Reading Francis

I am on record for believing in low expectations. Any day that does not end in calamity is a win, in my book. But I don’t think that makes me a pessimist. Just because I can’t think of any way to turn this ship around doesn’t mean I don’t believe it can be done. I’m just affirmed in my lack of creativity.

I do struggle to find hope sometimes, well, a lot, actually. But here’s the thread I don’t lose: 

I don’t believe in last chances.

I believe in second, and third, and fourth, and seventy-seventh chances. But not last chances.

I think this is the sports fan in me. The reason I watch sports, really, is the possibility of the impossible. As former pitcher and philosopher Joaquin Andujar once said, you can sum up baseball (and life, really) in one word: You never know.

If you watch enough games, eventually you fall into one that shows you a preposterous outcome. Jimmy Valvano in 1983. Kirk Gibson in 1988. Stanford-Cal in 1982. Lendl-Chang in 1989. (Tell me you’re a Gen Xer without saying you’re a Gen Xer.)

If you watch a game like one of those live, one of the things you sense that gets lost afterwards is that there is usually at least one moment that looks like the last chance, but isn’t. There’s usually a point where the underdog might have a semi-reasonable chance to make their move, but doesn’t, and the announcers (and you) assume, “Well, that’s it. Too bad. Great effort.” And then something else happens, after that last chance has passed, that shows it wasn’t really the last chance after all.

I don’t know how things are going to turn out in your life, or my life, or our lives. The odds certainly lead toward our luck running out eventually. 

But I’m just saying that, if you think you’ve already blown your last chance, don’t turn off the TV yet. Joaquin Andujar was right: You never know.