Don’t Play For The Trophy

“The present
Is too much for the senses,
Too crowding, too confusing –
Too present to imagine.”

– from the poem Carpe Diem by Robert Frost

Baseball players play the game for many reasons.

When a kid first starts playing baseball it’s probably simply because his mother or father signed him up to play. A young four, five, or six-year-old probably doesn’t really understand much of the game. Young ballplayers are simply playing. Young ballplayers are simply trying to have fun.

At some point, a young ballplayer discovers snacks. At the end of a game, there’s a treat to be had. Perhaps a parent, maybe not even his own, brings cookies to share with the team. Or maybe juice boxes. Or maybe rice krispie bars. Or maybe multiple treats – even better. Or if he’s really lucky, perhaps a stop on the way home to get ice cream is on the agenda. The game may be fun to play, but snacks are what it’s all about.

At some point, a young ballplayer discovers the roar of the crowd. It may simply be the cheers of family and friends, and not the roar of a capacity-filled Yankee Stadium, but these cheers make a ballplayer want to do better. Having fun is great. And snacks are pretty tasty. But adoration makes a ballplayer feel really good. Anticipated cheers make him want to do better.

At some point, a young ballplayer discovers it’s more fun to win than lose. At the end of a game, when his team has scored more runs, a ballplayer feels up. At the end of a game, when the other team has scored more runs, a ballplayer feels down. Winning isn’t everything, but it can be satisfying. Fun takes on new meaning. Winning is what it’s all about.

At some point, a young ballplayer, should his team have enough success, discovers the pride of taking home a trophy. A trophy is something to hold. A trophy is something to put on display. A trophy is something to admire. It’s fun to win. And snacks are pretty tasty. But taking home some hardware is what it’s all about.

For many ballplayers, young and old, taking home the trophy – whether from a little league tournament or the World Series – is the epitome of success. It’s the pinnacle of achievement. Players play for the trophy (or the ring) as if the trophy itself is the most important thing there ever was. What these players young and old don’t fully realize is that the trophy itself is not what’s really important. A trophy is a representation of success to be sure. Winning a trophy should be a satisfying moment. But it’s just a thing.

There’s a scene from the movie 42 that depicts an important moment from an early part of Jackie Robinson’s career. Hollywood likely took some dramatic liberties in its depiction (the moment probably happened in 1948 not ‘47, and probably occurred in Boston not Cincinnati), but the moment did take place. In a tense scene from the movie, during which Jackie Robinson is taking a racially charged verbal beating from the crowd at Crosley Field in Cincinnati during warm-ups, Dodger shortstop Pee Wee Reese walks across the diamond and puts his arm around Jackie Robinson. Pee Wee Reese, who hailed originally from Kentucky, and despite his southern upbringing, had the courage to make this gesture of support to his teammate.

The legendary Red Barber, the Dodger announcer at the time, recalling the moment in an interview for the Ken Burn’s documentary Baseball had said Pee Wee Reese walked across the infield to where Jackie Robinson was playing and put his arm around him as if to say to the crowd “this is my friend.” In the movie 42, the moment was enough to make you want to cry.

I think it’s difficult in a moment, to fully appreciate the important elements that make the moment. “The present is too much for the senses, too crowding, too confusing, too present to imagine” the poet Robert Frost would say. In the midst of a baseball tournament it’s easy to think the trophy is what matters. It’s easy to think that winning is what matters. These are the most tangible, objective elements that exist in the moment. And thus we cling to them even though obtaining them is not completely within our control.

Know that winning and the trophy that goes with it are simply outcomes. They are the effect of playing well. They are the effect of playing as a team. They are the effect of striving to do your best. They are the effect of excellence on the field. But they are not guaranteed.

If you’ve had the good fortune of playing with dedicated teammates – teammates who work hard, stay focused, pick each other up in tough times, and somehow manage to have fun along the way – then perhaps you already know. Most ballplayers, if they realize it all, don’t realize it until long after a moment has come and gone. The present is too present to imagine.  For some, the realization never happens. You don’t play for the trophy. You play for your teammates.

If at the end of a game, at the end of a tournament, or at the end of a season you can look your teammates in the eye and say you did everything you could to help your team perform its very best, then you can put your arms around your teammates with pride when all is said and done and let everyone know that “these are my friends.”