“Have you ever made a mistake that’s going to haunt you for the rest of your life?”
That’s what Marcus asked me, sitting in a dugout and staring out across the empty diamond into the darkness. He looked about mid-forties. I’d seen him sitting alone, away from the others–the hopefuls are often the ones sitting away from the others. He had the look of a man deep in reflection, deep in regret. He had the posture of a man who wished like hell he could do it all over again.
“Who’s winning?” I asked.
“Sure as hell ain’t me,” he said in a southern drawl. I immediately remembered the question: why is it, if you’re from the South, it’s a drawl, but from anywhere else, it’s an accent.
I asked him if he could help me out with a project.
“Lemme guess, the project is me.”
“I hadn’t really thought of it like that, but I guess, in a way, that’s accurate.”
“And you’re going tell me how you can help me turn my life around and make a new start, find a job, get off the street? You’re going to try to rescue me from a dismal future?”
He was two steps ahead of me. I offered my hand, “I like you. I’m Matt.”
“Marcus.”
“The future is fluid, and I can tell you, your future is up to you.”
“Yeah, well, the future isn’t my problem.”
I sat down with him, leaned back against the chain link, and pretended it was comfortable. We stared out across the diamond. The monsoons were in full swing, and a dugout is hardly shelter from the kind of wind we’d been having for the past week. Besides, if the lightning got any closer, the last place I’d want to be is sitting on a metal bench, inside a metal cage. It was a nice night, though. We needed the break from the heat. Thunder broke the silence.
“Thank you, Marcus.”
“For what?”
“A new perspective.”
“Yeah.”
“Seriously. If there’s anything I know, it’s that I don’t know much. They say failure is the best teacher and…”
“And what better place to learn than from a bunch of failures?”
“That’s not what I meant…” I stammered.
“I know what you meant, I’m just messing with you.”
He had me staring out at third base on that one. He definitely wasn’t like the others.
“Where’d you get that accent?”
“Florida panhandle–outside of Tallahassee. You?”
“I’m a native.”
“Hmmm… okay, should we get this over with?” he asked.
I’ve tried my hand at sales a few times over the years, but I’d never felt so much like a salesman than right then. We didn’t talk about the future being dismal or bright. We didn’t talk about a path forward or the services available to him. We didn’t talk about options or plans or how he could help others find their way. Like he said, the future wasn’t his problem.
“Have you ever made a mistake that’s going to haunt you for the rest of your life?” he asked solemnly.
And then we talked about the past.