by Gene, originally published on Axiom
Laurels are no place to rest.
Most people don’t know—and almost all people don’t care—that I once had a side gig writing sports. First, it was on my own blog, dedicated to following, analyzing, glorifying, and vilifying the Dallas Cowboys, the team I grew up with. Then, it was writing for a stipend for Bleacher Report, covering the Dallas Cowboys and the NFL. Those were heady times. They opened doors for me to meet and interview icons of the game, like Roger Staubach, Jimmy Johnson, Emmitt Smith, and Jerome Bettis, to name a few.
But the bills had to be paid and storms dictated a shift in focus, so I gave it up. I clearly never left it behind.
One of the first influences on my sports thinking and writing was a Dallas icon named Blackie Sherrod, one of the most revered sportswriters in America. Over his career, he wrote for the Fort Worth Press, Dallas Times Herald, and Dallas Morning News. He embodied the golden age of sportswriting.
In his book, The Blackie Sherrod Collection, he tells the story of being in San Antonio for a Texas League game between the Fort Worth Cats and the San Antonio Missions. He was excited to see a raw-boned kid play third base. Paul Richards, one of baseball’s best minds — and one of the keenest eyes ever for spotting talent — was touting this new talent. The kid lumbered about and seemed awkward at times. He booted a couple of ground balls. He was not very impressive.
A Fort Worth reporter (Blackie may have been referring to himself and ashamed to admit it) asked Richards, “This is your hotshot?”
“Don’t worry about him. He will play ten years in the Majors and he’ll be a great one.”
Richards was wrong. The kid played more than twenty years in the Majors, made the Hall of Fame, and many hail him as the best defensive third baseman ever.
His name was Brooks Robinson.
Richards served as an advisor to several Major League owners and general managers over the years. When baseball faced tough margins due to the rising cost of free agency, Richards proposed that after eight years in the league, every contract expires and only one-year contracts are signed thereafter. That way, he reasoned, players would be rewarded for what they are doing rather than what they have done. They wouldn’t grow complacent or too comfortable with a fat new contract that removed much of the motivation to continue to achieve at the previous level or reach for a higher one.
It would eliminate the tendency many have to rest on their laurels.
In today’s climate, with the emphasis on rewarding accomplishment in hopes of similar future production, that suggestion seems cold, callous, and calculating.
As a man whose best days may or may not be behind him, I am not crazy about the idea myself. But I can see its logic.
The grind is the glory.
“Hey, Gene. What do baseball, legends, and contracts have to do with me?”
Well, if you make your living as a claim-handler, just about everything.
Baseball never adopted Richards’ suggestion, and I am sure every major leaguer is glad they didn’t.
Like baseball, most workplaces reward past achievements with promotions, bonuses, raises, and accolades.
If, however, you are self-employed, that notion is out the window. You wake up to a new grind every day.
What separates the superstars in baseball from the others is seldom raw talent alone. Every major leaguer has talent. Clearly, some are uniquely gifted. More than that, however, they are motivated. They are driven by an internal mechanism that sets them apart.
This is the spirit of the entrepreneur, too. The grind is the glory.
On the independent side, the claims business is a collection of entrepreneurs. Every adjuster is a business.
You are the brand.
Soon enough, you learn, as such, that every storm is its own thing, every day its own challenge, and there is no place or time to rest on your laurels if you want to stay in the game.
What have you done for me lately?
Nobody but me cares that I was once a sportswriter. That is old news.
Nobody cares what I did on Hurricane Katrina or how it launched my career and informed my destiny, unless I tell a new group of starry-eyed dreamers in the Adjust U Adjusting 101 class in order to inspire them.
This is not a “what have you done” business. It is a “what have you done for me lately” business.
I have often heard this shared as an axiom, and it has its own truth: “You are only as good as your last storm.”
So, what do I do with this?
Do your best impression of Brooks Robinson. The boy who booted grounders in San Antonio didn’t stop there. He played on, and would one day be called “the human vacuum cleaner” — the greatest defensive third baseman in history. He played for only one franchise, and did so for 23 seasons.
The grind became the glory because, even when he reached the pinnacle of his profession, he apparently remained restless, ever pursuing perfection. Laurels were no place for him to rest.
“How do I become the Brooks Robinson of claims?”
Here’s your playbook:
- Commit to excellence and never decommit. Make the next challenge your best effort.
- Use what you learned the hard way and keep learning. Learn from your mistakes. Learn from others. Learn intentionally. Listen intently because that will provide opportunity for unintentional learning. Be a student of the game, a lifelong learner.
- Share what you know with others. Mentor a new generation. Invest in others. Did you know that one of Norman Rockwell’s most famous paintings is titled, “Gee, Thanks, Brooks!” It shows Robinson signing a baseball for an excited kid. The kid has stars in his eyes.
- When you are finally finished and the laurels are all that are left, make sure they accompany a legacy, which may not be what your think it is.
I am reading The Legacy Life by David Green, founder of Hobby Lobby.
He wrote,
Legacy is not what we leave behind. It’s what we set in motion.
David Green, meet Brooks Robinson! You each give us the same message, and we are listening.
Every day, get up, tie your shoelaces, hit the ground running. Claim your place on that roster. Make your mark on that storm. Lend your knowledge and wisdom to that person who suffered loss. Put in motion something others can cling to in a storm, believe in while working a claim, and build on in their own careers — your legacy.
My name is Gene. This is Axiom.