How sweet is victory if success is watered down?

Ladies and gentlemen, nearly three decades ago, a young boy decided to play baseball for the first time. My, has it really been that long now?

Actually, that’s not entirely true. This kid had played ball in the yard with his brother for years. A fence served as the catcher, and three mighty oak trees consisted of first, second and third base. Second base was a bit closer to first base than it was to third – and first base fell casualty to a bolt of lightning many years ago.

After many memorable games on that makeshift ball field, the young boy decided it was time to play baseball on a “real” diamond – one that had real bases, a pitcher’s mound, a fence, foul poles, a scoreboard, dugouts and bleachers.

And real uniforms!

I remember the first time I put on that blue Ferguson Realty jersey with a No. 2 on the back, donned a blue cap and put on a blue pair of ballpark-issued stirrups and laced up my first pair of cleats.

The one and only Chuck Emery was my first coach, and that summer, I won my first trophy – it was blue and silver and said Pony League Champions 1986.

Actually, that’s not entirely true, either. Looking back, I’m pretty confident that Ferguson Realty would have won that championship if a skinny, left-handed outfielder had kept playing all his games at the makeshift field where oaks were the bases and his younger brother was the entire opposing team.

At age 13, most of the players that I was playing with – and against – had been playing on those diamonds for several years now. They were seasoned veterans. I was a rookie.

I remember that first year when I would step up to plate, bat in hand, and face a pitcher who threw a lot harder than my 10-year-old brother. I remember standing in the outfield and recall that weird, nervous feeling in my stomach when the bat would ping and the ball would head in my direction.

I remember the sound of the crowd if I dropped the ball or the ball got past me and went to the fence as the runner(s) circled the bases.

But I also remember a much different feeling and a much different sound when my bat connected squarely with the ball. I remember the exhilaration I felt as I hustled toward first base like Pete Rose.

And when we’d win a game, I remember drinking the free soda the ballpark’s concession stand would provide the victors. My, oh my, the cola in that small cup tasted sensational – ah, the sweet taste of victory.

Sometimes, I wonder if they still do that these days, where oftentimes it has become fashionable to stipulate that everyone plays and everyone wins a trophy and coaches actually can get suspended if their team wins by too large a margin.

I played ball on those fields for five summers. I still have the trophy from the first season, and the one from 1990 when the Elks Club team I played on won the Babe Ruth League title.

But the teams I played for didn’t always enjoy the sweet taste of triumph. I remember the time I got picked off of first base to end a game (mere moments after coach Larry Lyons instructed me not to get picked off), the time our team ran out of pitchers in extra innings and the coach put me on the mound and I proceeded to give up a bunch of walks, hits and runs and we lost a big game, and the time I got hit in the head by a fly ball, earning me a trip to Highland District Hospital for several stitches.

In high school, I won four varsity letters – two for baseball and two for cross country – and still have my HHS letterman jacket hanging in the closet.

But when I ran junior high track in the eighth grade, I made the team (heck, I think everyone who tried out did), but rarely placed and didn’t earn close to enough points to get a letter, and when I was a sophomore, I was cut from the reserve baseball team after making the team and lettering as a freshman.

I remember how devastated I felt when I went down to the locker room at the old high school and didn’t see my name on the sheet that listed that year’s roster. I was upset. I was angry. And I was determined to work my tail off and make the varsity team the following year. And I did.

Sports can be a microcosm of life.

I was never the best player by any stretch of the imagination, and I’ve found out in the “real world” that while I’m good at some things, there are folks out there who are better.

Yes, sports can teach us a lot of things – the value of teamwork; that hard work, discipline and dedication pays off; how to deal with failure and adversity; and that life isn’t always fair – but only if we let sports teach us these things.

I don’t believe that everyone should get a trophy … or a free soft drink after the game. I don’t believe that everyone who just shows up and goes through the motions should be declared a winner and are “owed” kudos and accolades.

I don’t believe that we should throw away the scoreboard.

Woody Hayes once said that there’s nothing that cleanses your soul like getting the hell kicked out of you. He also said that nothing that comes easy is worth a dime. And he’s absolutely right.

If we set unrealistic expectations about life and what it takes to be a success, there’s a darned good chance we’ll cultivate failures with a fear of failure.

If we foster a culture where everyone’s a winner and everyone’s entitled to a trophy, we all lose.

Steve Roush is a vice president of an international media company and a columnist and contributing writer for The Highland County Press.