This is a piece of encouragement for you and you, and you and you and you. And a call for earnest introspection.
Having spent coming up on 45 years of my career, inside and outside of sports, interviewing and writing about multiple thousands of so-called notable and/or accomplished or famous or influential or notorious or successful people, I’ve reflected back on what they’ve done and said, what they’ve been and represented.
Everyone from John Wooden — my first interview — to O.J. Simpson — one of my longest, from John Elway to Cal Ripken Jr., from Michael Jordan to Jim McMahon, from Karl Malone to John Stockton, from Steve Nash to Steve Young, from Magic Johnson to Dale Murphy, from Jack Nicklaus to Andre Agassi, from LaVell Edwards to Rick Majerus, from Derrick Favors to Donovan Mitchell.
I’ve spent hours trying to piece together and illustrate the lives of young, eager subjects who were on the verge of greatness and grizzled individuals who were at death’s edge, folks who had more money than they could ever spend, more fame than they wanted and folks who worked and struggled quietly on the fringes of notice, without much of either.
Occasionally, I briefly wandered off into the lives of icons of different realms, people like composer Henry Mancini and chef Wolfgang Puck and politician-who-would-later-become-president Joe Biden. I spent an afternoon at the Playboy Mansion in the presence of Hugh Hefner and a few of his summer-dressed friends.
Have you ever yearned to be like any of the aforementioned?
Have you ever looked at your own seemingly obscured and anonymous life and thought you’ve fallen short or missed out?
I’m not going to sit here and write that all y’all wouldn’t have had or have a good time with stacks of gold two stories high, by way of the privilege of power-yachting around the Caribbean or Mediterranean, in the opportunities that exist among those whose names everyone knows, or through feeling the rush of having 60,000 people cheering on and exulting in your achievements on the field, on the court, on the diamond, on the ice, on the pitch, on the stage, on the page.
But it might not be all it’s seen or thought to be.
You might be as happy or even happier than a lot of those folks.
As I’ve probed and poked around into “their” existences, acknowledging that that absorption is limited and that each person’s experience varies, I’ve come to a few conclusions. Again, they are not universal, just general.
First, your sports “heroes” are not “heroes.” They are people with very specific abilities, people bumbling and stumbling through life, same as you, only with a whole lot more cash in their wallets, a private jet at their disposal, and all kinds of hubbub swirling around them.
If that’s where anyone thinks meaningful living takes root, they are mistaken. I’m no psychologist, but that’s what I’ve noticed.
All of it might be a whole lot of fun, but it doesn’t authentically fill or bridge gaps from where a person actually is to a genuine place of real self-fulfillment.
I once had a memorable conversation about that with Larry Miller, an imperfect-but-decent man who could afford whatever life would present him, and who most definitely enjoyed some of those mountainous bennies, but who also sought as much inwardly as he did outwardly. He was ruled by the things he thought were most important.
We’re talking about a guy who built an empire, but who used to question his wife, Gail, when she picked out the most expensive apples at the market. She would remind him that, yes, they could fit the honey crisps into their grocery budget, bringing that to the attention of the same husband who had sunk a bajillion dollars into building a race track in Tooele that would never be profitable.
He said he knew all the goodies would leave him wanting, if he didn’t dig deeper into himself, into who he really was.
Some of the people I’ve interviewed appeared on the outside to have everything a human could wish for — the talent to double-pump a smash-hammer dunk through a hoop, to hit a baseball into the ionosphere, to thread a football 70 yards downfield into a bushel basket, but they were running half-empty on the inside.
That’s not to demean any of them.
It’s just to reiterate that everyone is human. And something even more significant — that everyone has notable things going on in their — your — own life, things that are more meaningful than being an All-Star third baseman for the Dodgers or the Phillies.
And even if you were that, you’d still face the difficulties that life sometimes presents.
One MLB pitcher I interviewed for a feature column broke down and bawled as he described his journey through the death of his young child, and that he said a short silent prayer for his toddler’s soul every time he took the mound. And then, a prominent coach whose daughter was afflicted by a sudden serious condition that caused her to constantly lose her balance. “No amount of success in sports … nothing,” he said, “prepares you to see your baby girl unable to walk without falling to the ground.”
Whew.
People are people.
In a lot of ways, I have more respect for the person who stands in front of her classroom full of kids everyday or who holds down two janitorial jobs to support his family for three decades than I do for anyone taking the court or the field as a pro.
A man I once knew by the name of Wilson Davis, who was a full-time custodian/gardener at a protestant church near where I grew up back east, was one of the most honest and honorable, the most generous and charitable, one of the smartest and most fulfilled human beings I ever ran across. He was a helluva bowler, too, having rolled something like eight perfect games.
A blessed soul, he was.
He was — and should have been — as proud of his contributions to society as any athlete or coach I’ve ever met.
Speaking of coaches, I remember interviewing a less-than-famous high school basketball mentor some 24 years ago, an old guy who had been around the game for most of his long life, who had taught the rudiments of basketball and teamwork to thousands of prep players.
You wouldn’t know his name, but his kids certainly would.
He went on and on about how winning games was overblown, that teaching was more important, that youngsters learning selflessness and effort went a whole lot farther and further. At one point, an upset parent who hadn’t seen enough winning out of his son’s team brought a petition signed by “60 parents,” calling for the coach’s resignation.
His response: “Make it 61, I’ll sign it, too.”
There are all kinds of people out there — likely yourself included — who contribute to the goodness of a world that too often seems to — and sometimes does — go bad.
I’d guess that many, many readers around here — again, likely yourself included — have a fantastic story, the story of their — your — own life. You think your existence has lacked the major dimensions or contributions found in the lives of Jordan and Wooden and Elway and Murphy and Nicklaus and Nash and Ripken, et al., and maybe it has missed some of those exaggerated proportions.
But the really significant stuff, and drama, too, is there or will be there, if it’s recognized, acknowledged and examined inwardly, candidly, closely. I swear I should hang out a shingle — or any other pro scribe could do so — and offer to write the life story of whoever has a considerable tale to tell.
And that would comprise and cover almost everybody … yeah, yourself included.
from The Salt Lake Tribune https://ift.tt/1N8aFKJ
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