The art of losing

photo by Larissa Kanno

Son played on a winning youth baseball team this season. Going into the tournament, their record was…well, I don't know exactly because statistics are not my thing, but it was good. If you asked any of the boys on the team they'd be able to tell you the record.

All I know is that they won WAY more than they lost. Which was awesome because that meant we had one tired but happy boy going home from the games. Less adult-ing is required when kids are happy, and it's summertime, folks, so please, no judging on my lack of will to seriously adult right now.

But last night, in the second game of the tournament, Son's team lost. They lost for the simple and undeniable reason that the other team played better (which is honestly how all games are lost).

The other team had this amazing kid pitcher who was like a mix of Obi Wan and Mr. Miyagi. Not only could he throw great pitches, but he had this presence on the mound that was kind of terrifying.

Before every pitch he'd do this centering ritual, bringing his arms up as he inhaled and then pulling his hands down through his center before BAM! Here comes the ball.

Our batter's confidence would wane as the pitcher's increased with each long, drawn out breath. It was like he was using a Jedi mind trick on the waiting batter.

You don't want to hit this ball.

I don't want to hit this ba—

STRIKE!

The other team played the outfield well. They hit well. They were strong competitors.

Since our boys didn't have much experience with losing, they struggled to mentally stay in the game. By the second inning, they were dragging themselves around in the outfield. They were making careless mistakes that they'd never made before. They were a big, hot, emotional mess.

And while they tried to rally and things did start to come together for them, they just got outplayed.

As soon as the team meeting was over after the game, Son wanted nothing more than to escape without anyone seeing him crying. My mom heart was breaking.

And it also wasn't.

I believe in the power of failure. And these days there aren't that many opportunities for my kids to fail.

They have these massive safety nets strung out underneath them, between parents and grandparents, family and friends, legions of other moms and dads looking out for them in our community, and teachers and coaches, too.

I love that the net is there, don't get me wrong. But I also worry about what their futures (and the futures of so many other kids like them) will look like if they can't learn to embrace failure—if they're never forced to develop the kind of courage it takes to be resilient.

Like Atticus Finch says, "I wanted you to see what real courage is…It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."

And while I know that losing a baseball game is not comparable to going to school hungry or staying awake all night to protect a little brother or watching a parent fade away from illness or addiction, I want my kids to grow up with the ability to be both empathetic and resilient.

I need them to see the power of failing and getting back up again. I need them to understand the art of losing and coming back stronger. I need them to believe that they are not entitled to anything in this world (except my love—that comes with no conditions), but that they must see their passions through to the bitter end.

And maybe sometimes they'll win.

But when they lose, they'll know that they aren't licked—not really.

Losing can be a new beginning.

To be honest, some of us grownups need to remember this, too. Are we so afraid of failing that we don't let ourselves explore, push limits, and live our dreams? Have we wrapped ourselves too tightly in complacency?

Sometimes I strangle myself with my own safety net.

Maybe we all need to remember there is power in failing and art in losing.

And for that reminder, I'm forever thankful to my son and his teammates.

Go, Padres!