When you don’t get the jump, you don’t have the speed, or when the other team simply raises its game, it’s only natural to throw a wrench in the crank works. You probably think that is competition.
When you don’t have the design, or when you see the upstarts gaining ground, you do the same thing.
Of course, breaking up the double play is not really part of the game. It’s something you do when you’ve already been beaten. Like flipping the Monopoly board when your funds have dried up.
When you abandon your goal of making it to second, and instead sidestep towards your opponent and call it hard-nosed baseball, what you’ve signaled is that your true ambition is no longer competition.
Now it’s pain rather than performance.
If you really wanted to win, you’d run faster. If you really wanted to compete, you’d train harder. What you’ve signaled is you cannot win, at least not at this game. You’ve signaled that you no longer want to compete, that you’ve quit and moved to something new.
That moment you realize you’ve lost is painful. The moment you stop competing is more subtle, but it’s worse.
Can’t make the product? Get the politicians, get the union.
Can’t close the deal? Pull some strings, spread some rumors.
What you are doing is expanding the boundaries until you find a way to come out on top.
Like two kids racing bikes. Maybe rubbing is racing. Or maybe you put a stick in their spokes. All of that might allow you to win the race but you’ll never ride your fastest.
You flop and complain to the referee when you’ve been beaten, to get bailed out. Looking for ways to keep up by redefining the rules.
What elevates is a focus on yourself and your skills. A focus on competition. Bringing out the best in yourself and your opponents.
And one day when you reach your peak, and you can’t give anything more, you’ve got one last thing to do. You’ve got to avoid that pull, that pressure, that allure, to break up the double play.
