How learning to throw a football tackled perfectionism
“Oh, no. I don’t throw anything except tantrums,” she said.
A very successful client came to me saying that her standards may be too high for those with whom she works. Though she thought it fair because she expected the same for herself, and “I’ve been able to figure out how to navigate difficult waters,” so, she implied, why couldn’t all these other powerful people all around her do the same? I was able to get her to admit that perhaps those standards may - at times - be unfair to others who may not have her same skill set. We talked about how it must feel to be around her when she expects others to deliver something perfect. It took about 30 minutes, but she softened: “Oppressive, probably.” She added that she also didn’t do a very good job of conveying to her people what she wanted, that they “have to just figure it out and hope that it’s what I was expecting.” We talked about if there was room for something being “good enough rather than perfect.” She said she always viewed things in one of two ways: “either it’s perfect, or it’s unacceptable.” She liked the idea of something being good enough.
She was ready to step outside.
“Oh, no. I don’t throw anything except tantrums,” she said. I reminded her what she signed up for when she chose me to incorporate physical activity with insight. She talked about how poor of an athlete she was as a child, despite the fact that she swims and exercises 4-6 times per week. “Just throw me the football,” I insisted. She sheepishly gripped the ball. Her grip was incorrect. “Go on,” I said. She mumbled something about how bad this was going to be, and even uttered something like “this is ridiculous.” I smiled, encouragingly.
A poorly thrown football (one that isn’t a tight spiral) is referred to as a “Wounded Duck,” because the ball fumbles through the air end-over-end, thus resembling a duck whose fate is unpromising. Her ball to me was as wounded as they fly. She knew it, too, and followed her throw with a scathing cascade of adjectives. When she was done, I asked her to repeat her tirade. She recalled what she could and I filled in what she had forgotten: “terrible, stupid, and embarrassing.” She agreed that it was “the tip of the iceberg.” So this diatribe isn't limited to those outside of you?
“Good enough?” I asked. “Plenty good enough,” she said with a smile of redemption and tears in her eyes.
I then showed her the proper technique to throw a football, starting with the grip. I talked to her about the importance of “throwing your hip at the target,” and letting her arm follow. And importantly, I said that the last part of her body that remains in contact with the ball should be her index finger. Her very next throw was a vast improvement. Her second throw was nearly perfect, and she couldn’t wait to throw it again. Her third throw was perfect. It was as tight a spiral as a professional throws. I pushed her, giving her targets: hit my right hand here, hit my left hand there. Throw this one up here so I have to jump for it. She didn’t nail the targets, but they were good enough.
“Good enough?” I asked. “Plenty good enough,” she said with a smile of redemption and welled-up tears in her eyes.
“I’m bringing a football to work tomorrow," she said. "Take this one," I said. "You perfected 'good enough' with it, it's meaningful," I added. "It will stay on my desk, both as a reminder, and as something to play with whenever any of us is feeling a bit infalible. Especially yours truly,” she told me.
“Good enough,” I said.
This is why I love what I do.