“Is this like your memory from kickball?”
“Oh, you mean when I declared myself ‘all-time third’?”, I replied.
I had shared this story with my counselor a few weeks earlier. We were working on some deep issues when it surfaced from the recesses of my mind -- a memory I had from fourth grade.
Every day at recess, a huge group of us would run full speed to the far back corner of the playground where a kickball diamond was painted onto the asphalt. We had all the bases, home plate, and even the pitcher's “mound”.
In 30 seconds, we’d divide up into teams, and the first team was up to kick. From somewhere, the gym gods would bless us with one of those perfect red rubber playground balls, and we were ready to go.
Once your team gets up to kick, the next phase is choosing the lineup. You need to understand how important this is. Your position in the lineup was not trivial — this was a statement of where you fit in the Cook Elementary School pecking order.
Being first was a big deal. Even going second was pretty respectable. No one wanted to go last. A kid would rather sit out the game than go last. When it was our team’s turn to kick, we’d end up with the usual debate over who went first and second. The rest of us fell in behind.
Sean Seay and Gene Childs were amazing kickball players. Sean was big and tall. Who else should go first but the biggest and tallest kid? Gene was not quite as tall as Sean, but a phenomenal kicker in his own right. So, every day it seemed Gene and Sean fell into a pitched battle for calling “first.” Occasionally, I would join in the fray. I earned second a few times, but that didn’t happen often.
One day in the fall, I had an epiphany. Why go through all the trouble of this daily battle of competing for my order in the lineup? I would just declare myself “all-time third” to settle my spot once and for all.
(Maybe I was a blue-ocean thinker before my time.)
Sure, I like going first as much as the next kid, but third felt like a good compromise. I shared this with Gene and Sean. In all of 10 seconds, the matter was settled — I was officially third in the kickball lineup until the end of time.
Fast forward a few decades. My counselor was digging deep. I had just admitted that I still felt greatness in me—something bigger, something called. And I also confessed how afraid I am to chase it. I have a long history of leaping for the brass ring, taking a big risk, and failing miserably. The kind of failure that leaves a scar. Not just on your resume—but on your soul. Even now, as I write this, I still believe God gave me my skills and talents for a reason.
But failure is hard. One failure is bad. Repeated failure is debilitating. After so many losses, I started doubting. I am tired of the pain, and I am tired of the psychological toll. I find myself sharing all this with my counselor.
All-time third. Maybe that was fine for grade school, but how much of this have I carried into my adult years?
Some people need to win. Sure, I like winning. I like coming in first. Who doesn’t? But, I don’t need to win the way some others do. Winning is not the core of my identity, and I thank heaven for this.
But this is not about my identity. This is about me playing small when something larger is being called out of me. This is what my counselor was really addressing, and her question was like a dagger to my heart.
I am holding back -- pulling my punches. I know this. But why? Simple. I have been injured more times than I can tell you. I have taken risks and fallen on my face so many times. I am holding back because I am afraid. I touched the hot stove of failure too many times.
I am torn down the middle. On one hand, I’ve built something meaningful—a boutique marketing firm I genuinely enjoy. I love the clients I serve. That work has been a calling of its own.
But there’s another voice. A calling I once pursued and couldn’t quite hold onto. Brief flashes of success. Long seasons of disappointment. Eventually, I put it down. Packed it away. Moved on.
But it’s back. More than a decade later, it’s still calling out to me.
I am like a plane barreling down the runway -- the concrete only goes so far. If I am going to survive, I need to take off soon — as in — immediately.
Only, I am afraid of flying.
Maybe you’ve played it safe for a long time. Maybe your calling still whispers when things get quiet.
If any of this resonates, I’d love to hear from you.