Win With Flynn

If you’re planning to drive from Seattle to Aspen like I am at the end of the month, you’d be smart to plot your course through Yakima.

After all, it is the Palm Springs of Washington.

Why chart the course through the knockoff version of a secondary city?

Mostly because it includes a pit stop at Miner’s Drive-In for a Big Miner Burger, the best damn burger in town.

Best burger in town means something to me. Maybe it means something to you as well.

You could easily head for the nearest DQ drive-through for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard, but you’ve got those back home.

You could ask Siri for the closest McDonald’s; it might have one of those McPlayPlaces with the ball pit. Those are nasty though.

Maybe you are tempted to snag a “healthy” Subway sandwich with yummy yoga mat whole grain bread. Don’t get me started on Jared.

Buddy Guy said, “You don’t have to be the best in town, just try to be the best until the best come around.” I’m not 100% clear on what that means but it worked out pretty well for Buddy.

And it worked out for Miner’s too. Apparently, nobody has “come around” yet, because there they sit, still the best in town after all these years.

But being the best in town used to mean a bit more than it does today.

Maybe I’m just being nostalgic, but I think we’ve lost a bit of that best in town juju.

Now the funniest kid in class is being held up to some guy on TikTok that can do impressions of the President, Alex Trebek, and Harry Carey too. The prettiest girl in school is compared to some airbrushed Bohemian on Instagram. And the best ball player in the league knows before they pull on their jockstrap that the other squad has a dude with D1 offers going back to the sixth grade.

Forget about impressing the lunch table, we’ve got “likes” to chase down.

Being a local legend can seem delusional, some people might want to know how they stack up across all 7.8 billion humans on the planet. But we lose a valuable step in the process of becoming the best around when we try to go global before our time.

We end up taking the L before we really get started.

Being a local legend is a step that allows you to grow, mature, handle some pressure, take the lead, and have a taste of success. Maybe you’ll like the flavor.

It allows you to get just a little momentum.

You don’t need to erect a billboard like Lance Harbor, but some shoe polish on the car window couldn’t hurt.

Shoot, even at the local level, success can be fleeting. It’s nice while it lasts, though. One week you are the star QB headed for Florida State, the next week Jon Moxon is stealing all your fanny pats.

Blow your knee out against Greenville and he might steal your girlfriend too.

So, let’s not jump over the small pond quite so fast in favor of that national database tracking the slugging percentage of your little third baseman.

And let’s not abandon the local drive-in just because the other guys had an ad during the Superbowl (although that Monopoly game is pretty sick).

Because if we do, we’ll miss something else.

Paul Simon wrote “The Girl for Me” when he was 13 years old. He performed it around Queens, New York with his buddy Art Garfunkel.

Heard of them?

Paul said the song was “an imitation of what was going on, but not a bad imitation.” Corner bands in Queens started covering it. Paul and Art would hear their tune being covered as they walked around the neighborhood in Junior High.

What a feeling that must have been. Not celebrated for its complexity and originality. Not a chart-topping single. But it was their first hit.

A Queens Hit.

And that was enough to get them started.

If you’re a great cook, someone is going to take a bite, moan in approval, and tell somebody else “You’ve got to try this.” That’s the moment it spreads. If it spreads from your home to your neighbors and stops there, it’s still a hit.

The neighborhood bake-off. The office cook-off. Those count. We don’t want participation trophies, but we can start small, can’t we? Build a little momentum.

It’s not straight from the womb to “Beat Bobby Flay.”

Stephen King made his first money as a writer selling 25-cent novellas around Durham, Maine.

King said, “Most writers can remember the first book they put down thinking: I can do better than this. Hell, I am doing better than this! What could be more encouraging to the struggling writer than to realize their work is unquestionably better than that of someone who actually got paid for their stuff?”

Would Simon & Garfunkel have gotten started if they were immediately held up against Elvis and Dean Martin? Or did having a Queens hit help them get going?

Would Miner’s open their doors today with a 200-billion-dollar national brand just down the street?

The funniest kid in class, best ballplayer in the league, and tastiest Chili on the block are worthy accomplishments. They are something to build on.

Local legends don’t need to be Al Bundy scoring four touchdowns in a single game. If we keep working, it can be more like Simon & Garfunkel, a Queens hit. A moment of clarity where you sit back, smile, and think, “I can do better than this. Hell, I am doing better than this!”

And then you do.