By Alan Leftridge
The pitcher hurled a pitch so hot that it turned the August air to steam as I heard the ball sizzle past my bat. The ball pounded into the catcher’s mitt for a strike. It was the bottom of the last inning with two outs. The game featured the teams with the best season records playing for the league trophy. My challenger was a relief pitcher, assigned to get one person out: me. With the next pitch, I connected with for a line drive toward first base and into the outfield, foul. Had the ball landed two feet to the left, the runner on second would have scored, tying the game, but it landed foul. I had the pitcher’s fastball measured, though. I knew how hard he could throw, and I was not that impressed. I knew that I could make him pay dearly if he got another pitch near my strike zone. I repositioned my feet so that I could drive his pitch toward the outfield gap in left-center. A line drive there would score the runner from second with ease, and get me into scoring position for the winning run.
“You haven’t a chance. He is gonna strike you out,” the catcher mocked. I cast a muffled reply back to him.
I settled into my batting stance and stared at the pitcher. He was a tall guy who seemed even larger on the mound. He peered at the catcher and nodded, agreeing on the pitch and its location. He then looked at me with what appeared to be a smile. He had a secret.
I blocked out the frenzied crowd. My concentration was sharp as he threw a beautiful pitch toward at my strike zone. In less than a second, my muscles reacted to attack the ball. My swing was smooth and powerful.
Who throws a curve ball in little league? Nobody! The ability to throw curve balls is learned in high levels of baseball, when the pitchers are physically mature enough to avoid damaging their arms. This guy, however, could throw a curve ball, and instead of getting an 80mph fastball, I got a 65mph breaking ball. I had never seen a pitch like that. I swung too early. Strike three, end of the game, and end of the season.
“You win some, you lose some” is a sports cliché. Although the outcome of a game is often decided by chance alone, failure on the part of the players has a significant role. Even so, as filmmaker Ken Burns stated, “Baseball is the only sport where you can fail seven out of 10 times and still end up in the hall of fame.”
Coaches and trainers at the lower division levels know how to develop players’ talents by identifying and working with their failures. Players must learn to deal with the physical and psychological demands of a sport that requires concentration, physical conditioning, and intelligence. From Little League to American Legion through the classifications of professional leagues (A, double A, and triple A), players are expected to develop by learning from their errors. When the most talented and outstanding players have learned enough, they may earn the opportunity to play in the big leagues.
The scheme of advancing through the echelons of baseball provides lessons for our profession, too. Frontline interpreters, writers, illustrators, designers, managers, and supervisors need opportunities to try new methods, analyze alternative techniques, and explore new ways of operating in proactive nonthreatening environments. It is easy to accept “programs as usual” when we are rewarded for doing something well. However, “programs as usual” can tempt us toward stagnation. When that happens, interpreters might avoid trying new approaches out of concern that one negatively assessed program, criticized panel, or rebuffed interpretive plan will have ominous consequences. Even at our regional and national workshops, it is difficult to find dialogue about innovative advances, favoring instead the sharing of confirmed success stories.
We need training that takes place in a nonthreatening atmosphere that allows interpreters to try new ideas and methods, where their performances are accurately critiqued. To this end, I propose the concept of an interpretive academy, with program tracks in frontline interpretation, nonpersonal interpretation, supervision, design, and management. Like the tiers of amateur and professional baseball that develop players’ skills and new approaches to the game, an interpretive academy would serve as an opportunity for promoting innovative visions across the disciplines for inexperienced and experienced interpreters. An academy would help us to determine how failure can serve as a positive mechanism to meet our program needs and target the interests of our publics.
Alan Leftridge is a contract interpretive trainer, visitor services trainer, and interpretive writer based out of the Swan Valley of Montana. Contact him at www.leftridge.com.
