Thanks Dad - Teaching A Work Ethic
December 02, 2010, By Josh Katzowitz 0 comments
When I was younger, I was a pretty good baseball player. I made All-Star teams, I hit grand slams, I played travel ball, I competed with ballplayers across the Southeast. I could play, but I didn’t have the work ethic needed to make it to a high level.
My dad always told me – and I began to believe this, as well – that if I would have practiced as hard as I could, if I would have taken 500 swings a day and run sprints across the outfield and fielded grounders until my body was overtaken by baseball-sized bruises, I could play pro ball. Not major leagues, but maybe I could have toiled in the minors before eventually realizing I needed a new career.
My dad tried to instill that work ethic in me. He constructed a home-made batting-tee and nailed an old blanket onto the rafters of the basement so I could work on my swing without gouging the wall. He bought me some of the top equipment. Any time I wanted, he would play catch with me, take a jog with me, practice with me.
Ultimately, I didn’t have the passion for the game to work as hard as I needed.
The most important lesson he ever taught me, though, came after a ballgame. I must have been 11 or 12 years old, and I was coming off a good game. I was a badass, or so I thought. When a teammate’s parents approached me during our postgame meal and told me how well I had played, I blew it off, barely acknowledging the compliment. I acted like an athlete that’s been praised just a little too much and for a little too long.
My dad was pissed, and as we drove home, he let me know it. He tore into me. He was probably embarrassed by my conceit, probably a little red-faced that I had stared a compliment in the face before waving it away like an insect you just can’t even bother to squash.
“You always say thank you,” he growled as he drove. “You always say thank you when somebody says something nice.”
Before, in the restaurant, I was a pretentious ass. On the drive home, I was a quivering mess full of regret for my mistake.
I never forgot the lesson he taught me that day: be nice, be humble, be thankful.
That’s how I try to live my life today, and that’s the advice I’ll pass along to my children.
I wrote a book when I lived in Cincinnati, and since my name used to appear in the newspaper and I used to go on TV and on the radio quite a bit, my face was sort of recognizable. People would stop me, mostly at sporting events, to shake my hand and say how much they enjoyed the book or how they listened to me on the radio show.
I was always grateful for the compliment. Usually, I’d say something self-deprecating like, “Well, I’m sorry you had to hear me on the radio,” but the words were always nice to hear. I smiled and I thanked them, and life moved on.
I didn’t want to be the jerk or the guy who takes it all for granted, like I had acted so many years earlier in that restaurant with my father.
Today, I strive to be the opposite: nice, humble and thankful.
Because that’s what my dad taught me. And for that, I thank him.
We all thank dad for different reasons ... check out more Thanks Dad from the Man of the House team.
