Not Good Enough

Not-good-enough
March 16, 2012

There we stood on a dirt field.

Twenty of us kids staring down a couple of bold, confident kids our same age. We looked into their eyes, waiting for them to make the first move. And they, looked back at each of us, sizing up each one, plotting and scheming which was strongest, which was meanest, and which could outlast us all.

And all the while, I wondered why I was even here. I suppose that was my mistake. I never showed enough confidence as a kid. I always figured most kids were tougher than I. And it showed in my demeanor. But I guess I also wondered if maybe I finally had it in me. Maybe someday, I'd come of age, and make the other kids want me.

"I've got Joe", the first kid said.

"I got Mike", the other answered.

One by one they called our names, and each kid walked over to that respective team. And there I watched as each kid was called, wondering if I'd be next.

And why did I ever think I would be picked first, or in the middle? Why did I ever think that I had come of age, or developed the skills that made me valuable on a team.

Being picked last, or second to last, always made me angry.

I wanted to show those other kids that I was worth something. I wanted to score a lot of points. I wanted to make the big play. But its hard to do when you barely get the chance to hit, kick, pitch, throw, pass, or whatever. Sometimes I couldn't get a chance to play.

Into my professional life, this ghost has haunted me.

I'm not good enough.

I can't be relied upon.

I can't be trusted.

I will become a failure.

I gave management a try, only to discover its a mean world out there. If you want to be the best, you have to stab some backs. And I guess I just don't have the balls for that.

I twist the throttle of my Honda ST and I disappear in seconds.  Lonely two lane roads wind their way past the hills and canyons and lead me into tiny towns where others like me tend to collect. Sad sorry souls who've been forgotten are comforted by those like them, and raise their bottles in toast to me.

Except I don't want to stay. I don't want to be reminded. I just want to keep going.

The crowded bars of downtown San Diego somehow creates anonymity for me. The noise of people talking, the waitresses pacing back and forth, still leaves me a mysterious, unknown figure.  They look at me as if I'm as confident and content as everyone else. And as long as they don't know me, that's who I'll be.

Yet somehow, I come back around and feel compelled to give it another try. I don't want to live in a hole where all the other lonely people live. I want to give that ball a good kick and make the winning play. I still want to show that other kid that he should have picked me.

I still want to amount to something.