səˈvɪərnoun
1.
steady persistence in a course of action, a purpose, a state, etc., especially in spite of difficulties, obstacles, or discouragement.
2.
verb (used with object)
1.
to stop, cease, or discontinue
2.
to give up or resign; let go; relinquish: to release one's hold of (something grasped).
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When was the last time you won something? Not according to your personal best but just all out won against real opponents?
The elation of the winners of SuperBowl 46 got me to thinking and thinking and thinking.
I won a scholarship contest back in 1989. I won an all expense paid stipend to earn my masters degree in 2010. I won a job in a tumultuous economy just last year.
And then I remembered--I caught the winning ball in my church's competitive softball league more than seven years ago! After years of couch potato-dom I joined the team with women who were much younger and athletic, who had gloves that were broken in, pitches that still curved over the plate and balance that helped them run the bases without falling.
Me? I suffered with shin splints and could barely run at all. Once a great pitcher, I had nothing left in my arm, plus I was at least a decade older than my teammates. Night games were the worst. An outfielder-- okay a right fielder (sometimes second baseman) I saw nada. Age aint nothing but a number when it comes to some things, but this wasn't one of them.
But I stuck it out. I didn't quit.
The joy it gave me to push through the pain and ice my shins at night compelled me to arrive at practice early while the superstars of the team barely came at all. It indeed was my personal best that had me come back again and again even though I was probably the eighth batter or thereabouts.
The championship game was played at nighttime. And I was playing second base. The score was close and the opposing team was up at bat. All I remember was coming up with the catch that won the game.
There was no Gatorade bath or confetti drop. I wasn't hoisted on any shoulders or chest bumped. Coach Skinner said he was proud of me.
"You got heart, girl," is what he said. All along he'd encouraged and pushed me to press through what I thought were my limits. I knew I had the heart to do so but hadn't tested it in awhile in true competition.
Perhaps that's why there's seldom a better metaphor than sports for what it takes to "win."
Always a team player, I subscribe to the philosophy at work that it doesn't matter who gets the credit as long as the team wins. In the work space that has meant that often my work was credited to others. ( LinkedIn makes it readily apparent that this is so.)
"Rewards" that were given-- if awarded by merit alone-- that should have come to me often didn't. I said to a former supervisor, I think my work should speak for itself. She told me I was naive to think so and that I needed to claim it. I've yet to find that happy medium. Is it really naive to think that one's work should speak for itself? (I do know that it's critical to have champions at work.)
But in that moment with the ball barely in my glove like the Manningham catch in SuperBowl 46, there was no doubt that I really did win. And no one could have been prouder than me.
I won because I didn't quit.
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