay to see that reaction again, the face of an evil villian foiled as the police cart him away. My dad was as much a hero as Carter that night, throwing up a finger to the estbalishment masked as a really inappropriate use of rectum. My dad doesn't fuck around when he wins that's for sure.
Anyways, my entire family instinctively ran outside and as we did, so did all my neighbours. WE started to high five and hug, which was crazy because we weren't all that close with our neighbours. And as we moved down Euclid to College street, the world erupted from every store and home along the strip until the entirety of College street was awash in humanity. As you walked through the street, people high-fived you as you went, even the ones hanging from the lamp posts. It was magical.
That was the biggest win I've ever experienced and it happened on a day where I saw my dad's anus. I'm not sure what my point is with this one: I think I'm fairly traumatized.

Well, no. There has got to be a point.

Life brings with it wins regardless of how much we may lose.

Hmmm.

Maybe winning in Life is as simple as pushing a ball with a stick over a fence.

Nah, that ain't it.

I guess winning and losing is just something that happens. But its not always in our hands, we just have to ignore the snide British guy talking shit and watch the game unfold.

That will do.

Happy Great Friday.

That Bloggging Bastard