The first inning of a game is crucial to a pitcher. It's difficult to explain why, but often times the stuff you have in the bullpen is not necessarily indicative of what you'll have when it comes time for the first pitch. But every good pitcher has been taught that it's essential to attack the hitter, throw strikes, and keep your team behind you on their toes.
For that reason, my First Inning is about a quality that I think is paramount to being successful in education...
-Sparky Anderson
"Power is dangerous...unless you have humility."
-Richard J. Daley
I'm still hanging on. After taking a couple of years off (2 little ones will do that to you), my wife encouraged me to get back on the field and start playing again this summer. I'm very happy she did. The quality of the game (specifically, the quality of MY game) is nowhere near where it used to be. But the little things about baseball--the conversations on the bench, the mental side of the game, the competitive nature, and of course...the stories--that's what makes it so much fun to be back on the field at the not-so-ripe age of 35.
A few weeks ago, my team was in the midst of a 3-game playoff series to determine who would play in the league finals. Average attendance for the series was 7, but to us, it was important.
In the middle of game two, one of my teammates (and also one of my Leyden co-workers...we'll call him Tom) was on third base with nobody out. It was a fairly crucial moment in the game, and I was getting ready for my own at-bat, both mentally and physically. However, the coach in me never really allows me to focus only on myself. I'm constantly thinking about the 74 different scenarios that could take place on the next pitch, while simultaneously thinking one, two, or three pitches ahead. It can be exhausting.
On the next pitch, it happened. Tom made the inexcusable mistake. As the pitch came across home plate, the catcher snapped a throw down to the third baseman. Tom was out. By a lot. With nobody out. Those of you that know baseball are shaking your heads right now. Internally, so was I. I couldn't believe that such a "heady" baseball player could do such a thing...a guy I'd coached with...a guy who I consider a FRIEND. I hung my head. I felt bad for Tom. I knew he felt bad too. A few teammates gave him the obligatory pat on the backside. Most treated him as a leper. I couldn't even make eye contact with him. What a bonehead mistake. What ARE YOU DOING, TOM?!
You know where this is going...
Next inning. I get a hit. Eventually, I advance to third base. With nobody out.
You know I'm thinking about this before I even get in the batter's box. IF you get on base, and IF you somehow find your way on third base, and especially IF there's nobody out:
DON'T GET PICKED!
I swear I was only 5 feet off the base. I will cling to that until my dying days. The pitch crossed home plate. And through some force of nature, the ball catapulted out of the catcher's glove...in my direction. It blew away the laws of Physics. My 35-year-old reactions caused me to do what happens when you're 35 and you're surprised. I tripped over my own feet.
And I was OUT.
Suffice it to say that I, a man who is never at a loss for words, was shocked. And worried. And pretty sure Tom was smiling.
Here's the best part of this story. Upon reaching the bench, someone on the team told me that the catcher is the best he's ever seen at that one particular play--the snap throw to third base. He also told me how old the catcher was.
He's 54.
A nice giant helping of humble pie.
A nice giant helping of humble pie.
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We, as educators, are presented with a responsibility that it is easy to lose sight of. The sheer number of students who cross our paths is mind-boggling when you sit down and do the math.
Let's take the average high school teacher/coach, for example. Assuming he or she teaches five semester classes of, let's say, 25 students, the total number of students seen in a given year in the classroom ALONE comes out to 250. Add in a team or a club, and we can bring that number to 275. And that's just the ones we have DIRECT contact with on a daily basis.
If those numbers remain consistent over the course of a 35-year teaching career, that teacher interacts directly with....9,625 students.
As educators, we take pride in our craft, as well as the work we put in to get where we are today. We all have degrees from universities. Most of us possess at least one master's degree, and there are even a few "doctors" among us. We are nationally recognized, we present at conferences, and we are esteemed leaders in our profession.
In the end, though, how much of that matters when a young lady tells you she's suffering from a terminal disease? How about when a student of yours whose only living relative is on her death bed asks how she is going to support herself? Or the sophomore boy who is working 40 hours a week to help support his family that is on the brink of financial disaster?
Will your degrees, your blogs, your PLN, and your vast array of awards and distinctions help you (and them) then?
Probably not.
Walk in your students' shoes. Take a moment to consider the roadblocks that many of them have had to hurdle already, and still see out in front of them. The minute we are more caught up in ourselves than we are in the well-being of the young people we are charged with helping, some serious questions need to be asked.
Be humble.
We, as educators, are presented with a responsibility that it is easy to lose sight of. The sheer number of students who cross our paths is mind-boggling when you sit down and do the math.
Let's take the average high school teacher/coach, for example. Assuming he or she teaches five semester classes of, let's say, 25 students, the total number of students seen in a given year in the classroom ALONE comes out to 250. Add in a team or a club, and we can bring that number to 275. And that's just the ones we have DIRECT contact with on a daily basis.
If those numbers remain consistent over the course of a 35-year teaching career, that teacher interacts directly with....9,625 students.
As educators, we take pride in our craft, as well as the work we put in to get where we are today. We all have degrees from universities. Most of us possess at least one master's degree, and there are even a few "doctors" among us. We are nationally recognized, we present at conferences, and we are esteemed leaders in our profession.
In the end, though, how much of that matters when a young lady tells you she's suffering from a terminal disease? How about when a student of yours whose only living relative is on her death bed asks how she is going to support herself? Or the sophomore boy who is working 40 hours a week to help support his family that is on the brink of financial disaster?
Will your degrees, your blogs, your PLN, and your vast array of awards and distinctions help you (and them) then?
Probably not.
Walk in your students' shoes. Take a moment to consider the roadblocks that many of them have had to hurdle already, and still see out in front of them. The minute we are more caught up in ourselves than we are in the well-being of the young people we are charged with helping, some serious questions need to be asked.
Be humble.
