I'm Glad We Lost
By David Horne, Sports by the Numbers co-author
It was an ugly game, marred by blown calls, a coach getting ejected, countless errors and unearned runs, and overall, just poor baseball out on the field.
It was a great experience though--we were seniors, most of us, and had played together since Little League. Our season began with only one goal--to win state--and without exception it was our sincere belief that not only was it possible, but that it was a sure thing.
We were good, really good--and we knew it, too.
It was a great experience though--we were seniors, most of us, and had played together since Little League. Our season began with only one goal--to win state--and without exception it was our sincere belief that not only was it possible, but that it was a sure thing.
We were good, really good--and we knew it, too. Only one game stood between us and a trip to the state championships in Baseball City, Florida--and the guy pitching against us was Chipper Jones, a guy we all knew would get to play this game a lot longer than the rest of us.
Well, we beat him.
Of course, he also won a couple of state titles in high school, was drafted number one by the Atlanta Braves, won a league MVP, and a World Series title--not to mention, he made a few bucks along the way--but still, we had our moment.
We made it to the state championships, and all of our dreams were about to come true.
In our final practices before making the trip south, some of the guys who graduated before us, who once played on our field, gathered up on the hill behind the third base dugout and looked down at us with envy. They never got a trip to state--and I remember thinking about how badly they must have wanted to trade places with us, about how they wished they were the ones out on the field.
I never could have imagined how quickly things would end, or that I would end up on that same hill, feeling empty, willing to do anything for the chance to play one more game.
Then came the ugly game--our last, the one that we all remember not because we won state, but because we lost all of our dreams.
I was on first, and the tying run was at the plate when the game ended--and some photographer captured the exact moment when I realized my baseball career was over.
It was painful, obviously, but I also think it was good.
I try to imagine my life if we had won that game, and the best I can come up with is that Chipper would still be playing for the Braves and they still would never have wanted me.
So I think it was good, losing--because today so many people have a sense of entitlement, they think they deserve things and aren't willing to work for them. Players whine today, a lot of them, anyway--too many of them, for sure.
We lost, but time went on. I had to figure out if I wanted to stay on that hill and think about the past, or if I wanted to find a new game--this thing we call a life. I actually think losing made me a better person in the long run because it prepared me for dealing with adversity as an adult, and I know it made me focus on things that are truly important in life.
Of course, I don't mean to say winning isn't important, because it is.
But losing, though painful, is a lesson we should all learn. The reason is simple. Losing is a reality that we all must face, and the sooner we get it over with, then the sooner we can get on with life and tackle other things.
Last year I bought my nine-year-old nephew, Travis, an X-Box 360 for Christmas. He got a basketball game to go with it, and we set it up to play. My history of playing video games with Travis is like this--I beat the snot out of him without mercy, every game, every time.
I know it sounds cruel, but it's only a video game, and I'm trying to prepare him for life.
Well, it was Christmas, and he was excited, and so it crossed my mind that maybe I should throw him a bone and let him post one in the win column. It was a tight game, but I held a two point lead with a couple of minutes left.
I was laid out on the floor, relaxed, having the time of my life. Travis was standing, his face red and tense with sweat, his hands clutched in a death-grip on his wireless controller.
His intense desire to win forced me to cave. I had the ball at mid-court, and so I hit the button to shoot and for his benefit let out a "Hey, I didn't mean to do that!" shout.
Of course I made it.
I let him go uncontested the length of the court when he took the ball in--and he missed a dunk.
He was screaming at the TV. I took the ball inbounds, and threw it up the length of the court. I made it again, and my two point lead was now eight.
I tried to lose, but ended up beating him by eleven.
To tell you the truth though, I didn't even feel bad.
Besides, this past summer, for the first time ever, Travis beat me in a game of Madden. If you could have seen him when the clock ran out you would have thought he won the Super Bowl. It turns out, I think, that all those times I beat him made him work just a little bit harder to achieve something he wanted really bad--and I think that's a pretty good lesson to learn.
So now when I see this picture of me in that exact moment when my baseball career ended I can honestly say that I'm glad we lost.
Well, sort of.





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