The Gift of Failure

In the spirit of full disclosure some elements of this story have been adapted to protect the innoncent; namely, me. 

Nearly all of the parents that I deal with as a high school teacher are great to work with. They are highly supportive of teachers and education in general.  Every once-in-a-while though, I come across a real piece of work. In this case, the “work” in question came to advocate for her son.  On the spectrum of kids I have taught, I would put this kid squarely in the “good” category. Also like most fourteen-year-olds I have taught, given the chance, he will sell future success in exchange for short term gratification faster than a doughnut disappears at a weightwatchers meeting. When given the prospect of working on an assignment and chatting it up with some pretty young thing, he is going to choose the PYT every time. Actually, that would be his ideal distraction but he will actually take just about any distraction that will keep him from bearing down and working something challenging.

In my class, assignments involve making observations about maps, charts or graphs. I ask students to turn their observation into a question that begins with “why,” venture an answer and then try to find evidence to support or disprove their tentative conclusion. Whatever they don’t complete in class, has to be done at home. Given the number of missing assignments this kid had, he is obviously not getting much done in class. With thirty to thirty-five students in the room working on such a task, you can imagine that I can’t monitor this poster child for Ritalin every second. But that is exactly what this mother wanted. She apparently thought I would be a willing enlistee in her corps of hovering helicopter parents.

I explained that there are things that I can and will do but “sit down with him” and “make sure he does the work” was not one of them.  I also declined when she offered to come to class and “sit with him.” Now comes the delicate balancing act of giving parenting advice without coming across as judgemental. Actually judgement had been passed and a verdict rendered. I just don’t want her to know that. 

I am interested in learning about the conditions behind optimal human performance so I have done a lot of reading on motivation and behavior modification. I draw on the work of Jessika LaHey (the author of the book that I stole the title of this article from) Carol Dweck, Angela Duckworth, Mihayli Chicsentmihayli, Stephen Covey, Daniel Pink, Daniel Kahneman, Paul Tough, Liz Wizeman and Tony Wagner, to name a few. Some of these are scholars and researchers while others have reported on the work of scholars and researchers. So, there is my bibliography, I hope you weren’t expecting parenthetical references. These are all compelling authors of compelling books. If you haven’t read them, you should. They will help you with all of your endeavors where humans are involved. 

Over the years, I have distilled the words of these writers and researchers into a kind of formula for motivation and eventual achievement. Here it is:

1.      Set high standards- The standard must stretch the individual beyond their current abilities but is within the “zone of proximal development.” In other words, meet them where they’re at (where else would we meet them?) and set a standard just beyond what they can currently do.  

       2.  Allow the student, child, worker or whoever to figure out how they want to reach the standard. It is tempting to want to step in and offer help and advice when you see the inevitable flaws in the plan but it is important that you don’t. If you do, they won’t own it and they must own it.
 
      3. Provide reasonable support to help accomplish the plan. You can play a role but the principal architect of the plan has to be the principal player.

       4. Hold them accountable for the results. This usually means they will get something they want for meeting the standard or have something withheld if they don’t. This is where the process usually breaks down. Think about how often you are truly held accountable for your performance and how much more freakin awesome you would be if you had to account for your performance in the areas that matter most.

      

      5.  Regroup and retry- Old dogs can learn new tricks but change is hard and we feel compelled to gravitate back to what we are comfortable and familiar with. That is when the accountability and support are the double-edged sword of justice and mercy. This is where you and your protégé look at what worked and what didn’t. This is where the steward accounts for the learning, growth, pain and struggles. This is where plan B is created and the process starts over until the standard is reached.

As I explained this to the snowplow parent, I could see that I was beginning to lose her at two, her eyes begin to gloss over at number three and she interrupted at four. She said, “I think what he needs is for someone to supervise him." Have you ever had a conversation where you explain something and the other party in the conversation (if you can call it that) demonstrates that they weren't listening at all by reverting back to the premise that started the conversation in the first place? That is how I felt. I also got the feeling that this mysterious “someone” she was talking about was me! So, in the spirit of misdirection and the aforementioned metaphor, I plowed on to number 4. “What does he love?” I asked? Her immediate and unequivocal response was “soccer.” I actually knew that. The various professional and club soccer jerseys he sports was the evidence I was going on. “So what if his participation in soccer was contingent on his performance in school?” I asked. She looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. Then she said, “Oh, I couldn’t take that away from him. I don’t want to set him up for failure. I am looking for  a win-win.” Now how do you like that?! Not only was she using Stephen R. Covey’s words against me (albeit, incorrectly-poor Stephen R. is probably rolling over in his grave), she had the audacity to refute my wisdom.  That usually doesn’t happen until after the parent leaves my classroom.

I tried to press my point by saying that the reason she feels like parenting is a game of Whac-A-Mole, is that her son is not being held accountable for his work. I asked her if there were any consequence for his poor academic performance. Her consequence was taking away his devices temporarily but she said she gave them back after a short time. Probably after he made some measly effort and conned her into believing he had actually done something. I suggested that he wouldn’t comply until he had the desire and that wouldn’t come until he had something to work for. He shouldn’t get what he wants until he has met the standard. I bet she has no qualms making her husband do her bidding before he gets what he wants. It’s the same idea minus the Oedipus Complex.

Instead she is making her son into a pansy. Have you ever wondered why pansies, the toughest of flowers, are given as an emasculating label for men? I digress. From where I stand, this woman’s problem is that she doesn’t trust her son. She is afraid that if he fails, irreparable damage will be done to his precious psyche and quickly emerging ego. The seeming paradox of wanting him supervised yet not wanting to hold him accountable are two sides of the same coin. She doesn’t think he can handle failure. She, therefore, feels like she has to control all of the circumstances in his life and fight his battles for him. This is the definition of the helicopter parent or the snowplow parent who goes ahead of the child, clearing the path so they don’t have to encounter any hardship or difficulty.

It is natural for a parent to want to protect a child. But is my attempt to protect my child actually making him weak? In the book “David and Goliath” Malcolm Gladwell addresses this paradox. He cites one study of 699 “great” people. Over one third of them had lost a parent before the age of ten. Nearly half had lost a parent before the age of twenty. I am not advocating the we knock off a parent to facilitate the growth of our children. I think that applying the principles above will foster the grit we are looking for and no one has to die in the process. So, good luck with this parents everywhere. I am counting on you so that I don’t have to have many more conversations like the one described above.  

I Saw the Light

Nearly thirty years ago I had an experience that, while seemingly insignificant, sparked a question. I flipped the light switch to my apartment in Japan and……… the light didn’t come on. As a missionary, I was given one day a week to do write letters, do laundry, clean the apartment, do grocery shopping and get out to see the sights of Japan. Given that my interest was in seeing the sights of Japan, I rushed through the laundry and the cleaning and the shopping. Week after week after week I forgot to buy a light bulb to replace the one that had gone out two months prior. I didn’t concern myself with it too much because I really only used the room to sleep in and I like it dark when I sleep. One day though, while making my way down an aisle in the grocery store, I glanced to my left and saw a light bulb. I bought the bulb and as soon as I got home, I put it in. I regretted what I had done the instant I flipped the switch. I saw things that no God-fearing missionary should see: dust, lint, articles of clothing, scraps of food and various other items that had gone missing. They were all there before my weary eyes. I knew there were a few things out of order, but with the light on, the filth that I had been living in asaulted my optics without impunity. I wanted to flip the switch off and go back to my blissful state of ignorance. But I had seen what I had seen and now I had to do something about it.

Was there a lesson in this? Out of the rubble of my room arose this metaphor: If light is knowledge, then the more knowledge I gain, the clearer my views and greater clarity of thought brings better decisions and improved circumstances. Sometimes the light reveals things that make me uncomfortable. Ignorance is not bliss. It is just the denial that I am living in intellectual, emotional and spiritual squalor. 

Thinking Fast and Slow

I just finished this book by Daniel Kahneman. He is a psychologist who won the Nobel Prize in Economics for his work with Amos Tversky on decision making. He was the subject of the book "The Undoing Project" by Michael Lewis who wrote "Moneyball" and the "Big Short." The former two were interesting enough that it piqued my interest into learning more about the decision making process from the guy who wrote the book on it, literally.
In essence, our brains have two functions: quick thinking intuition and slow thinking logic. The quick thinking is when we react instinctively to stimuli. It stems from our emigdala, the oldest part of the brain that is wired for survival. If we don't react quickly to a predator or some other threat, we die! The problem with this type of thinking is that it is easily fooled. You are less likely to trust a guy with long hair and tattoos because, even if we try to counter our intuition with logic, we still can't help being influence by the scripting from which our intuition draws. Anyone who has spent much time around me has heard my "culture goggles" metaphor. Culture is like a lens that we see the world through. The lens is comprised of the sum of our values, beliefs and experiences. I recently got a reminder of how readily children adopt messages and make them part of their lens even if the message wasn't meant for him or her. As she was driving my six-year-old Grace to school, JoyLynn said "We have a new president today." Grace replied with "Oh? Who is it?" JoyLynn said "His name is Donald Trump." Grace exclaimed "Oh! YOU HATE HIM!" JoyLynn was taken aback by the strength of her response and by the mere fact that Grace was even aware of Donald Trump at all. We certainly hadn't sat her down and shared our concerns with her. But that doesn't mean she wasn't listening. JoyLynn tried to put a more gentle spin on it without lying by saying "Well, he is not a very nice man." To which, Grace replied, "Well I'm nice!" JoyLynn agreed. She is nice most of the time. Then JoyLynn said " And he's not very patient." Grace said, "Oh, I'm not very patient either." The she followed with "Maybe he just needs a little time." JoyLynn said, yes that is a good idea. Then Grace said, if I run for president, will you vote for me? JoyLynn replied with an emphatic, Yes! Later she asked me if I would vote for her and old told her that not only would I vote for her but I would be her campaign manager.
So, too often, our decision are based, not on slow and methodically crafted logic but the information that was passed on to us from our parents, friends, teachers and the all-pervasive media. We can temper the tempermental effects of fast thinking by building a broad and deep network of knowledge. This is not as easy as it sounds. Another feature of our primordial selves is energy conservation. Since our brains can burn up to 1/3 of our total calories, and we are programmed to conserve energy, we resist the kind of thinking that burns the most energy; that is slow, rational thought. Yet, as Ralph Waldo Emmerson said "That which we persist in doing becomes easier, not because the nature of the thing has changed but because our ability to do it has increased." As we continue to add knowledge, our quick thinking system 1 can more easily access a better bank of information and thereby make better decisions. If we do it enough in a certain realm of life, we become masterful. Our intuition is informed by our vast knowledge. In his book "Blink", Malcolm Gladwell tells of how this could work. A museum was considering buying a statue that was touted as one of the best examples of Greek sculpture of a certain period. Everything seemed to line up and point to the fact that this was the real deal and would be a great addition to the museum. That is, until exprerts were brought in. They recoiled. While they couldn't really explain why they were repulsed by the statue. The word that their fast thinking brains came up was "fresh." Not exactly the word you want associated with a statue is supposed to be an ancient artifact. Upon further investigation, the statue was proven to be a fake. Another psychologist by the name of Mihayli Cziksentmihayli calls the seemingly effortless transfer of information from system 1 (thinking fast) to slow thinking system 2 "flow." Flow is a state of optimal performance in which we are simply "in the zone."
 I experience flow when I ski. I have been skiing religiously now for over forty years. Unlike other sports, I am a better skier now than I was in my younger days. As I charge down a mountain, I don't think about the next turn or what line I will take, I am drawing upon all of that experience to react spontaneously to the terrain, obstacles and any thing else that presents itself.
So in an age when there is so much information that stimulates system one but doesn't inform system 2, there are still books like "Thinking Fast and Slow" that can really help counter the strong cultural and political currents that threaten to sweep us away with the mindless herd.

Mike Lewis is a real person but he is also a real character. He is the one who challenged me to go higher, faster and farther than I would have done on my own. You will know him from other stories I have told and you will know that he is the one who is really responsible for my involvement in the first place. This story was not one, in which, I was involved but it is my favorite story of all those that he was involved in.

Mike and I became fast friends from the time he moved to Orem, Utah and started school at Hillcrest Elementary in the fourth grade. We grew apart when I defeated him for sixth grade class president and didn’t really become close again until the eleventh grade. Mike and I both played football during the years between the sixth and the eleventh grades. Living in the same geographical area meant we would be on the same team. Even having had that in common, I was clueless about everything in the ensuing story until he told me at the age of thirty.   

Mike’s football career began in the seventh grade. Usually you rise before you fall. Mike’s experience was not that way. His experience with football started at a low point and went down from there. On the day he signed up, got weighed and got his equipment. The reading on the scale was one hundred and six pounds. The cut off between the middle weight and heavyweight was one hundred and five pounds. So many times in life, fate is determined by seemingly insignificant details. In this case it was two pounds. If Mike had taken time for a bowel-movement that day, his fate may have been different. Instead of being the biggest kid on his team he would be the smallest. Being on the heavy-weight squad also meant playing with the eighth grade boys. Not only did these boys have one year more experience with football but in junior high and even in high school, there is a psychological chasm between grades that is difficult to cross.

 When his equipment was issued, he had nothing to reference to tell him if his equipment fit right or not. The pants and shoulder pads were probably not too hard to get right. The helmet, as anyone who has had an ill-fitting helmet knows, is another thing all together. Even if someone was there to help, all they can do is ask if it feels ok. Of course, if the kid can turn his head around inside the helmet, it is too big. But, even if a helmet feels ok at first, he might have a splitting head-ache in another fifteen minutes. That was the case with Mike. Rather than focusing on drills or blocking assignments, all Mike could think about was how soon he could get that helmet off of his head. Then there were hitting drills. You can imagine that with your head pounding, ramming it into someone else’s was not something to be relished. Mike would recoil when hitting another player.  Physics tells us that less mass and less momentum results in the smaller slower moving object getting squished. To make matters worse, instead of looking past the bars on the face mask, Mike’s eyes were continually fixated on them. You can just imagine a kid running to make a block or a tackle with his eyes locked on the bars in front of his face. Not good.

So there he was, clueless about what he was supposed to do, head pounding and avoiding contact in a sport where success depends on contact. Things went from bad to worse when the prima-donna quarterback thought it would be funny to kick Mike in the face. With a helmet on, the kick might have hurt the other kid more than it did Mike. The humiliation, however, was what really hurt. It was then that Mike quit football.

He quit for two years. His sophomore year, he decided to give it another shot. Now, even though he was with kids his same age and he was one of the bigger boys, he was two years behind them in his understanding and execution of the game. He still didn’t know what it felt like to have a helmet that fit right and his attention still got distracted by those damn bars. He got a chance to play in the first game of the season but screwed up somehow and by the third play of the game, he was on the side-line never to see another play the entire season. To add insult to injury, the last game was in Vernal, Utah; a four hour bus ride. Whether it was regulation or just for the sake of comfort, the coaches decided to leave three boys home. Mike was one of the three.

He accepted his fate but realized that there would be a potentially embarrassing moment or series of moments in school the day of the game. When the announcement was made for the sophomore football team to be excused from class, he would still be sitting there in class after all the other boys had left. If he were wearing his jersey, the teacher would inevitably question whether he shouldn’t be leaving to board the bus. At that point Mike would have to tell the teacher and by default, all of the other students that he was being left behind. Mike considered not wearing his jersey that day but then the other boys on the team would marginalize him when they noticed his lack of solidarity. There were many steps Mike could have taken to avoid the humiliation on the horizon that day but for whatever reason, those steps were not taken and Mike found himself confronted with the exact scenario that he had already seen in his mind’s eye. He had to confess that he sucked and was left back, not just in that one class but over and over again to inquiring students for the rest of the day. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Mike was done with football, again.

That is until Troy Wright came along. When Troy told Mike he wanted to try football, Mike said “good luck.” Troy pleaded with Mike to come out with him. I am sure that the feelings of isolation and humiliation hightened Mikes awareness to what Troy would be going though and didn't want him to go through it alone. So, Mike showed up for football for his junior season, not for himself but because he had the back of a friend.

This time there was something different. His helmet fit and didn’t hurt his head. He could finally see past the bars on the facemask. His coach, Dave Beal, took time to help players understand their assignments rather than just yell at them for screwing up. Mike started to understand what he was supposed to do. Since his head didn’t hurt, he started to put his full size and strength into his blocks and tackles. It felt good! He liked it! Coach Beal was not bound by player politics or other coaches’ expectations. He held challenges every week. In these challenges any player could challenge another varsity starter for his spot. Mike started to do well in these challenges. This gave him confidence to work hard, learn more and take some risks. The coaches noticed and he started to see playing time on the varsity level. This gave Mike more confidence and encouraged him to work harder. By the end of the season he had was seeing considerable playing time on the varsity O and D line. In an ironic twist of fate, the kid that kicked him in the head, turned out to be an advocate for him with the coach. 

The confidence he gained from football was truly cathartic. While it was his nature to be strait forward and even brash, he only asserted himself with people he felt comfortable with. Being a varsity football player made him feel comfortable around nearly everyone. He shed layers of insecurity. His transformation was like that of a chrysalis of a caterpillar into a be-U-tiful butterfly. He was personable with all players. He could relate to the social elite but his experience gave him empathy for those who were struggling. It was no surprise then, at the beginning of his senior season, Mike was voted by his teammates as a team captain. To make the story even sweeter, Troy, Mike's reason for his reintroduction to football, was his sidekick on the O line. 

Mike’s progress as a player seemed to mirror the expectations of the team as a whole. As Orem High School had just jumped the 3A ranks and landed in the toughest football region in the state of Utah, no one expected much of the Golden Tigers. Orem’s first game was against the Brighton Bengals. The Brighton seniors had not lost a game since their freshman year. When the dust settled, Orem had miraculously come out on top 17-9.  With that burst of confidence, Orem summarily trounced Hillcrest and Bingham. Then, we lost a heartbreaker to Alta. With Orem up 14-13 in the last two minutes, an Orem defender made a key stop on fourth down and then received an un-sportsman-like conduct penalty for pulling his imaginary guns from their holsters and firing off four or five shots in the face of the opposing player. Not as serious as if they had been real guns, but it resulted in a first down for the Hawks. Orem’s defense held again and forced Alta to attempt a 52 yard field goal. After they missed, all we would have to do was run out the clock. But they didn’t miss. We lost the game 16-14. We went on to beat West Jordan, Mountain View (Orem doesn’t lose to Mountain View in football) and American Fork. The one loss is a type of for-shadowing, in which, we learn that one seemingly insignificant choice can have big implications.  

 In another twist of fate to which Orem always seemed to fall victim, that one loss to Alta created a three-way tie for the region championship. Alta beat Orem, Orem beat Mountain View and Mountain View beat Alta. Orem lost the coin flip. Twice. If it weren’t for that un-sportsman-like conduct penalty, we would have gone into the state tournament as a number one seed, playing a number four seed. Instead we played Bonneville who had tied with Weber for first in their region. As a second place team, Bonneville hosted Orem in the first round of the state tournament. It is impossible to say whether or not that matchup would change Mike’s life forever. Bonneville had a big strong running back. The University of Utah sent coach McQuivey to scout him. He did his job and then some. He noticed an Orem defensive tackle that was making plays. Mike was then 6-4 and 210 pounds. Those numbers weren’t impressive enough on paper to get the attention of any college scouts, but in full pads, he appeared to be 240 and with his hustle and toughness, coach McQuivey couldn’t resist putting Mike on his radar and by default the attention of the Runnin Ute’s.

It goes without saying that Mike did not grow up immersed in the culture of football. Neither he nor anyone around him informed him of the games that both high school and college coaches play in the recruiting process. He did not know that he was not supposed to record his actual height, weight, bench press and forty time. The custom for players and coaches is to show themselves as a little taller, heavier, stronger and faster as is the case. He did not know that it is the nature of the recruiting process for recruiters to tell recruits that they are the most important player in their class. Mike was led to believe that he was going to be guaranteed a scholarship. So, Mike was shocked one day when coach McQuivey called him and told him the other coaches wanted to give the last scholarship to a kid in California. He advised Mike to come up to the U and meet with coach Jim Fassel to convince him to give him the scholarship.

Mike made the forty mile drive in minutes. Even if he couldn’t run fast, he could drive fast. There are dozens of state-troupers who can attest to that fact. When Mike arrived at the Hunstman Center, Coach McQuivey ushered him down a long hall of coache’s offices with coach Fassell’s office at the very end. Mike steps into the office, offers his had to one of the two men in the room and said “Coach Fassell, I’m Mike Lewis.” The man took his hand and pointing to the other man in the room said, “Son, that’s coach Fassell.” Mike didn’t even know the coach of the school that was recruiting him. Not a good omen. The meeting proceeded with the coaches citing the stats of his competition. He was 6-3, 250 pounds, could bench press 300 pounds and run the forty under 5 seconds. These are not eye popping numbers but they were better than Mike’s. Coach Fassell said, “He is bigger, stronger and faster than you. Why should we give you this scholarship?” Mike looked him in the eye and without hesitation said, “I am more athletic.” Coach Fassell retorted with emphasis, “He is bigger, stronger and faster than you. What makes you think you are more athletic?” Mike replied simply, “I can do a backflip.” With an incredulous expression that said “who does this kid think he is?”, Coach Fassell retorted “Okay, go ahead.” Mike looked around and up at the ceiling and said. “I can’t do it in here. There isn’t enough room.” Dissatisfied with this answer and perhaps thinking it amusing to call this kids bluff, coach Fassell replied, “Fine, let’s go outside.” As they moved back down the long corridor of offices, the coaches called players and coaches out of each office by saying “You gotta see this, this kid’s gonna do a back flip.”

Now, if you have read my story about the first male yell leaders at Orem High, you know Mike could do a back flip. His backflips were, however, not a thing of grace and beauty. As he jumped and rotated, he could barely get his feet under that 210 pound frame before landing on his face. More often than not, he would fall forward on his hands. As he was now surrounded by highly muscular, conditioned athletes and coaches of division one football, this gangly red-head from Orem started to question the wisdom of his words. Mike’s mouth had gotten him in trouble before but standing at the doorway of the home of his U.S. History teacher to apologize for something he said was nothing compared to being surrounded by this group. Seeing no way out, he jumped as high as he could. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was angels from heaven lifting him up but as he tucked and rotated, he came down and stuck a perfect landing. The crowd erupted! Coach Fassell step forward from the midst of the crowd. He offered his hand to Mike and said excitedly, “Welcome to the Univeristy of Utah.”

Now that would be a great place to end this story, but there is more. I probably don’t need to point out that changing any of the different variables of this story: coming back to football after several bad experiences, that critical penalty against Alta, Mike’s audacity to say he could do a backflip would have changed the outcome of his entire life. What if Mike had accepted the coach’s implication that the kid in California was more talented? Most of us might have internally disagreed with the coach’s assertion that the other kid was more talented but would not have the courage to challenge the judgment of a division I football coach. Who knows what course Mike’s life would have taken. Even without knowing any details of how Mike’s life turned out, you didn’t need me to tell you that one moment, one decision changed the course of Mike’s life.

So why am I still writing? I am writing because Mike’s decision didn’t just dramatically change the course of his life, he changed the course of life for other people too. Mike’s younger brother was a freshman when he was a senior. He worshipped Mike. He tried to act like Mike. In fact, he was over-the-top ,obnoxious in his attempt to be like Mike. The thing was, he wasn’t Mike. By the time he was a senior in college, Mike was a six foot five inch, two-hundred eighty pound second team all-WAC defensive tackle. Chad was six foot six but skinny as a rail. He had tasted the success on Orem’s football teams that had taken first and second in state in consecutive years, but Chad was not really a key player on those teams. Unlike teammates Tyler Anderson and Brian Rowley who were recruited by and became key players for BYU and the U of U, Chad was not recruited, let alone offered a scholarship. In fact, if he had a chance at an athletic scholarship, it would have been as a high jumper in track.

I met up with Chad again in 1992 in Taiwan of all places. I was teaching English and he was a missionary. In my conversations with him he expressed an interest in teaching. I was glad to see that he seemed to have gotten out from under Mike’s shadow. After he went home, I heard he was going to walk on to the BYU football team. I remember feeling exasperated with him. I felt it was almost pathetic how Chad was chasing this pipe dream. I really felt he was trying to walk in shoes that were two sizes too big.

A few months later, I heard that injuries had allowed him to see some playing time at tight end. “Wow,” I thought, “what a sorry statement about the school with such a celebrated tradition at tight end. BYU has had more celebrated tight-ends than any other position with the exception of quarterback. They must really be hurting. A few weeks later, he was seeing even more playing time and had made a play against Wyoming where he had hurdled the only player that stood between him and the end-zone. By the end of the season he was a starter. By then, I was a believer. He started the next three years. His junior year he achieved first team all-WAC and honorable mention All-American status. He went on to play eight seasons in the NFL. He was a pro bowl selection three times and was an all-pro tight-end in 2000. He was a member of the St. Louis Rams team that won Super Bowl XXXIV. He caught the game winning touchdown in the NFC championship game. He wrote a book titled Surround Yourself with Greatness, which, does not include Mike’s experiences with football but as an outside observer, I truly believe that Mike’s back flip that day was a contributing factor to Chad’s decision to walk on at BYU.     

How to Catch a Baseball With Your Face

It was the summer of 1983. I arrived at Provo’s Timpanogos ballpark for a game against Provo High School. We got ready for the game in the typical fashion; we got our arms warm by lining up along the first base line and threw to a player opposite us. Jim Hoyal was on my left throwing to Ted Severens. These two are important because they both played a role in changing the way I look. As sometimes happens, Jim threw the ball over Ted’s head. Ted threw the ball back to Jim from the spot where he picked it up. You probably know that with increased distance comes decreased accuracy. The ball was off the mark; the mark being Jim’s glove. It did find a target though.

I saw a white flash coming toward me out of the corner of my eye. I ducked down and to the right, bringing my face into the exact trajectory of the baseball. The combined force of the baseball and the momentum of my attempt to avoid whatever was coming toward me put me squarely on my back. There was no particular pain. I only became aware that something was wrong when I saw Jim Hoyal standing over me with an expression of shock, pointing at my face and exclaiming, “Look at his nose! Oh my gosh, look at his nose!” That is one way to tell your nose is broken. Another way to tell your nose is broken is when you look down on your shirt to find that all of the blood in your body erupted out of your nostrils in one great explosion.

I never really minded being the center of attention but I was getting kind of annoyed because I was the only one who hadn’t yet seen the object of all the fuss. I went to my coach’s car and looked in the rear view mirror. Yep. It was broken alright. My nose was now effectively on the side of my face about half-way between where it used to be and my ear. Well, that is only partly true. It started and ended in the same place as before. Now there was just a big bend in the middle that conformed to the shape of a baseball.  At this point, I started to get concerned. Judging from my current appearance, you might find it hard to believe that I was once a very attractive. I was like a young Adonis. In terms of appearance, at least, it was as if my parents held back their best genes back from my siblings and concentrated them into that one sperm and that one egg. Like the unwise farmer that put all of those eggs into that one basket, I had gotten by so well on this one feature that I had failed to develop other aspects of myself. Now that I had the face of a radio host, what was I going to do?

The most immediate solution was to see what we could salvage of my face. My coach drove me to the hospital emergency room. I was cursing that teachers were also coaches.  The only thing that pays less than teaching high school is coaching high school sports. That fact was evident in my coach’s choice of automobiles. He drove a 1977 Gremlin. I don’t even know why we drove. We could have walked faster. If that wasn’t motivation to avoid teaching I don’t know what was. But now that my career as a model was out the window, I guess I would have to consider it as an option.

My hopes did not improve in the emergency room. The emergency room physician looked at me and took some x-rays and then said, “Well, that’s about all we can do for you.” Excuse me? That’s it? Turns out, he was calling in a plastic surgeon. That’s right, I have had plastic surgery. I don’t recommend it. When the plastic surgeon arrived, he put the x-rays on the screen. I saw the outline of my skull. The eye holes and teeth were where they were supposed to be but there were these little white specks that seemed to be floating around in the middle. The doctor pointed to them and with a matter-of-factness characteristic of doctors said “that’s your nose.” By then my parents had arrived. He asked my mom if she had a picture of me. This woman had fourteen children. If she wanted to carry other things in her purse, she wouldn’t be able to carry pictures of her kids. Thus, her answer was “no.” She did not have a picture of me. The doctor gave a nonchalant shrug, raised his eyebrows and said “Ok, I’ll just have to do my best.” Those are the words ringing in my ears every time I look in the mirror.

His next move was to administer anesthetic. I don’t even know if a general anesthetic was an option because he didn’t even ask. He just pulled trumpet-sized case, opened it and pulled out a trumpet-sized needle. He took out a bottle of clear liquid. It said “cocaine” on the label. This day was full of firsts. In reality, it might have been novacaine, but since I wasn’t drugged up yet, until I see this guys name in the paper for malpractice or someone comes forward to inform me that cocaine is not used in professional medicine, I will continue to believe that both I and Jerry Garcia have been high on cocaine.

Before the cocaine acted as a pain killer, however, I endured some of the greatest pain of my life. The doctor took this giant needle and inserted it just inside the bridge of my nose. He gave me another shot in the same place on the bridge on the other side of my nose. Then, he stuck the needle up each nostril and gave me shots in the sensitive tissue up there. It hurt. Oh, how it hurt. It hurt so bad that liquid washed over my eyeballs and threatened to spill over onto my cheek. These, would-be tears welled up to the edge of my eye lid. As a fifteen year old with a full-blown ego, I mustered up every ounce of will power to subdue that liquid. I came off conquerer and can say with pride that I did not cry.

Once I was good and numb, he went to work. Having never been to medical school, I can’t say exactly what they do there. I am pretty sure that it is a racket though. After eight years of medical school all this guy did was use his thumbs! Really, isn’t there some kind of sophisticated technique that he could use to make me look normal again? His entire technique included pressing his thumbs against the side of my nose, put his legs against the wall and PUSH. The sound was bone crunching, literally. Whatever sound you associate with bone moving against bone: crack or crunch doesn’t quite cut it. It was so overwhelming for my Dad that he had to leave the room. Me? I was fine. I felt really good.

When he was finished, it was time to set the bone(s). How do you do that for a nose? A cast doesn’t really cut it. What would you do, cover your face in plaster? Not practical. So here’s what happens.  Some orderly gets on the hospital intercom and says “please bring all of the gauze in the hospital to the emergency room.” Then, they call the nearest hospital and ask them for all of their gauze. Once they have received a sufficient amount of gauze, they proceed to put it all up your nasal cavities. Have you ever wondered what happened to all of the ram rods used to pack gun powder into old muskets? Sure there are some in museums but most of them are kept in hospitals to stuff gauze up the nostrils of unwitting patients with broken noses. When they are done doing that, they use the only piece of gauze they have left under your nose and send you on your way.

The purpose for taping the gauze under the nose is to counter the effect of gravity. Despite the fact that I broke my nose, other body systems continue to function as they always have. Mucus production does not go on holiday. The laws of physics don’t go on break either. Gravity is still in effect. The problem is that with all of that gauze up there, I could no longer jam my finger up there to fish out the offending bugger.

So, there I was nostrils stuffed with gauze and a piece of gauze taped under my nose. If that wasn’t bad enough, the next day I had two black eyes! If the loss of blood and the nose smeared to the side of your face weren’t good enough clues that your nose is broken, then there is always the two black eyes to give it away. I don’t know which was worse, the way I looked before the doctor went to work or the way I looked after. Needless to say, I had no plans to go anywhere until I went to get my nose unpacked.

My coach had other plans though. The next thing I know, he is standing there at my front door asking me when I would be coming back. Since my appearance wasn’t enough to answer his question, I had to tell him that I wasn’t going anywhere for two weeks. “Two weeks!” he said, “this is the middle of our season and we have some of our most important games coming up.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” I said. Then he got a strange look in his eye. I thought maybe it was gas, but when he left and came back an hour later, I realized that it was an idea that he had, not gas.

He presented me with a baseball batting helmet with a football facemask attached to it. This was before girl’s softball began putting facemasks on their batting helmets. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked incredulously. “wear it,” he said. “To do what?” I asked, even more incredulous. “To play baseball,” he answered. Ok, but what am I going to wear out at shortstop?” I querried. “I’m kind of paranoid about another baseball flying up into my face.”

“That is for playing shortsop,” he said.

As vain as I was, I must have really loved baseball or really been a push-over because there I was at the next game out at short-stop, looking like a line-backer. There were people in the stands asking “why is that guy out there with a football helmet on? When I came in from the field, took the helmet off and they saw my face, they were like “whoa, put that thing back on Dick Butkis.” I really, really must have loved baseball because I played every game for the entire two weak period of “healing.”

Finally the day came to have the dual obstructions removed from my nostrils. You know how magicians pull an unending stream of scarves out of their magic hat? Well, it seemed like the doctor pulled out an unending stream of gauze out of my magic nostrils. Only what went in white was now lime green. After what seemed like an eternity, his trays were full of gauze and my nostrils were full of air. Air! Wonderful air. It was coursing up and down my nasal cavity freely. Or so I thought. Oxygen is much more benign and much less expensive that cocaine, but I swear I was so high, that I didn’t notice until sitting in the car on the way home that I wasn’t getting any air through my right nostril. I waited until we got home because I didn’t want to worry my Mom. As soon as we got home, though, I made a b-line for the bathroom to figure out what was going on. When I got there though, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to stick my finger up there for fear I might do some kind of damage, so I did the only thing I could think of, and that was snort. As soon the air was channeled up the narrow passage, I felt something give. My eyes went wide with surprise and shock. I felt something in the back of my throat!  As I slowly opened my mouth, I saw a piece of gauze dangling there at the back of my throat! Once again, I was mystified as to what to do about this. I had no medical training on the extraction of gauze from certain bodily cavities! Having witnessed the sophistication of my plastic surgeon though, I figured I could do at least as well as him. So, I put my fingers in my mouth and with my thumb and index finger, pulled out a six-inch piece of gauze. 

The Need for Speed: Life and Death in Sendai

We all have idiosyncratic behaviors. The idiosyncratic nature of these behaviors means that, best-case scenario, people think we are odd. At their very worst, they put us in harm’s way. I once had a person who was supposed to be trained in the art; read my palm. She asked, “have you had a lot of near-death experiences?” At first blush, I didn’t really think that I had. Upon deeper reflection, I had to admit that I had indeed had several experiences that could easily have resulted in death: I jumped off 100 foot cliffs into water.  While backing onto a road nearly got T boned but, instinctively put on the brake just as a car came speeding by at sixty plus miles per hour. I fell asleep at the wheel on the way home from Wendover and did a 180 on I-80. The Oldsmobile, Delta 88 (the bluesmobile) threw a rod after literally putting the petal to the metal and breaking the one-hundred mile per hour barrier on the way to the Van Halen concert. The Suzuki Samurai I was driving perched precariously on two wheels after attempting to climb a steep mountain slope. While riding a motorcycle at 90 miles per hour, the truck in front of me suddenly braked. I was admiring the river below the bridge I was on and had to swerve around him to avoid making an indelible impression on his tailgate, only to find a car coming right at me in the other direction. I split the difference between the two cars and continued on with at least one life securely in-tact. Add that to concussions from skiing and rugby, trying to stop a baseball with my face, numerous cuts, scrapes, bruises and sprains from being tackled, bucked off or from sliding into bases, jumping and crashing my bike or wrecking on skiis and I don’t think there is a cat that has anything on me.

The idiosyncratic behavior that I am talking about is the need for speed. Whether in a car, on a bike or on skiis, there is a rush that comes from going really fast. Do you think that I am compensating for something? Maybe. It might be compensating for the fact that I can’t run that fast. I am the guy that, when confronted by a hungry Grizzly Bear would save everyone else’s lives.

Another behavior that influences me is that I get so focused that I can’t stand interruptions that attempt to direct my attention anywhere than on the object or activity in which, I am involved. This may not seem dangerous, but you will soon see that it can be.

Bicycles are the main mode of transportation for missionaries in Japan. Upon mounting my bike, something would come over me; some switch is flipped and I became a young-man possessed to get from point A to point B as quickly and directly as possible. When green lights turned red and it became clear that I would have to stop, I would find an opening in traffic, dart across the road and head up the road against oncoming traffic. While I might be crazy, I’m not entirely stupid. I realized the danger of riding into oncoming traffic on Japan’s narrow streets. I solved this problem by hopping on the sidewalk and racing on to my destination.  

Despite being separated from on-coming traffic by a curb and a few parked automobiles, riding on the sidewalk presented a new set of challenges. In Japan, the buildings butt right up to the sidewalk.  If there is a narrow- side street that isn’t big enough to warrant a traffic light, cars hoping to turn onto the busy main road have to pull forward onto the sidewalk to check on-coming traffic. This would not be a problem if cyclists would keep to the road like they are supposed to. Or even if they were a far enough distance away that they could see the car pull onto the sidewalk. But what if they are less than twenty feet from the alley when the car pulls out? What then? The answer is simple. Think fast or die. The problem is, the human brain- when confronted with new information with which it is unfamiliar and in particular, when it is unfamiliar and potentially life threatening-freezes. Call it panic, call it shock, call it whatever you want but in the world of physics there is a very real change in brain wave-length from a Beta state to a Gamma state. The Beta state is the state of normal mental function. The wave lengths are not particularly long. In fact, if a thought corresponds with the length of a wave from peak to peak, they are actually quite short. You know this because in any ten second cycle you might think the following series of thoughts; “this story is interesting, my butt hurts, why is that woman wearing that ill-fitting dress, why doesn’t somebody who loves her help her to dress better, maybe nobody loves her, my butt hurts, I’m hungry, this story is interesting but where in the world is he going with it? What do brain wave lengths have to do with riding bicycles?”

I’ll tell you what brainwaves have to do with bicycles! When already short Beta waves turn to even shorter Gamma waves, the result is gridlock on the highway of thought. It starts with a flood of thoughts that begin with “I’m about to die!” and then gets jammed with a multitude of thoughts as the series of life events that flash before one’s eyes prohibit the thoughts that would actually be useful in getting out of this jam from coming to the fore. Not only does the overwhelming series of competing thoughts cause thinking problems, the tension in the body makes injury and death more likely. That is why drunk drivers often come away from an accident unscathed while the innocent victims die.

So, there I am riding hard to make the next light. The light turns yellow and it becomes obvious that I am not going to make it through the intersection before the light turned red.  Almost without thinking, I jet across the road, hop on the sidewalk and ride on the sidewalk. As I came within about twenty feet of a narrow side-street, a car pulled out from behind the wall and blocked the sidewalk. The shift was instant: Beta to Gama, panic and gridlock. Within the space of that extraordinarily long second, my life flashed before my life and I braced myself for imminent pain. I was brought out of my neurological coma with a thought that burst onto the scene like a superhero, “Wait a second here! You don’t have to die yet. You have skills!” You know what? I do have skills! I have had so much practice at doing one thing over and over that my muscle memory just took over and I can transcended the gamma state and entered the seeming nirvana of the alpha state. This is the state of intense focus; where everything slows down. This is the state of mind that athletes and musicians call “the zone,” Malcolm Gladwell calls “blink” and Mihay Cziczentmihay calls “flow.”

What was this skill that I had so much practice at? Falling down. All of the previous near death experiences provided me with practice in hitting the ground: bike wrecks, ski wrecks, getting bucked off horses, sliding into bases, getting tackled in football and rugby and just being an active boy honed this skill to the point that, like a cat, I am able to leave the ground, orient my body to objects around me and land in a way that my body does not crash directly into things but rolls off of them.

In that same split second of alpha thought, I evaluated my options. Option one, turn right. There is a wall there. Hitting a wall is probably worse than hitting a car. Option two, turn left. That would take me into on-coming traffic. I was no physicist but intuition tells me that two objects moving towards each other at a high rate of speed, one with much greater mass than the other results in the object of smaller mass getting squished.  On to option three, go under. I have seen movies where motorcycles avoid impending doom by sliding under large trucks. But this was no truck. Even if I could lay it down just right, I would not be able to slide all the way under and I would probably get run over. I was down to one last option. Go over. Yes! That was it! I could brace myself for the point of impact and use my momentum and leverage of pedals and handlebars to launch myself over the car. As it worked out, I had to fly through the open window, at which point I saw the drivers French fries; grabbed one, got thirsty, took a sip of his drink and flew out the other window onto the pavement on the other side. Ok,that part isn’t true. Just as the front tire of my bike hit the side of the car, I launched myself across the hood, tucked and upon contact with the concrete, rolled and ended up on my feet. Oh how I would love to have that on video tape. I would also love to see the expression on the driver’s face as he pulled out to the curb, looked left to check traffic and saw a grey blurr ( that was the color of my suit) smash into his car, while a projectile lifted gracefully off and flew right in front of the windshield and with all of the poise and dexterity of a gymnast, flipped, rolled and ended up on the other side of his car.

Once he recovered from his own gama state of mind. He got out and came over to ask me if I was alright. “Sure,” I said. “I do this all the time.” That was, in reality my third such accident to that point. I know, Einstein said that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results. I am pretty sure that based on everything that I have written so far, you have formed your own judgment of me even without Einstein. He probably just confirmed it. But wait. The story isn’t over yet. It gets even more bizarre.

After verifying that I was indeed, unscathed, we walked around the car to look at my bike. It did not share the same fate as its rider. It was a crumpled hunk of metal. The driver asked if there was anything he could do. I said no and thought to myself “I hit him, why would he do anything for me?” As I concluded this thought, the driver offered to take my bike to the bike shop to see if it were salvageable. I thought that was a nice gesture, especially from someone who could arguably be angry that this crazy American had disrupted his day. I directed him to the nearest bike shop and then set out in that direction.

As my companion and I were on foot, the driver of the car beat us to the bike shop by several minutes. As we walked in, the owner of the bike shop confirmed what I already knew. There was nothing he could do for my trusty old bike. He continued by saying that the driver had offered to buy a new bike for me. Now I really was in shock. I had no idea why he would do such a thing. I protested. “But I hit him. I am at fault.” My companion nudged me and whispered “shut up and take the bike.” Just as I was about to order him to “get behind me Satan,” the real Satan stepped in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a beautiful black mountain bike. A wave of lust cascaded over me. I don’t know if you are familiar with lust but unlike the gama response that nearly trapped me earlier, it trapped me in a seemingly unending loop of desire. I became so focused that all reason and compunction left and the next thing I knew I was riding down the road on this new black beauty. At some point, I came to and realized what I had done. I turned around and headed back to the bike shop, my companion protesting all the while.

I told the bike shop owner that I could not keep the bike. He told me that he couldn’t do anything for me because the man had paid for the bike so he could not take it back. It is custom in Japan, upon meeting someone for the first time, to exchange business cards.  We had done so and when I returned to the church, I promptly called him and explained that I could not keep the bike. He told me that he would come to the church and we could talk about it. I said ok and hung up.

When he arrived, I was in a room on the upper floor of the church. I had my back to the door when he entered the room.  When I turned around, I was presented with a large box of oranges. These weren’t your average everyday oranges. These were Mikans. Mikans are like the Cuties that are sold at Costco. Only better. They are still sweet and super easy to peel but they are BIG! Once again, I was consumed by lust and did not respond immediately. “I wish he would quit doing this to me,” I thought. But he didn’t. He pulled out an envelope from his jacket and put it on top of the box of organges that I was still holding in my arms. I set the box down and looked in the envelope to see hundreds of dollars of cash. I was overwhelmed. “What is going on!” I wondered. Why does this man keep giving me things when was in the wrong. Is this some kind of reverse psychology for missionaries?” I had to end this and end it now. I accepted the bike and the oranges but I told the man to keep the money. With this disinclination towards monetary incentive, is it any wonder I became a teacher? I told the man that there was, however, just one more thing.  “We have here in this building,” I said, “a small swimming pool. We have these really nifty white swimsuits that we can use. You and I can go for a dip in our pool. I’ll say a few words and I’ll dunk you and splash around for a bit. What do say?” Ok, that didn’t actually happen either. But the rest is true.

It wasn’t until months later that I finally made sense of this event for which I had no point of reference in my vast twenty years of experience. There was an accident on the road. The two drivers got out and instead of screaming at or punching each other. One calmly removed his wallet, gave a handful of bills to the other man and they got back in their cars and drove away. In Japan the process of getting a driver’s license is very long and expensive. Prospective drivers not only have to pay thousands of dollars but they must also demonstrate their skill but also take intensive tests that include knowledge of the different parts of the automobile. Points are accrued for accidents just like in the States. Needless to say, once a license is lost, it is not easy to get back. So, to keep points off of their record, drivers do not involve the police in incidental matters. They quickly settle the matter and move on. In the event that an automobile is involved in an accident with a pedestrian or a cyclist, it is ALWAYS the driver’s fault. Once I learned this, I totally capitalized! I paid for the remainder of my mission and all of college through the proceeds of my various bicycle accidents. Given my proclivity for prevarication, I will leave it to you decide if that is true. 

Everyone Has a Place in the Choir: The Need to Balance Societal Centripetal and Centrifugal Forces

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland gave a talk this weekend that was very timely and profound. His theme was about everyone having a place in the choir.

“There is room for those who speak different languages, celebrate diverse cultures and live in a host of locations. There is room for the single, the married, for large families and for the childless. There is room for those who once had questions regarding their faith and room for those who still do. There is room for those with differing sexual attractions.

“In short, there is a place for everyone who loves God and honors His commandments as the inviolable measuring rod for personal behavior, for if love of God is the melody of our shared song, surely our common quest to obey Him is the indispensable harmony in it.”

Being the geography nerd that I am, I made a connection to a concept that I teach my students. The concept is that in order for a country to have peace and prosperity, there must be a balance between centripetal and centrifugal forces.

In physics, a centripetal force is one that pushes an object to the center. An example is a skier making a turn (or any kind of turn). The act of shifting the weight onto the outside edge forces the energy to the center as if on a rope tied to a pole. In society a centripetal force is one that unifies and binds us together. It could be speaking the same language or anything else you have in common with others. Most often centripetal forces are values and beliefs you have in common with others such as those that come from sharing a common culture or religion. The problem with a centripetal force is that people (especially weak people) tend to feel that their values are the only right ones and those with alternative points of view or behaviors are seen as a threat. That is why we got the racism of the holocaust and the discrimination of Native Americans, African Americans, Irish, Italians, Hispanics and basically anyone who wasn’t a white anglo-saxon protestant.

You can imagine that a centrifugal force is the opposite. It is a force, like the spin cycle of a washing machine where the water is forced from the clothes by the spinning motion of the barrel. Centrifugal forces in society are freedom of speech and other forms of free expression. It is a creative force that can seem chaotic. Left alone it can produce anarchy and violent resistance such as those we witnessed in the revolutions of the Arab Spring or French Revolution. When counter-balanced with centripetal forces, however, the kind of balance represented by the two part Tai-Ji diagram or yin-yang symbol can be achieved; that is harmony and peace. That is why we need both forces working in tandem. One provides structure and stability while the other provides flexibility and fluidity. In our personal lives we have obedience to general rules, laws and commandments that act as centripetal forces. On the other hand we have personal revelation that is tailored specifically for you and your specific situation. Elder Holland’s talk was great because it was a balance of centripetal and centrifugal forces. He didn’t compromise the standards but he also acknowledged the unique differences and qualities that we each possess. 

“When we disparage our uniqueness or try to conform to fictitious stereotypes — stereotypes driven by an insatiable consumer culture and idealized beyond any possible realization by social media — we lose the richness of tone and timbre that God intended when He created a world of diversity.”

The apostle Paul said as much in 1 Corinthians 12: 14-31. “And if they were all one member, where were the body? But now are they many members, yet but one body…..Now ye are the body of Christ but members in particular. I know that for some that have left the church, the church’s efforts to be more inclusive and transparent still fall short. My question for them would be, “the church is either true or it is not true. If it was true but it isn’t anymore, at what point did it stop being true?

God will not violate human agency. He works with us within the historical, cultural and social context that we live. The church as an institution is more open, transparent and accepting than it ever has been. While I have questions that are not reconciled yet, I know that I am much better off by trying to manage this delicate balance between the stability of obedience and fluidity of revelation by being in the church. I don’t want to throw the proverbial baby out with the bathwater.

Elder Dieter F. Uchdorf hit the nail on the head with his talk the following Sunday morning. When we react in fear we tip the balance to either one side or the other. The only way to strike the balance is through love. That it is why it is so important to keep our focus on Jesus Christ. He is the only one who had perfect balance. His balance was perfect because his love was perfect. I know that as I walk the tight rope of life, I am, more often than not, off balance. As I strive to “love my neighbor” (using Jesus’ broad definition), I am better able to keep my balance. I have to strive to keep the standards while staying open and accepting of those who do not share those standards.