The Happiest Animal in the World

The team made its way out to left field for our post-game meeting. There was an obvious mix of enthusiasm among its members. Some jogged, still showing the hustle after the game that their coaches had been preaching all season. Others ambled more slowly than rush hour traffic in midtown.

I couldn’t blame them for feeling listless; we’d just lost 12-0.

The boys knelt or sat cross-legged in the outfield and promptly began pulling out blades of grass while they waited for my coaching partner and me. We exchanged some brief thoughts about who had earned the game ball and walked out to join the team.

“Look,” I began, “I know it’s hard to think about positives after we just lost a game like that.”

A few of the players smiled ruefully as I continued. I mentioned their progress in working together as a team, including some players who played out of position in that game. I pointed out that two of our better players had not been available. And I added that we had played hard against our opponents, who were the best team in the league.

I went on to say that Memorial Day Weekend was essentially our All Star Break. We had passed the mid-point of the season and wouldn’t have another game for a full week. I encouraged the players to come to practice in a few days ready to work, but also to put tonight’s game behind them. I had just finished reminding them that, in our league, everyone makes the playoffs when our starting catcher raised his hand.

“E, you have something to add?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, turning to face his teammates.

“We have to be like goldfish.”

A wide smile spread across my face.

“That’s exactly right,” I said, trying desperately to contain my excitement. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

“Well, goldfish can’t remember anything that happened more than ten seconds ago,” he said. “Anything bad that happens, they forget about right away. So we have to be like goldfish and forget about this game and move on to the next one.”

My heart leapt.

E hadn’t played well in a game for a different team a few days earlier. He struck out multiple times and complained to me afterward about the umpire. He’s always had talent for the game but he gets frustrated when he goes through rough patches.

After that game, I asked E if he knew which was the happiest animal in the world. The question caught him off guard in the middle of his vent about opposing pitchers’ mechanics. His brow furrowed and he said he didn’t know.

I explained about the goldfish’s extremely short memory. I said that everything for a goldfish is brand new because their memories reset every ten seconds. That’s why they can live in such small bowls; they never get bored because they always forget where they are.

I said that E needs to act like a goldfish when he’s playing. Every game, every play, every at bat, every pitch; he needs to reset his mind, forget about what just happened, and focus on the next play. What will he do if the ball comes to him? Where are the runners? How should he time his swing?

What’s coming next?

He folded his arms and grunted, apparently unsatisfied with my attempt to reframe the situation. I thought I saw a hint of a smile, a glint in his eye that showed he was considering my words. But I couldn’t tell for sure and I wasn’t going to ask; I knew he had listened and I wasn’t going to push my luck.

Then, at the end of our game that ended early because of a mercy rule, he spoke up. He showed that, not only had he heard me, he understood the metaphor perfectly. He encouraged his teammates to move forward and pointed out their strengths.

And, to my even greater astonishment, his teammates listened.

It would have been easy for them to dismiss E. First of all, he is the coach’s son. They could have rolled their eyes at the kiss-up trying to fill his daddy’s shoes. Second, he’s easily the youngest player on the team. The team is made up of mostly 10-, 11- and 12-year-olds. The only other 9-year-old on the team is the other coach’s son and he turned nine in March; E’s birthday isn’t until June. The older kids could have laughed him off the field for having the audacity to tell them how to handle themselves.

But they paid attention as he spoke and nodded as the metaphor clicked for each of them. They smiled as they understood and I could hear a few of them still talking about goldfish on their way back to the dugout.

I took a breath before following them. I beamed as I watched E run to the infield to pick up the bases. He was still wearing a broad smile and he laughed with his teammate who ran out to join him. There was no sign that his team had just been crushed; only pure enjoyment at being out on the field.

And that made me happier than any goldfish.

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