Fail Me Not

Failure is something that I never want to be.  It's akin to beauty in the sense that it's in the eye of the beholder.  I never want to be a failure, so I never will be one.  It's as simple as that.  I choose to have a successful and happy life. 


Failure is the unparalleled motivator... the unseen driving force that is actually "a fear of failure" but to which we usually give no name.  For many it does not exist even if you would ask, but it's still there hidden below the surface.  The taste of failure is bitter and it's smell is rancid; it stirs up anger and frustration and a whole host of unwanted feelings.  I think most people are motivated to avoid it, although some are not.  Some are motivated to succeed for a singular act or purpose, some are motivated through their faith, or for their children, while some hardly have a drive at all.  I have pity for those people who are wandering aimlessly and go through the motions of life either blindly or on the whims of others. Dream it!  Live it!  Do it!  This is your life; do not waste it.  You might not succeed in the eyes of anyone else at whatever it is you're trying to do, but making the attempt is worthwhile.  Failing at a task does not make you a failure, but never trying just might.  One job, one critique, one relationship, one rejection does not define you.  Not everyone has the same capabilities, or smarts, or chances, or gumption, or support, or desires, or means, or je ne sais quoi... but everyone can try.  I believe it is completely acceptable to be motivated via a fear of failure as long as it does not consume you.  You cannot let a fear of failure paralyze your life, because what kind of life would that be?


This almost sounds like an underlying message for an after-school special.  Are those still around? 


This post is annoying me with it's preachiness so I'm going to end this portion with a dismount.  I am attempting a landing off the balance beam with a difficulty degree of 9 out of 10.  Quiet please.  Deep breath.  Pirouette like Mendenhall.  Full steam ahead.  Up in the air...  and... stuck!  A perfect landing! 


Did you expect anything else from a pierogi who chooses happiness and then writes it in for herself?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've been pondering the question posed below. 


Aside from learning how to cook (better), sew (yawn), and become a pierogi (fun!)... I'm not sure what else to seek right now.  I better work on creating or finding a time machine, because apparently I've approached an elderly stage of life when "learn to sew" is on my list of things to do.  Seriously?  I bought a sewing machine last April and pictured myself clutching fistfuls of cash saved by hemming my own pants.  Unfortunately I overestimated my ability to follow directions where you must be either over the age of 90 or a genius to comprehend such wizardry.  The first period of positive cashflow is still pending and pants with tags on them are still hanging untouched in my closet. 


Except...  waaaiiiitt a minute...  does this mean that I failed?  No.  There's still time.  And remember that I don't fail at life.  So far the sewing machine has failed me by being ridiculously complicated and temperamental and generally not fun to be around.  She doesn't work well with others.  And by others I mean me.


Oh, yes, I could always attempt the Big One. The Big One = writing a novel, but I can't think of a plot.  A plot is a very minor detail in fiction writing, to be sure.  It can almost be considered an afterthought because as long as I get my book jacket squared away then I'm pretty much set.  But if you have a plot sitting around in your attic collecting dust... I promise to listen to your idea and give it thorough consideration.  Some might call it cheating but I just call it neighborly... like something Mr. Rogers would do if he was still around.  I'm sure he would wrap up a snappy plot just for me and put a beautiful gold bow on it, because that kind man was giving, brilliant, and proud to be from the resplendent city that is Pittsburgh, PA. 


Not all hope is lost, because I signed up for a creative writing course - starting next week! - at CCAC.  I'm pretty sure thousands of esteemed writers started out at CCAC and went on to bigger and better things, such as blogging, that do not require trifling external validation from highfalutin publishers.  Blogging means that u type, u click, n just like that... tadaa! ...even ur a writer.   Gag. 


(Sidebar: Notice my geriatric use of the word "highfalutin".  I'm  hoping this will get me brownie points with the sewing machine.)


So what about you... what would you attempt?  Would you sing?  Believe?  Apologize?  Travel?  Run?  Call?  Leave?  Paint?  Write?  Dance?  Forgive?  Adopt?  Volunteer?  Create?  Speak? 








Would you love?

The Shot Heard 'Round the World

It was the fall of 1995 and the gym was completely packed to the rafters.  I'm not exactly sure what "packed to the rafters" looks like, but it was extremely full.  People were actually standing to watch us play.  I think they were confused and didn't realize it was a high school girls basketball game.  You mean this isn't the NBA Finals featuring the dynasty of the 1990's Chicago Bulls? 

We were in enemy territory.  Hostile territory, even.  Our team bus was escorted into the city by two police cars to ensure our safety.  I found this partially unnerving and equal parts unnecessary.  What reason did they have to guide us into the city?  What did they expect to happen?  You know those high school girls always carry around spare thousands in their backpacks, just in case.  Turns out the cops were needed later, but they weren't there.  My guess is they were watching the enthralling game inside like everyone else in the vicinity.  One cop asked the other, "Hey man, I thought you said MJ and Pippen were making a surprise appearance soon?  Isn't that why everyone's here?"  Some boys thinking they were men or thinking they were thugs came on the bus while we were playing ball and stole things, like one of the girl's watches.  None of my stuff was stolen.  You mean teenage boys don't like The Steve Miller Band Greatest Hits 1974-1978? 

It was hard not to notice the huge crowd.  The gym was designed so that there were only bleachers on one side, opposite the benches.  We had a brick wall behind us.  Oops, maybe that's why the gym was so packed.  Anyway, I was a sophomore and did not become a starter until my junior year.  The game was not off to a good start in the first quarter.  Scoreless!!  ...except only our team was scoreless.  They had won the tip-off and immediately scored.  And then stole the ball and scored again.  And rebounded and scored again.  And scored again.  And then... you get the point.  Finally Coach called a time-out and I tried to find a few friendly faces in the crowd.  Where were our legions of fans?  They were outnumbered. 

Nothing was working.  The crowd eventually quieted down, because even in the meanest town and with the meanest fans... they felt sorry for us.  The first quarter ended and it was 18-0.  Gulp.

Coach didn't substitute at all during that time and she started the same group for the second quarter.  I was getting irritated that I was still warming up my spot on the bench.  I didn't care how the bench felt, it was warm enough and it could have my awesome Starter jacket if it really need it to keep warm.  The stupid bench was zapping all of my heat and I was getting cold.  I wanted to play; besides, our starters were getting tired.

In a moment of exasperation, Coach yelled my name and I saw spittle fly.  Her face twisted in anger, her eyes flashed, and she jerked her chin towards the game.  I sprinted over and knelt down on the sideline, awaiting a whistle.  She boomed, "WOULD SOMEBODY JUST MAKE A DAMN BASKET!"  I saw the icky white-crusted corners of her mouth turn down with a frown.  My best friend Jess was sitting helplessly in the seat right next to Coach and our eyes locked in her moment of desperation.  I shuddered in disgust for her and thought, "Shake it off, Hawks!".  It's go time.

You know what's going to happen, right?  I got a couple touches on the ball, ran up and down the court a few times and started to warm up.  The other team was "resting" while playing zone instead of man-to-man and I saw my opening.  It all came together... so easily like that last puzzle piece.  I clapped my hands once and started stepping into the shot at the top of the key while the pass was en route from the wing.  In slow motion I saw the crowd fade further away in the background as the orange-ball-that-I-love came closer.  I squared up and shot.  I held my follow-through and stayed on the tips of my toes as if I was shooting a game winner in overtime.  Instead of swishing through the hoop as I had practiced thousands of times, the ball clanged noisily on the rim in slow motion.  Everyone in attendance held their collective breath while I held the shot.  The crowd was mute. 








The basketball bounced once












                                                          then hit off the other side of the rim








then

it

fell

silently

in

through

the

hoop!

The place exploded!   Figuratively.  The gym was so loud I swear every person there cheered except for the opponents on the court.  26-2!!  I saw the crowd rise to its feet and several arms raised high as I transitioned to defense.  Ask anyone who was there that day and he will tell you just how well that shot is seared into his memory.  For a brief moment, life changed.  Friend and foe were high-fiving, ex-lovers embraced, and one cop said to the other cop, "This is better than if the Bulls could win another three-peat."  Outside the gym, boys on the bus suddenly felt remorseful and decided not to steal the impressive Sony Discman with the funny-looking CD inside.  If you weren't there, I'm sure you heard it and it affected you as well.  You probably decided not to curse at the driver who cut you off and you couldn't quite fathom why.  Think back to where you were one cold November night in '95 and I'm sure you'll recall an evening that just felt right... now you know why it did and what that clanging sound was that you heard and yet couldn't place. 

I'm sure someday I will tell this to fidgeting children who would rather do anything but listen to this story, whilst I am sprawled on a couch with a can of Iron City propped up on my ginormous belly, talking about the "glory" days.  Wait, take that part back... I'm not a dude and so I won't have a jumbo belly double-functioning as a beer coaster and potato chip crumb catcher, as convenient as that may sound.  Also scratch the part about glory days, as I think you had to be on winning teams and you also had to be super good to reminisce.  Or do you just have to think you were super good?

I don't remember the rest of that game, how many points I scored, or even if we won or lost.  Since this is my blog though, sit back and I will tell you exactly what happened.

We went into the baddest part of town and came away with a stunning victory that made the other team bemoan their fate and cry to the basketball gods.  Their fans were so distraught that they threw rocks at our bus on the way out of dodge, which required police escorts for us noble and valiant warriors of the hardcourt.  Some of our opponents quit as soon as the buzzer hit zero, never to touch a basketball again.  I've heard since then that a few of those girls are still in therapy for a recurring nightmare they have about the shot.   Others discussed ending their season effective immediately that night; how could they go on after losing such a large lead halfway through the second quarter? 

And to think that the courageous comeback all started with one lone jump shot.