Wins and Losses

For over a hundred years a baseball pitcher’s effectiveness has been determined (largely) by one overarching statistic: wins. It seems logical enough. At the end of the day, what matters more than whether a team was victorious or not? And who affects that more than the starting pitcher? Salaries, bonuses, and accolades are awarded based on the number(s) in the Win column. In fact, the highest award a pitcher can achieve is named after Cy Young, who is most remembered for accumulating 511 wins over the course of his career, the most in league history.

However, recent observers of the game have suggested that this stat is not a true measure of a pitcher’s worth. What about the starting pitcher who allows no runs but is replaced by relief pitchers who blow their team’s lead and thus deny the starter with a win? Many say that once the ball is put in play, the outcome is out of the pitcher’s hands and thus he should not be punished for being on a team of less than excellent defenders. These fans and statisticians have created new metrics such as WhiP (walks + hits / innings pitched), FiP (fielding independent pitching), and WAR (wins above a hypothetical league average player). The key theme in all these is that perhaps the outcome of the game (of which a pitcher’s performance is merely one factor) is not a proper metric for measuring a pitcher’s success. Perhaps winning, after all, isn’t everything.

Many of us (and when I write ‘us’, I mean ‘me’) have a tendency to view life in a similar regard. What is more quantifiable than results? At the end of the day, are we not judged by what we have accomplished? Modern logic would confirm this.

Perhaps though, there is more to life than cut and dry results. Perhaps unintended outcomes pulse with just as much opportunity and potential as desired ones.

My father and I set out to hike the Manistee River Trail this weekend. We’ve had it planned for a couple of months. I bought the maps and planned the hike. We calculated our days and divided our snacks. When the day arrived, we drove the four hours north to Mesick, Michigan. The hiking was warm and humid and we were glad to finally set our packs down in a gorgeous meadow beside the Manistee River to watch the swallows dart joyously in the air above our heads. At about 8:30 that evening we were forced to retreat into our tent by the arrival of a rain shower.

 At 8:30am, it was still raining. At 9:00am it was still raining. While we took down our tent it was still raining. When I put on my raincoat it was still raining. I noticed that the rapidly falling water seemed to seep right through what I thought was a waterproof coat, soaking my skin. We had a brief conference about the now-waterlogged coat. The temperature was to drop into the mid-thirties that night. We made the decision to not risk a 30 degree night in wet clothes (and hypothermia) and instead return the four miles we had hiked and drive home.

My first thought as I led the way back over the slippery roots and muddy soil was this: ‘What a failure.’

Hiking has a funny way of eroding and shaping your thoughts over the long haul of a day’s walking.

My mind turned back to baseball (as it often does) and upon wins and losses. We attribute wins and losses in life based upon our expectations of what a desirable outcome would be. To be sure, there are times when we all need the motivation and accountability that this type of thinking brings but it also smacks of hubris and defeatism. Where we might not accomplish a particular goal or outcome, we may at the same time, achieve another desirable result. When our desire for success robs us of noticing other positive outcomes, it becomes a hindrance that we must either shed or use as fuel. We must never drag it behind us like an anchor.

Beyond that, our goals are driven by a severe ignorance of the larger picture. In light of an omniscient God, who lays the plans of this world (and our lives) out before Him in His hand, our personal goals must be held lightly and with the greatest humility. We don’t really know what we need. We only know our personal preferences and desires. We must always be quick to defer to the One who holds our life and knows our needs. These are not excuses for inaction but rather assurances that His plan for those who love Him is far beyond our meager imaginations.

At the end of the day, I spent a day and a half hiking with my father, a fact to which few can joyfully claim. We sat beside a marvelous river in the amber rays of sunset. We marveled at the beauty of a created world; the grasses, the rocks, the hills. We heard the symphony of falling water amid the boughs of silent pines. We spent hours together of a life on this earth that is far too brief to be taken lightly.

We may not have gotten the win, but perhaps we gained something greater.

The Northern Lake

At dusk the deer venture down to drink and browse on the shrubbery that grows along the shore: a wary doe, a yearling fawn, and overlooking it all, a vigilant, spike buck. His eyes and ears ever watchful as the pair in his charge happily gorge themselves on young shoots. In the placid water, the trio is inverted reaching down rather than up. The doppelgänger buck’s nose twitches, testing the air, its ears turning this way and that.

Somewhere off in the gathering darkness of the forest an owl begins its evening reveries, a mournful cry echoing across the expanse. The spike turns his head in the direction of its origin then returns to browsing.

Though the gloom has already returned to the forest floor, the lake still shimmers with the sun’s fading rays, hovering just above the tree-line. The uttermost branches of the towering pines and golden aspens that ring the lake are aglow in brilliant autumn’s fury even as their roots descend into shadow. The wind bends their tops bringing the tannic aroma of pine.

Branches crack somewhere in the distance; some forest denizen abroad; perhaps a marten or a fisher surveying a night’s meal. A scuttle issues from a tree, a raccoon descends for a night of childlike revelry.

The deer are gone.

Such is the drama of the northern lake, a uniquely idyllic scene known by those who venture forth into the wilds of the north extremes. They retain some of the mystery lost by their southern cousins to development and the encroachment of man. Still here, if one is willing to heave brave the extremes both meteorological and entomological, one may find the remnants of our boreal past. Few pleasures of modern life can rival the pristine wonders here. The television cannot equal the dramas played out in the wilderness. Radio cannot match the pervasive shush of the wind confronting the leaves in perpetual assault. The internet does not hold mastery over the sense of all-encompassing awe when we are able to quiet ourselves for five minutes in the shadowy domain of the forest floor. Perhaps one day these mysteries too will be lost, a relic of some former unenlightened age. We would do well to weep at the possibility of a time when development or attention span will place there outside our grasp. Pity it will be if children grow up without wondering with baited breathe what creature was stirring outside their tent.

Today though, these mysteries are still possible and can be ours if we can quiet ourselves long enough to comprehend them. A balm and elixir they still can be to our harried, frantic souls. If only we were to set aside so-called comfort for solitude. We live our lives destitute of wonder; starving for the natural world, which has become all too detached from us. Too often have we sacrificed peace for convenience. It may yet be remedied, if this insidious disease has not too far advanced, by returning, if even for a day, an hour, a moment to the beauty of creation.

The sun has departed. Shadows fall upon the cool, silent water from whose depths springs bubble up from the aether. Mayflies dance above the surface, daring ever closer in their bold pursuit. Perhaps tomorrow a loon will glide in gentle repose over the water, confident in its solitude. Perhaps its haunting cry will echo through the wilderness. Let us stay awhile and see…