When I was a kid, my parents thought it would be a good idea to have me learn to play the piano.
I hate the piano. But they were bigger than me back then. And so, from age four to age eight, I dutifully marched to the Kindergarten room after school to sit beside Mrs. Powis after all the other kids had gone home. You've never seen a kid move slower than I did at 3:30 on Mondays, friend; I'm sure the toes wore off my little Chucks from dragging the whole way.
One day, in an effort to motivate the small-for-his-age redhead with the miniscule attention span, Mrs. Powis gave me a song she referred to as an "Indian War Song." It was basically just pounding the keys – "Chopsticks" at their most violent – but it was enough to get me on the bench every week. So I'd practice just enough that she'd let me play the "war songs" every week.
Boy or girl, timid or charismatic, every kid who learns music goes through the fiery gates marked RECITAL. I was terrified. I quivered backstage, feigning interest in Mrs. Powis' doll collection, trying not to throw up. I didn't know what a 'heart rate' was at the time, but I'm sure it was in the stratosphere. At my turn, possibly noticing how my green face was clashing with my red hair, the chubby old lady gave me this advice: "Don't worry, they're all going to clap anyway." It calmed me a bit: I'd rely not on my skill, but on the generosity of my audience (something I still do every day.)
Thursday night, post-WOD, as I chatted with Lacy, Angela and Lindsay, I brought up the Catalyst Games. "No way!" they all balked. "I'm not ready for that!" I told them they were ready; said all the stuff I'd said to everyone last year, and the year before; did my best to be encouraging.
What I wish I'd said was, "You're not going to win a trophy. Doesn't matter. Everyone at the Games is going to win, because I want them to win. I don't want them to win in a "Everybody gets a ribbon! You're all special!" kind of way, because that's stupid. It's a contest. Someone will place first, and someone else will place last. Doesn't matter if it's you."
What I wish I'd said was, "Look at the post-Games essays from last year. They were about autovictory: overcoming the self to better the self. Using competition as a tool to motivate, and measure."
What I wish I'd said was, "No one else will even notice your results, because they feel exactly the same way you do. They're scared. They're training because they don't want to fail. But fear is the best motivator of all. Fear makes you eat your broccoli."
What I wish I'd said was, "Look at Darren, and Sandy, and Nancy, and Jori. Read the posts. I'll show you the 'Thank You' cards. I'll show you the "Wish I'd Done It" emails from spectators. Now try to find out who won last year. Which do you think is more important: first place, or personal best?"
What I wish I'd said was, "Yes, yes, yes you can. Eventually, everyone finishes. Imagine the worst-case scenario. Can you live with that?I can. And if you can, too, then you're crazy not to do the Games."
What I wish I'd said was, "If I have any voice left by 9am, I promise to cheer you loudest of all. Because every person there is my friend, my ally, and my hero. It's in my best interest for you to do well, and I get to choose the events. I'm your ref, and I'm in your pocket. The deck is already stacked in your favour."
What I wish I'd said was, "Don't worry, they're all going to clap anyway."
Even if you play an "Indian War Song" when your audience is expecting "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." Maybe more so.