The bottom of the ninth, two outs and I am up to bat. The tying run is on third base. The situation every ballplayer talks about. The situation every ballplayer says he is ready for. The situation that makes my knees shake when I am actually in it. Failure is the unwanted fears from incompletion of the task at hand. The fear takes over my mind like manifest destiny in America during the 19th century. The count is worked three and two. Two brutal swings that miss by five feet, and the crowd can hear the whooshing sound of the bat going through the air. Failure is the sunflower but is far
from cheerful. Turning its petals not toward the warm attracting sunlight but toward gravitational failure. No matter which direction failure is, the sunflower turns its petals toward it. I am better than that. Three balls go by but each one the umpire says it doesn’t get any closer. It’s the decaying of positive thoughts, any hope. If I could hold it in my hand, it wouldn’t happen because it is the metamorphic goo that melts between the fingertips. Can’t grab it to chuck it out of my life. Can’t hold it to crush it into a billion pieces, yet it sticks, hanging on for dear life as I desperately wave my hands to shake it off. It’s the advanced world-superior Roman Empire falling to the barbarian Mongols. The empire that’s on top crumbles is a shot heard around the world. The pitch coming next is a curveball, I know it, and the pitcher knows it. But it’s the one pitch you can’t hit. Failure is the hamster on a wheel. What’s the point? The total work done outweighs the total distance traveled. Even though I know that pitch and have done drills over and over to be able to crush this very pitch, the thoughts creep in. The very thoughts that creep into Atlas’s mind when his muscles begin to twitch due to holding up the Earth. Realizing he only has to keep holding it up for eternity. Here it comes the big arching curve ball. I swing… and make contact. The crack of the bat makes me smile. Only to be short lived by seeing the high pop up to the pitchers mound. The most humiliating thing one could do. The pop into the pitchers mitt confirms it. The hard work, time, and sweat I dedicated only to lose in the championship game. It is not the song We Are the Champions. It is, however, the score 59/100 I received on a paper I wrote, the big bold letters broadcasted “SEE ME” besides the failing score I was about to bring home to my parents. Although, the failure doesn’t trickle in until, my classmates ask what I received on my paper. Failure starts to pour in the gallons when the class leaves looking at you with the you’re-so-dumb-good-luck look as you stay behind to conference with this teacher. While parents cheer, the other team storms the field jumping up and down. The giant mob on the pitchers mound of celebrating players creates a lump in your throat bigger than the baseball I popped up. It is not the sound of laughter, yet maybe it is. As laughter mocks your lack of success. Failure.