Never be satisfied!
The biggest room in the world is the room for improvement. — Helmut Schmidt
I remember when I was in my teens and I was on the high school basketball team, it wasn’t uncommon for me to be the top scorer of the game, but then when I’d be practicing my shots at home in the driveway, something was always off. It was usually late at night that I’d have the time to practice my shots but that wasn’t necessarily the problem.
Shot after shot, brick after brick, I’d find myself wondering if I had lost my touch again. Eventually I’d hit the occasional lucky shot but I remember my father always telling me if I give up on the idea of luck, I’ll be unstoppable out there on the real courts. He’d always have some kind of comment or saying that made me rethink everything I was doing and how I looked at situations.
So I’d keep at it, demand the best out of myself, and command that ball to do as I say. The result? Swish – nothing but net. Next day at game time? Swish, swish, swish; 3 pointer, 3 pointer, 3 pointer. By the time I was on the court and had eyes on me from every direction, things just seemed so easy. Those shots were like hot knives through butter despite the doubt I had in my heart just the night before when I was on my own turf, using my own ball, in a private part of the world where I had every reason to have it easier instead of harder.
It made no sense – not to me, anyway. My dad on the other hand? He always seemed to “get” it. He always told me how my struggles at home in front of him would release the shackles of pressure and distraction in the big game.
I didn’t understand how he could be so right, but it never failed: the more I’d practice at home and face my frustrations head on when I thought I should be at my best, the better I’d be when it came to crunch time.
Then one day, for no reason at all, I just started thinking about the beautiful swirl some of my shots would perform as the ball would dance around the rim before falling through the net. I got to thinking about how the only time that happens is during a game or team practice; never at home in my own driveway with the hoop I should have been the most comfortable with at all. Then I started to think about how some of the shots I was sure were a guaranteed 3 pointer just got rejected by the rim like there was never a chance in hell of that ball going through. No bouncing or twirling around the edge at all – just a straight up ricochet back into the air.
So I asked myself a seriously stupid question at that point. “Could my basketball even be capable of showing me some of those same displays I see with my glorious shots elsewhere?” It’s like when you allow your mind to convince yourself that something can’t happen if foreign agent “A” is involved, or if you’re being watched by this specific person, or anything of the sort that just doesn’t make sense to believe – but you do, so it starts to seem true.
That’s when I grabbed a ladder and decided I was literally going to climb up and guide the ball in slow motion through some of the same trajectories and motions that I had been able to witness after shooting from several feet away anywhere else I had played. I climbed the ladder and looked at the ball as I held it in my hands, and I looked up close at the rim. I sensed something was off and then I felt those eyes upon me.
“Alright, you got me. Busted.” – It was the voice of my father who had just started walking up the driveway and saw what I was doing. He knew I had finally reached the point where I couldn’t accept that I was any less great with my shots in just one particular spot in the world when I could damn near be blindfolded anywhere else and be scoring left and right to no end.
I remember I looked at him and had no idea what he was talking about but for some reason I thought I was the one who was busted. I thought I had done something wrong until the words he had said really had a chance to process in my mind. I got him? I busted him?
And the fact that for all that time I had been practicing at home with a ball ever so slightly larger than regulation size and a hoop ever so slightly smaller – it all made sense. He found a way to force me to believe in the requirement of constant improvement and the total absence of satisfaction. He found a way to make me, me. A way to make me unstoppable. Lesson learned: even if you’re the best, lie to yourself. Force yourself to become even better or you’ll ultimately crash and burn in that comfortable seat you’ve taken.
Pure genius. I really do miss that man.
-AuroraK
IronKen I.K.A. 