Teachers – Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership

Teachers, Mentors, and the Grace That Carries Us

“There is no Frigate like a Book / To take us Lands away.”

Emily Dickinson wrote these words in her quiet room, understanding something I didn’t grasp for decades. The greatest journeys begin within.

I know her poem only because of my 11th grade AP English teacher, Mr. Cox. As a rambunctious and cocky 11th grader, would I have taken any of my “super valuable” time to read poems, sonnets, short stories, even books? No way.

But because of his work (and the work of countless other teachers along the way), I did read. A lot. I learned tons of material and information that didn’t matter to me at the time…but matter a lot today.

My focus back then was simple. Be the best student, get the highest test scores, pass as many AP tests as possible, and earn varsity letters in multiple sports. Mostly, I wanted to beat everyone else, pure and simple. It helped that I was blessed with an almost photographic memory and could recall facts and formulas with ease (sadly, not so much nowadays).

I carried that mindset into college. I loved being the student who defined the grading curve for the class. I was annoyed if I didn’t get every single point on an assignment, midterm, or final. I had an almost uncontrollable drive to outshine everyone…as if that was all that mattered.

I was completely wrong.

On the bright side, that drive and motivation made me a successful student and propelled me into my early career.

On the other hand, seeing everyone as my competition, and less as people, meant I probably missed out on a lot of fun. And lots of friendships that never happened. I was so focused on the destination that I forgot to notice who was traveling with me.

That realization connects me back to Dickinson’s frigate in ways I never expected. She saw the book as a vessel capable of carrying anyone, anywhere, without cost or permission. But what I’ve learned over nearly fifty years since high school is that I was asking the wrong question. It was never “How far can I go?” It was “Who am I becoming, and who’s helping me understand?”

My journey from that hyper-competitive teenager to what I hope is a much more caring, thoughtful, empathetic, nuanced, and life-giving person has been propelled by those same teachers I mentioned earlier, and a longer line of guides who keep showing up at the right time in my life.

I didn’t realize it then, but those books, poems, and teachers were all part of my fleet of frigates. Each one quietly helped me close the distance between knowledge and understanding, between my ambition and wisdom.

My mentors, family, and friends have all been vessels that carried me through changing seas. Some taught me to sail straight into the wind. Others reminded me that drifting for a while can be part of my journey as well. Each lesson mattered, even the ones that didn’t make sense at the time…especially those.

Over time, life has a way of sanding down our sharper edges, revealing something deeper underneath. My focus slowly shifted from being the best at something to becoming the best version of myself.

Now, when I think about Emily Dickinson’s frigate, I picture something far greater than a book. I picture a lifetime of learning, carried by the people who invested their time, wisdom, and patience in me. Mr. Cox, and others who gave freely of their time and wisdom, helped me see that the destination isn’t solely becoming the top of the class. It’s finding a profound depth of understanding, the expansion of empathy, and the ability to see beauty and meaning in small, unexpected places.

If I could go back and talk to that 16-year-old version of myself, I’d tell him the real tests aren’t scored on paper. They’re graded every day in how we treat people, how we listen, and how we show grace.

I’d tell him that the frigate he thinks he’s steering alone has always been guided by grace. The true measure of his voyage will be how much space he makes for others to come aboard.

We’re all learning to sail, carried by the steady hand of God.

We never really travel alone.

Photo by Rafael Garcin on Unsplash

The Opportunity to Level Up

Ego may be our biggest barrier to learning.

It’s like having a guy working the door at a nightclub, deciding who or what gets in.

We assume we already know everything, so we stop listening. We nod politely. But inwardly we’ve already dismissed the person speaking. Or the article. Or the correction.

There’s often good reason for our defensiveness. Being wrong about something important can have real consequences. Our ego is trying to protect us from the genuine discomfort and potential costs of being mistaken.

The paradox is that the very thing protecting us from being wrong in the moment often prevents us from being more right in the future.

What if instead of having a bouncer who turns everyone away, we hired a smarter gatekeeper? One who doesn’t just protect us from being wrong, but actually helps us get better at being right?

What if we treat new information, even the stuff that contradicts what we think we know, as an invitation?

An opportunity to level up. To upgrade our understanding. To sharpen our thinking.

What happens when we level up? Our predictions start getting more accurate. Our explanations become clearer and more useful to others. We catch our own mistakes faster…sometimes before they even leave our mouth. We become more curious about the very areas we feel most certain.

The next time someone disagrees with you or presents information that challenges what you believe, pause before your ego’s bouncer slams the door.

Ask yourself, “What if they’re right? Can I learn something new?”

This doesn’t mean accepting everything that comes your way. But you can listen. Examine the ideas. Question them. Test them against what you know.

That’s true intellectual courage.

And it’s the only way to keep growing in a world that never stops changing.

“It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows.” – Epictetus

Photo by Vinay Tryambake on Unsplash

Leadership That Lasts Beyond the Finish Line

In high school, I had the good fortune of running cross country under a man named Mr. Smuts. Our coach and my 11^th grade AP U.S. History teacher. He was the kind of leader who quietly influenced growth in those around him.

He didn’t bark commands or demand the spotlight. On race day, while other coaches were shouting themselves hoarse, Mr. Smuts would position himself at the mile markers. Calm, steady, present. As we passed, he’d simply call out our split times. No cheering. No panic. Just numbers.

We didn’t need anything else.

He had trained us so well that those times were all the feedback we needed. We knew what they meant. We knew what he expected. And we knew he believed in each of us (even the slow guys, like me).

When we crossed the finish line, sometimes ahead of the competition, sometimes not, he’d quietly remind us that the real opponent wasn’t the other team. It was the clock. It was ourselves.

That quiet challenge made us better. Not just as runners, but as young men.

Mr. Smuts embodied a rare approach to leadership. Seeing others more than being seen. His confidence in us was contagious. His calm became our calm. His consistency helped us believe that showing up and giving our best effort, day after day, was enough to grow into something exceptional.

For a bunch of teenagers full of energy and bravado, his presence could have been drowned out by flash and high school nonsense. But instead, we listened closely. We trusted deeply. And we ran harder.

His leadership style reminds me of a line from the Tao Te Ching:

“When the best leader’s work is done, the people say, ‘We did it ourselves.’”

That’s exactly how it felt. We crossed those finish lines thinking we had pulled it off on our own. Only because he had quietly laid the foundation beneath our feet.

True leaders create space for others to rise.

The Tao Te Ching calls it wu wei, effortless action. Like a river flowing around rocks instead of smashing into them. Doing the right thing at the right time and then stepping back to let the results take root.

Ronald Reagan once said, “There is no limit to what a man can do or where he can go if he doesn’t mind who gets the credit.”

This could have been written about Mr. Smuts.

He led in a way that called attention to others rather than himself. His approach shaped how we performed, how we grew, and how we learned to lead ourselves. His impact showed itself in the confidence he helped us build and the standard of excellence we still carry with us today.

The next time you find yourself in a leadership role at work, in your family, or on any team, ask yourself:

-Am I trying to be the hero, or trying to build others up?

-How can I lead with quiet influence?

-Can I let go of credit and trust the process I’ve helped shape?

The best leaders don’t stand in front of their people. They stand with them, sometimes just off to the side, calmly calling out split times as the race unfolds.

And when it’s over, they nod to themselves, knowing they’ve done their job.

The rest of the story: Mr. Smuts earned his doctorate in Leadership and became Dr. Smuts not long after my time at Cerritos High School (Class of 1984). He went on to become the school’s principal and ultimately the school district’s Superintendent of Schools for many years, before retiring in 2012. He continues to enjoy his retirement years.

Dr. Smuts is a leader who inspired (literally) thousands of kids (and adults).

This video provides a brief glimpse of this truly inspiring and gentle man in 2012 as he prepared to retire. It also highlights my high school campus that looks very much like it did four decades ago.

Reflections on Campo Sahuaro

At kilometer 32 just south of San Felipe,
where warm breezes wandered,
and stars blanketed the sky —
more stars than anywhere I’ve ever been.

Off-road racing brought us there,
wide sandy beaches just a short walk away,
bathtub-warm waters stretching out forever,
the tides carving their quiet stories in the sand.

Under their shady palapa,
watching the sun rise and fall on the horizon,
Mom and Dad built their place from scratch,
one humble project at a time.
It was luxury camping at its very best.

Their place was just across the arroyo from the beach,
where Dad taught Julianne to drive a stick shift
on the wide-open sand.

How I long to beam back there.
To see them again.

To hear their voices busy with new plans,
to see what they’ve been working on,
to sit with them in the shade at cocktail hour,
chips, salsa, and all the shrimp we could eat,
as the afternoon melts softly into evening.

I’d love to hear who’s come to visit lately.

Both are gone now, but the memories remain.
Their laughter rides the breeze,
as fresh as the salty air,
that still stirs in my heart.

Backstory: A Campo Sahuaro Adventure

When Mom and Dad bought their lot around 1988, it was nothing more than a small concrete slab and four stakes marking the corners of their sandy “oasis.” What made this campo special was its access to a fresh water well…rare in that part of Baja.

Their lot sat on a bluff overlooking an arroyo, with the Sea of Cortez just beyond the sandy beach. In Mexico, buying a lot like this meant purchasing a long-term lease from the property owner. As long as you pay the annual lease (which was under $1,000 per year) you control the land. Anything they built on it was theirs.

Because Mexico has nationalized property in the past, many Americans build semi-permanent structures that can be dismantled and hauled away if needed. That kind of caution remains, even though nothing like that has happened in a very long time.

Being a concrete guy, Dad’s priority was pouring a lot of concrete. He laid down a huge patio that would become the base for everything else, including one of the largest shade structures I’ve ever seen. It didn’t happen overnight. This was a multi-trip (multi-year) endeavor, often coinciding with supporting Team Honda’s off-road racing efforts. They’d haul supplies and tools down along with pit equipment. In the early ’90s, sourcing building materials in Baja was still hit or miss so they brought most of what they needed with them.

By around 1991, Dad was ready to build a workshop. It would be like a shipping container, made of wood, with big swing-down doors on each end that doubled as ramps. He welded little leveling stands to the top of each door so they could serve as sleeping platforms when opened. I slept on those doors under the stars every chance I got.

As with everything at Campo Sahuaro, there’s a story behind that build.

We were down there pitting for Team Honda, which meant several fellow pit crew members were staying at my parents’ place. At that point, it was mostly a shaded patio and a small pump room. Many of the guys were carpenters, so they brought their tools and were ready to build.

Dad’s motorhome was packed. The center aisle was filled with 2x4s, stacked at least five feet high. Getting around inside was nearly impossible. Behind the motorhome, he towed a converted motorcycle trailer that he’d built at least ten years earlier. It was loaded with a perfectly stacked cube of 4×8 plywood sheets. The walls of the future workshop.

I happened to be traveling with them on that trip, ready to help with both pitting and construction. About 50 miles from the campo, we heard a loud crash and scraping noise. We were driving across a dry lakebed, the road raised 15–20 feet above the flat terrain. I looked out just in time to see the trailer tumbling down the embankment.

Dad got the motorhome stopped, and we rushed out to assess the damage. The trailer tongue had sheared clean off under the weight of the plywood. Thankfully, it hadn’t failed earlier, during high-traffic sections of our trip. The trailer was upside down in the lakebed, still lashed to its cargo. That cube of plywood was completely intact.

Within minutes, two vans carrying some of our crew pulled up behind us. We counted heads — at least ten of us, including a few high school football players. It wouldn’t take long to relocate all that wood.

A chain gang formed. We passed sheet after sheet of plywood up the embankment and loaded it onto the vans, lashing them down with tie-downs and ropes we’d salvaged from the trailer. We even hauled the trailer carcass back up the hill. At the very least, we figured we’d salvage the tires and axle.

That’s when an old Toyota pickup rolled up. A local man hopped out. I greeted him with my high-school-turned-Baja-race-pit-guy-Spanish. Lots of smiling, gesturing, and broken sentences later, we learned he was a welder and fabricator. He was heading to San Felipe to visit family and watch the race.

He looked over our trailer, nodding thoughtfully. He said he could take the trailer on his truck bed along with the remains of the tongue and hitch. He’d rebuild it and leave the rebuilt trailer at his brother’s restaurant in San Felipe. We asked him how much he’d charge us for that service. His response was $20(!).

I confirmed that his plan was to haul our trailer back to his shop (about 40-50 miles back), rebuild it, and then he’d tow it all the way down to San Felipe for $20. We told him there was no way we’d let him do that for anything less than $200. His eyes got real wide. I don’t think he believed what I was saying. I said that we’d gladly pay him that amount for all that he’d be doing for us.

We loaded the trailer carcass onto his truck bed, shook his hand, and paid him the agreed $200. We wouldn’t be able to see him at the conclusion of the job, so pre-payment was our only option. He turned around with his new load and headed back to his shop.

We mounted up and continued to Campo Sahuaro, wondering if we’d ever see that trailer again.

The Workshop Rises

The race went great. The workshop was built in a day or two with the expert help of our crew. The carpenters led the way and the rest of us did our best to help and stay out of their way. Copious amounts of alcohol were consumed around the campfire, many snacks and excellent meals were eaten, heroic stories (some of them true) were shared with lots of laughter along the way.

On the way home, we stopped at Baja 2000, the restaurant where our mystery welder said he’d leave the repaired trailer. And there it was.

Not only had he fixed it. He’d reinforced it, straightened the bent parts, and welded it all back together better than before.

Legacy

Over the years, I visited Campo Sahuaro many times, sometimes with my wife and daughters. As mentioned earlier, Dad taught my oldest daughter to drive a stick shift truck on the beach in front of their place when she was probably 12 or 13 years old.

I loved knowing the stories behind everything built there. Most of the stories involved improvisation, imagination, and always perseverance. There were a ton of lessons at their property about staying focused and overcoming obstacles in the pursuit of your goals.

I loved sleeping under that blanket of stars, watching satellites traverse the sky (there’s a lot more of them up there nowadays). I loved swimming in the warm ocean. Most of all, I loved being with Mom and Dad, sharing good times and making memories with them at their special place, 32 kilometers south of San Felipe.

p/c – I asked ChatGPT to make an image of a starry night on the beach based on my story. Amazingly, the image it rendered is mostly how I remember it…except for the houses on the front row (Mom and Dad’s place was on the second row), and the dry-docked fishing skiffs that used the campo as their base of operations.

Nothing You Love is Lost

“Nothing you love is lost. Not really. Things, people – they always go away, sooner or later.

You can’t hold them any more than you can hold moonlight. But, if they’ve touched you, if they’re inside you, then they’re still yours.

The only things you ever really have are the ones you hold inside your heart.”

– Bruce Coville (h/t James Clear for sharing)

I’m working on a project for my kids and grandkids that has me writing answers to a series of about 75 questions. It’ll be an autobiography of sorts…a collection of memories and stories about life from my perspective.

While answering a question that asked me to describe a typical school day, I eventually got to my life in high school.

I found myself thinking about the first person who I’d known well that died.

Mr. McNally, my freshman pre-algebra and senior year chemistry teacher, was killed by a drunk driver who ran a red light and broadsided his vehicle.

I hadn’t thought about Mr. McNally for many years, but the moment I thought about my time in high school, all the wonderful memories about him came flooding back. I could see his witty smile; the lab coat he always wore in the chemistry lab. I remembered where I sat in the chem lab and the goofy glasses we had to wear when conducting experiments.

His untimely death was devastating news for our school and all of us who knew him. Mr. McNally was loved by his students. He was one of the special teachers in my life. The kind that not only teaches their subjects extremely well but had a profound impact on my growth as a person.

The unfortunate truth about life is that as the years go by, you’ll have to say goodbye to countless special people. Family members. Friends. Teachers.

Some will die, some will move away. In each case, we will lament that it was too soon. Their departure leaves a shadow on our soul where once they belonged.

I think the most powerful part of Coville’s quote is the way it highlights the transience of love and our relationships. We can’t grasp or possess the moonlight, but we can admire it and the feeling it gives us. Similarly, we can’t possess the people or experiences we love. We can only cherish the memories and the impact they’ve had on us, and hope that we were able to return a positive impact to them.

Coville’s quote encourages us to appreciate the moments and connections we have while we have them. Knowing that if they end, the love we shared with them and their significance endures, enriching our lives.

May the memories you have of your loved ones remain with you always, and may those memories be a source of light and inspiration even as your journey continues without them.

I have one favor to ask. If you enjoyed this post, please forward it to others.

p/c – Mike Labrum – Unsplash.com

The Gentle Shepherd

This poem is dedicated to the Gentle Shepherds God brings to each of us as we make our way along His path…

Our pastor recently announced that he’ll be leaving our parish after serving here for 10 years. Needless to say, he has had a profoundly positive impact on all of us, and he will be dearly missed.

During his homily last Sunday, announcing that he’ll be returning home to Spain in a few short months, I kept hearing the words, Gentle Shepherd, in my mind.

I realized these words were describing the amazing and loving man who was speaking to his flock about trusting God and the path He has for each of us.

Inspired by Father Sergio’s loving service to our parish and his homily last Sunday, this poem is dedicated to the Gentle Shepherds God brings to each of us as we make our way along His path:

The Gentle Shepherd

Graced with the compassionate love of God,

Through valleys of darkness, and deserts of despair,

He humbly guides his flock.

He is the Gentle Shepherd.

With fidelity to God and His Church,

Our shepherd shares with us the Word of God,

Unwrapping its sacred mysteries for all to hear.

He is the Gentle Shepherd.

Strengthened by our loving God,

He brings great tidings of joy and mercy,

Of God’s forgiveness and redemption.

He is the Gentle Shepherd.

He trusts and serves the Lord,

His purposes and His desires,

By loving and protecting each of his flock.

He is the Gentle Shepherd.

May the Lord’s blessings always shine down upon our Gentle Shepherd.

-Bob Dailey, 2022

Overcoming the Weed-Out

In the tenth week as we handed-in our last project and prepared to take the final exam, there were only 9 of us…

They’re called weed-out classes. The classes in every major designed to weed-out the pretenders, the students who can’t hack it, the ones who just don’t have what it takes.

They usually come around the third year…just when you think you’re pretty good at this stuff, and after you’ve committed two-plus years of your life to this major.

There were a couple of doozies in my major, Computer Information Systems. But, none compared to CIS 324—Database Programming. On the first day of class, Dr. Stumpf said he wouldn’t be surprised if we’d be in the computer lab 40-60 hours per week, just to complete the four main programming projects. We’d also have a mid-term and a final that covered all the database theory we were supposed to be learning while completing the projects.

To make things tougher, each project picked up where the last one left off. So, if you stumbled on the first project, you were setting yourself up for a potentially unrecoverable torture test in the second, third, and fourth projects.

It didn’t matter that you had other classes, or that you had a life that included working 30-40 hours per week. This was CIS 324. The weed-out class.

There were 26 of us in class that first day. I remember the number because two people wanted to add the class, and Dr. Stumpf was concerned because we only had 24 chairs in the classroom. That wouldn’t be a problem for long.

Five weeks and two projects later, there were 18 of us in class. The others had dropped.

Seven weeks and three projects later, we were down to 11. This was long before Survivor, but students voted themselves off the island nearly every week.

Dr. Stumpf took it all in stride. This type of attrition was normal. The students who didn’t make it would try again next quarter, or they’d re-evaluate their choice of major and never be back.

In the tenth week as we handed-in our last project and prepared to take the final exam, there were only 9 of us. By now, we knew each other well. We had spent many hours together in one of the computer labs (this was a bit before the days when you could use your PC to connect remotely). We were in every class, pulling for each other.

We were part of this small band of students about to make it through Dr. Stumpf’s CIS 324 class.

Looking back at those ten weeks, I don’t remember much detail about the projects. I remember the long nights in the computer lab, the endless diagrams, and lines of code. There was an amazing vending machine just outside the lab that dispensed ice cream bars for 30 cents apiece. I lived on ice cream bars and Mountain Dew that quarter.

I remember coming to each class, especially on the days our projects were due, wondering who’d be there and who’d be gone. I remember Dr. Stumpf congratulating each of us when we handed in our final exams on the last day of class.

Since CIS 324, I’ve faced lots of “weed-out” tests, whether I knew it or not. I’ve taken on projects that were way over my head. I’ve asked myself to deliver “the impossible” more than a few times.

Were these real-life weed-out situations harder than my CIS 324 experience? Definitely. And, many lasted a lot longer than ten weeks.

But, the experience of overcoming my first weed-out test made it easier to pass the next one. And, passing the second weed-out made it easier to pass the third.

Overcoming all these weed-out tests had five things in common:

If I focused on the ultimate and final deliverable on the first day, I would have given up. The only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time. It’s the same with overwhelming challenges. Break them down to their next indicated step and take that step with confidence and an open mind. That will lead to the next step…

It’s easy to feel alone in these weed-out tests. But, I was never alone, even when it felt that way. I found allies, sounding boards, mentors, people willing to join my cause, people I could trust. These people made all the difference.

Related to the above: Never forget the people who helped when you needed it most. Make sure they know how grateful you are for their help. Be there for them. They’re facing weed-out tests of their own and can use your help.

No matter how unique you think your weed-out situation is, it isn’t. Someone else has probably faced a similar challenge and lived to tell about it. Take the time to review what others have learned and apply it to the test you’re facing.

Don’t let your success on this test go to your head. Sure, it’s a great achievement. Have a nice dinner to celebrate. Enjoy the accomplishment. But, stay humble. Humility is the foundation for overcoming your next big, scary weed-out test.

Friedrich Nietzsche said, “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.”

When we take the time to temper that strength with humility, we’re preparing ourselves to take on the next weed-out challenge that’s surely coming our way.

Photo by Jonny Caspari on Unsplash

Yahtzee Lessons

I was probably seven when Grandma Anne taught me to play Yahtzee. I’d spend the night at her house with my cousin, Devin, and invariably, we’d be at her kitchen table, playing Yahtzee all afternoon.

It’s a simple game…on the surface.

Each player gets thirteen turns to complete their score card.

The top section of the score card consists of numbers 1 thru 6. You need to roll three ones, three twos, three threes, etc. to get your “minimums.” You could also roll four fives (or four of anything), which comes in handy if you were only able to roll two threes on a previous turn. The idea on the top section is to score at least 63 total points, so you can get the 35-point bonus.

Yahtzee! scores 50 points. That’s when you get all five dice to be the same during your turn. Some players focus solely on getting Yahtzee at the expense of everything else. The theory being that 50 points is huge, and if you get a second Yahtzee that one’s worth 100. Of course, the odds of getting a Yahtzee are against you, but the payoff is big when it happens.

Grandma was always clear that while a Yahtzee is nice, the most consistent winning strategy is to get your bonus on the top section. Rely on those 35 points as your foundation. A Yahtzee, or a big four-of-a-kind on the bottom section of the score card would be icing on the cake.

Relying on the foundational 35 and less on the Yahtzee probably explains many of the best decisions I’ve made in life.

Each turn, you roll five dice to start. You get two more rolls in your turn. Depending on what the dice show after your first roll, you may not need to take those additional rolls. Life is good when you roll a complete large straight or a Yahtzee on your first roll!

The bottom section of the score card has three-of-a-kind, four-of-a-kind, full house, small straight, large straight, Yahtzee! and Chance.

Chance comes into play when you’re rolling for something that doesn’t happen. Like, you already have your small straight, and now you’re rolling to complete a large straight. Unfortunately, that last number doesn’t come up. You count-up the total of all the dice and enter that number into Chance.

Chance is a lot like a mulligan in golf. A do-over. In this case, you get to capture some points even though the rolls failed to produce. They say there are no do-over’s in life, but I disagree. There are plenty of second chances, if you’re willing to ask for forgiveness (mostly from yourself), learn from your mistake(s) (hopefully), and try again.

How often do three sixes come up in a roll? How likely is it that you’ll be able to roll that one specific number you need to complete your straight or full house? When you’ve used up your Chance spot, and your rolls have led to nothing, which slot are you willing to sacrifice to end this turn? Odds and decisions.

Yahtzee seems like a game of chance. It’s much more. It’s a game of decisions and imperfect trade-offs.

After a while, we graduated to playing Triple Yahtzee, which entails playing three games simultaneously. You get 39 turns. One column is worth triple points, one is double points, and the last column is regular points.

The decisions and trade-offs from the “Single Yahtzee” game are in play, but now you want to maximize the point values in your triple column and consider sacrificing some of the slots in the regular column.

Don’t be fooled. Mastering Triple Yahtzee isn’t just triple the challenge. As in real life, something that should be only triple the challenge is often exponentially more challenging than it first appears.

What is the answer to all this exponential chaos? Methodical effort and focused strategy. The priorities and the strategy are defined. The decisions that follow from these priorities become clear. Maybe even simple.

There’s a certain genius in showing a seven-year-old the game of Yahtzee. They haven’t fully formed their approach to decision making. Success, failure, decisions, and sacrifices are in play with every turn. Excellent practice for the real thing.

Yahtzee illustrates how something completely random and driven by chance can be managed within a solid set of priorities and strategies.

I didn’t just get to learn about rolling dice, counting numbers, and making decisions. Grandma gave me the gift of lasting memories that I cherish to this day, playing Yahtzee at her kitchen table.

Now that I have six (!) grandkids of my own, I can’t wait to teach them the game of Yahtzee…and then, Triple Yahtzee!

Photo by Lea Böhm on Unsplash

The Power of Repetition

Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party…and other drills.

We’re each born without skills.

We don’t know how to play the piano, hit a tennis ball, type a letter, program a computer, balance a checkbook, climb a mountain, drive a car, wake surf, back up a semi-trailer, finish concrete, ride a bike, race a motorcycle, fix an engine, pilot an airplane, or just about anything else.

Fortunately, humans are learning machines. Watch a toddler for even a few minutes and you’ll see an aggressive and insatiable quest to imitate, experiment, test limits, check for patterns, see what works, see what parents allow, and see what happens when they push certain buttons (real and metaphorical). Amazingly, they’re doing these things before they can walk or talk.

Toddlers also have an almost unending desire to “do it again.” If throwing the ball once is fun, it’s even more fun to go pick it up and throw it again, and again, and again.

I took a typing class in my freshman year of high school. There were about fifty students in the class. Half of the typewriters were electric (the new IBM Selectrics) and the other half was manual typewriters. Yes, I’m that old.

I started my year on a manual typewriter (we swapped to the Selectrics mid-year). This meant that at the end of each line, after hearing the ding, I had to reach up and manually return the carriage…and place my fingers back on the correct keys to continue typing. It also meant that my keystrokes had to be smooth, consistent and well-timed. Otherwise, the keys would jam on top of each other.

We started with the Home row. I must have typed ASDFJKL; a thousand times! Then, we added the G and the H to the home row drill. ASDFGHJKL; Again. Again. Again. Ding. Manual carriage return.

Did I mention that all the keys on the typewriters were blank? We were learning how to be “touch” typists. Looking at the keys was not an option. We had diagrams and workbooks that showed us what each key was, but nothing on the typewriter.

After mastering the Home row, we moved up to the QWERTY row. The row that gives the standard keyboard its name. QWERTYUIOP Again. Again. Again. Again.

Next, the drills included the Home row and the QWERTY row at the same time. We were typing letters in random order from both rows. QPJHFDRT Again. Again. Again. Ding. Manual carriage return.

Finally, we moved to the dreaded bottom row. ZXCVBNM,. I hated the Z. The Z is in an awkward spot. It requires pinky strength and dexterity in the left hand. A tall order for a right-hander. A right-hander who had broken his left pinky a few years earlier (another long story).

Now our drills included all three rows, and all in random order.

Oh yeah, every drill was being timed. We started and stopped each drill as a class and typed the drills until we heard the ringing of the clock.

The drills got harder, included more randomness, and both upper-, and lower-case letters. Again. Again. Again.

I don’t remember how many weeks we spent on all these drills, but one day our teacher told us we’d be typing actual sentences. One more thing: our typing speed would be measured in words-per-minute.

Any mistakes would subtract one word from our score, so accuracy mattered.

How could this be? We’d never typed sentences before. We weren’t ready to be tested…on real sentences. We were just getting good at the drills. We had practiced proper hand position, proper finger curl, proper posture. But, this was uncharted territory.

“Ready? Begin.”

“Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.”

“The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.”

Why do I remember these two sentences? They’re classic typing drill sentences. They each use almost all the letters in the alphabet and require the typist to jump between all the rows. I typed these two sentences continuously during the day of our first typing test.

I realized I was actually typing! Not just a drill, but two real sentences. I was typing them quickly…even on a manual typewriter.

After that first day of testing, we typed many more sentences. We learned about the structure of various business letter formats. We typed information into practice forms. We keyed numbers into columns. We centered text. All before spreadsheets or word processors made these simple tasks.

Our teacher provided the drills, the structure, and the discipline. We drilled, practiced, and drilled again. And, again.

We were touch typists, using the skills we learned through repetition. I was having my own “Wax on…wax off,” moment before Karate Kid was a movie.

Fast forward 35 years. I’m still learning new skills. Practicing. Making mistakes. Sometimes pushing too hard. Sometimes jamming my keys in the process. Always looking to improve.

Only with repetition can I learn, improve, and become.

Again. And, again.

Photo by Jason Yu on Unsplash

Cage Fights, Roulette and the Law of Large Numbers

When you enter the octagon (speaking metaphorically, but maybe literally), it’s just you and your opponent…

When you enter the octagon (speaking metaphorically, but maybe literally), it’s just you and your opponent. Only your strength, skill, speed, luck, stamina, cunning, toughness and courage will help you find victory.

If you play roulette, the chance that the ball will land on red or black is the same…a little over 47%. Remember the green 0 is in there to mess things up.

But, what if you only have the time and money to play roulette for ten spins? Will the distribution of red and black numbers come out to just over 47% each? Maybe, but probably not.

What if you could spin the wheel 1,000 times? Would the distribution of red and black approach 47% each? That’s much more likely. In fact, the Law of Large Numbers says as much.

What about that cage fight? Theoretically, you have a 50% chance of winning, all things being equal.

Of course, all things are never equal in a cage fight (or real life).

The other guy is meaner, stronger, faster, and more skilled. You didn’t sleep well last night, you have that nagging knee injury that always shows itself at the wrong time. You don’t punch very hard, and you’ve heard that he has a great ground game. You have no idea what having a great ground game means, but it sounds dangerous, and that was the sound of the bell.

How’s that 50% chance looking? More like 5%, or maybe 1%.

What if you could fight the guy 1,000 times? Would your chances improve? Would you ever approach the 50% mark? Would you survive to find out? Probably not.

The good news is we don’t have to count on the Law of Large Numbers. And, while it’s nice to say that we can count on ourselves, it’s even better to know that we can count on our family, friends, associates, co-workers, teammates, competitors (yes, indeed), and countless others to help us achieve our victories.

You don’t have family, friends, associates, co-workers, teammates, competitors or countless others who can help you?

Then, your cage match is going to be all about how you become one or more of these things for someone else. Look around for who you can help. Who can you befriend? Who can you support? Who can you encourage?

In life, the largest number in the Law of Large Numbers is you and your tireless and relentless effort to make a difference for someone else.

Each of us has our own cage match to fight, often with ourselves. Wouldn’t it be great to see what you can do to help someone else win theirs?

Trust me. You’ll find your own path to victory along the way.

P.S. There’s not much anyone can do to help you win at roulette, but I always recommend 32 red.

Photo Credit: Unsplash, Joshua Clay

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