To know me is to know a handful of irreducible truths:
I am a Bob Dylan scholar (not a fan)
I never met either a five-syllable word or a cardigan I didn’t like
I’m not done reliving my Little League glory days
I started playing adult rec softball a few years ago. A revelation to me, adult rec softball satisfies a variety of adult needs. It’s a social outlet, a way to exercise in a setting less mind-numbing and iron-hued than the gym, and, most importantly for me, a way to reconnect with the prime validation from those early years of Little League, before things got serious.
But as an adult, I noticed myself taking the field in an entirely different way than I had as a kid. Jogging to center field, my natural position, I wasn’t just bringing out the raw enthusiasm of childhood and adolescence, where maximizing the amount of fun in my life was my only real objective. I was bringing out all my anxieties — the fear, the self-doubt, the social worry, the existential quandaries, and the question that hammers all adults, that causes most of us to live increasingly subdued lives:
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?
It came from being a full-grown man — 27, 28, 29, 30 — and still having put down practically no roots in life. No partner, no home, no single vocation, no anchor. It came from being the new guy on a team of guys who had played together before, and who, I instantly assumed, would consider me dorky and forgettable, particularly if I didn’t play well. It came from being a human — having no clear instruction on the purpose of life, but trying to life purposefully in spite of that. What is your purpose? Is softball really core to it?
Due both to rustiness and to these anxieties, I struggled a lot at the plate. In batting practice, I was fine. But during games, when the manager was tracking my stats and the outcomes of my at-bats had material consequences for my team, I struggled.
I hit pop-ups. I hit shallow fly balls. I hit grounders right at the shortstop. And I got frustrated.
Really frustrated.
All I wanted was to help my team, for them to think of me as someone worthwhile. To do that, I just had to get hits. I just had to come up with a runner on second and two outs and hit a line drive into left field that scored him. But I couldn’t do it.
A few weeks of futility into the season, a realization struck me. This happens sometimes — where the camera suddenly zooms way out, and I see a situation with a new level of objectivity. I think being a writer helps; writing makes you look at something from the outside, even something that’s happening to you internally.
I realized I was craving outcomes: hits, RBIs, batting average, on-base percentage. Worse, I was pinning my self-worth on those outcomes. If I got a hit, I was worthy as a person. If I didn’t, I was worthless. Worse yet, this was adult rec softball. There was literally nothing at stake except bragging rights about as valuable as those I gained from beating Paper Mario in 2001. The stakes were all self-created, and they were dire.
Fundamentally problematic about craving outcomes was that I couldn’t control the outcomes of my at-bats. So many variables lay beyond my control: the pitcher’s style and speed, the weather conditions, and the vagaries of that cylinder-to-sphere point of bat-to-ball contact, which presents such a slim window in which hits are possible. Pinning my self-worth to an outcome was essentially a gamble, and one with pretty bad odds. Remember, there’s a 7-to-10 chance that history’s all-time best hitters would fail in any given at-bat.
Not only was that no way to handle my self-worth, but it wasn’t conducive to doing well at the plate. Sports performance depends so heavily on confidence. Any athlete knows that if you confidently believe you can do something — get a hit, sink a shot, read a defense — you raise your chances of doing it tenfold.
Losing confidence causes slumps. Mentally, you start looking for reasons why you’re going to fail: The pitcher’s pitches are too fast, your swing is mechanically flawed, the defenders are covering every gap.
Physically, you have an anxiety response: Your muscles tighten, your body stiffens, and your actions go from fluid and well-timed to jerky and premature (slumping batters often swing early). You get fewer hits, you lose more confidence, and your self-worth plummets.
So what could I do instead? What, other than the outcome of an at-bat, could I focus on? Where could I put my self-worth that didn’t subject it to the fickleness of fate?
Well, my secondary voice followed up with me, what can you control?
I realized that I couldn’t control the outcome of an at-bat; even a well-struck ball could turn into an out. But I could control the process of the at-bat.
What do I mean? The process of the at-bat involves much more than the swing itself. Things like:
The state of mind you’re in when you step into the box. You can be anxious and stressed, or you can be calm and even-minded. Deep breathing and other meditation techniques are things I could control to put myself in this state of mind.
The level of familiarity you get with the pitcher during the at-bat. Especially in your first at-bat against a pitcher, you give yourself a better chance of doing well if you see several of his pitches. You’ll see this in MLB games. Most batters take at least two pitches in their first at-bat against a new pitcher. Taking pitches both allows you to cool your nerves and to understand the pitcher’s style. It takes three to strike out; I could always see a minimum of three pitches in an at-bat.
The strategy for each at-bat. A lot of hitters, especially in amateur play (and especially in men’s play), go up to the plate with one objective: Swing as hard as possible, and hit the ball as far as possible. There’s nothing strategic about this approach. And the higher the level of skill, the more likely it is that the outfielders will catch a deep fly ball. It calls for more refined strategizing: What kind of swing does the current game state call for, and how can you adjust your approach accordingly?
The quality of my swing. I couldn’t always get a base hit, but I could commit to making quality swings. The quality of the swing depends on: its tempo (swinging smoothly, not as hard as I could, which ruins my mechanics); its balance, its timing relative to the pitch, and its fullness (swinging through the ball, not to the ball).
I could control all four of those things. And if I made each at-bat about committing to each one — putting myself in a healthy state of mind, getting familiar with the pitcher, developing a meaningful strategy, and making quality swings — I could feel good about committing to a healthy process, even if I didn’t get a hit.
The last part of the story is the part you probably anticipated: When I stopped craving outcomes and started committing to a process, I started getting a lot more hits. My confidence grew, my self-worth grew, my comfort on the team grew. That team ended up winning the championship, and especially in the later part of the season, I was key to the team’s success.
The lesson: You can’t control outcomes, but you can control your process.
If you pin your self-worth on outcomes — be they base hits, social media followers, money, or even love — you’ll go crazy, fast. But if you pin your self-worth on process, you at very least give yourself a chance. You give yourself the gift of a healthy mindset and the willingness to grow. You raise the chance that you’ll find the outcomes you’re looking for — and that you won’t compromise your wellbeing in the process.
I’ve tried to carry this lesson into all the other facets of my life, especially my pursuit of a career in music. The outcomes I’m hoping for in music — great songs, great performances, a bigger fanbase, opening slots for artists I admire, song placements in TV and film — are beyond my control. Music is an inexpressibly crowded space, and luck has the greatest impact on most of those outcomes. I can’t pin my self-worth on getting all the outcomes I want from music on a certain timeline. I just can’t.
But I can more safely pin it on a process. I can envision my goals, I can think about the actions most likely to turn those visions into realities, and I can live my life accordingly. Even when I fail — when social media posts don’t perform how I hoped they would, when recordings don’t sound the way I hoped they would, when performances feel underwhelming — I can take satisfaction in the fact that it’s all part of the process. And ultimately, the process — not the scoreboard — is what counts.
Having said all that, here’s what I’m up to for the rest of October:
Live Performances
10/17 — Originals Night | Skinny Dennis | Williamsburg | 9 PM ET | Full Band
Skinny Dennis is a sort of legendary bar/venue in Williamsburg, a destination spot for performers and audiences with any level of love for country. My band and I will be playing the Originals Night, hosted by John Epperly, alongside Low Roller and Mojohand.
10/18 — Roots & Ruckus | Jalopy Theater | Red Hook | 9 PM ET | Solo
Roots & Ruckus is one of Brooklyn’s cozier show series. Hosted by Feral Foster (Jalopy Records), it brings together folkies both local and touring. It’s one of the first showcase series I played in Brooklyn, and it’s always a great unifier of the broader Jalopy community.
10/22 — Monarch Music & Arts Community | Louisville, KY | 7 PM CT | Solo
I first saw Dylan Weber-Owens at a brewery in Brooklyn, playing instrumental finger-style guitar songs in a way that somehow made their subjects clear — I could tell what an instrumental song was about, a cool effect. He was kind enough to put together this show, which also includes Hannah Delynn, a lovely songwriter and old friend from my Nashville years.
10/28 — Groove | West Village | 5 PM ET | Full Band
The boys and I return to MacDougal St to play our eclectic set of covers and originals, at an hour of the day that even 30-year-olds can stay up for.
And as always:
And may you develop and commit to processes that bring you joy!
Yours in unassailable idealism,
Dustin