It’s not about winning. It’s about being.
Standing on the line before every final game we ever played, my heart raced.
“Just butterflies,” they said when I was a kid. “They go away once things get rolling.”
No matter how many times we advanced to the finals over the many years I played, I still got nervous when that first pull soared in my direction. The only real difference being I had grown to know that these feelings will pass as long as I catch the first disc and successfully complete a pass or two.
In about ten days, I’m going to be on the line again. Not to receive a disc, but to tell a story. And once again, my heart races.
For the last year or so, I’ve been entering what The Moth calls StorySLAMS. These are events where anyone can put their name in a hat for a chance to tell a story in front of a live audience. I’ve now been to about ten of these, and been picked half the time. Every time they call my name, it’s terrifying — the same feeling I remember from all those games.
As if getting up in front of hundreds of people isn’t enough to make you sweat, these events are also judged. The winner advances to what is called a GrandSLAM. I’ve yet to win, and instead come in second three or four times.
I know this feeling well, of being the second best to the winner, because between 1982 and 1994, our Boston teams came in second time and time again as we vied for a National Championship. After each loss, I swore we’d win the next year. This went on for a dozen years, through many iterations of the team. Just as we tried and tried to win all those years ago, I keep going back to The Moth with the goal of winning and advancing. You’d think I’d have learned something after all these years.
“It’s not about winning, it’s about being in the game,” the lesson I thought I’d learned, until I met The Moth. My rational brain tells me to get up there and enjoy the moment. My reptilian brain says this will be the one.
Careful what I wish for, because two weeks ago I got an email inviting me to participate in a GrandSLAM. Seems my numerous also-ran finishes were enough to bump me up to telling a story on The Huntington Theatre’s main stage.
“But I didn’t win,” my pathetic brain screams. “I’ll be a poser and everyone will know,” I can’t help thinking.
All of this is moot, because I agreed to participate and a week from Tuesday I will get up in front of seven hundred and fifty people and tell a story under the theme of ‘Making Waves.’ Once again, I’m terrified.
Maybe looking at this picture of the Huntington’s empty seats every day for a week will ease the panic.
Maybe standing on the stage a few days before the actual event will help ease the tension.
Maybe remembering all those games we played all those years ago will help. Games we finally started winning.
When I get up there this time, I’m going to take a deep breath and imagine the disc coming my way. I’m going to remember the incredible feeling of being in the game, in the flow, and letting things just happen. Watching Rhino in the USAU finals this year reminded me of what it’s like when everything clicks
“The deep game is back and it’s sexier than ever,” one of the captains said after Rhino crushed PONY for the title. “Small ball is dead. Let’s go!”
I know my heart will race when they call me onto that stage, but I also know that things will settle down once I get into the story. The only thing I need to remember is not to shout ‘time out’ should I forget what I was going to say next.
