“Turns out I am much stronger than I realized.” That was the first thought that filled my mind, which was quickly replaced by, “Oh no this is bad; my parents are going to be very mad.” I was on the playground at my pre-school when a group of boys, including myself (we will call the group the fire dragons), were searching for new cool things to use in our imaginary quest to discover treasure. In the back of the playground, a boy named Xavier uncovered a pile of goods covered by a tarp. He dove under the tarp when the teachers on the playground had their attention diverted. He emerged with a broken tennis racket and an old wooden child’s baseball bat. Over joyed we cheered uncontrollably as Xavier proclaimed that he had acquired the golden weapons that were to be used to safeguard the fire dragons’ fort. We ran back to our fort that was not in a clear line of sight of the teachers. Xavier began assigning responsibilities based on his assumed role as the leader since he made the discovery. However, after 15 minutes of imaginary fighting off attacking intruders we began to lose interest in the tennis racket and baseball bat as make believe weapons.
Xavier proposed that we start a new game that he was going to make up. The initial enthusiasm could barely be contained among the fire dragons, and we didn’t even know what he had in mind yet. Xavier started making things up on the spot, stating we could play tennis-baseball, as new game never seen before. Excitement for the day was at its zenith as he began sharing details of how the game would be played. However, the more details that were provided, the more I felt uneasy about the game. Xavier stated that a “pitcher” would use the tennis racket to hit a stone toward the batter; the batter would hit the incoming rock as far as they could and finish with 3 circles around the playground. When he finished I thought the game was lame, dangerous, and would almost certainly get us in trouble. For those reasons, I refused to play while the other boys were fully committed to playing.
I sat in the fort and watched the other boys play tennis-baseball and as expected it was pretty lame. But, over time I began to think that this game does not look so dangerous and the boys were not getting in trouble even though it appeared the teachers had a better view of their activities. Additional time passed and I continued to watch the boys struggle to hit the rock. Their continued struggles were driving me crazy. I have this internal trigger that goes off when I see someone not succeeding at an action that I can do with ease. The trigger forces me to jump into the activity to relieve the other party of duties, alleviating them of their burden while allowing me the personal satisfaction that the job is getting done right. So when I saw misses and weak hit after weak hit, my internal trigger exploded; it was coupled with my personal curiosity of how far I could crush the rock. I thought I would take one swing and show those boys how it was done, which in turn would establish me as one of the elite athletes on the playground.
Xavier took notice that I wanted in the game and said I could bat next. When my time arrived I was locked-in and intent on putting on a show. Xavier pitched me a rock with the tennis racket. I connected with it sending it straight up in the air, which seemed like 200 feet high. The other boys were amazed that I smacked it that high; however I was confident I could do better. My ego got the best of me and that was the beginning of my plan unraveling. I had proven I could crush the rock but foolishly I wanted to demonstrate I could do more, so I told Xavier to hit me another. Xavier complied with my request sending me the next rock to hit. I connected, launching the projectile far into the distance, too far into the distance. The rock floated over the front fence of the playground, through a window and into the school’s supply closet. The sound of glass shattering filled the air, and the boys howled with both excitement and trepidation. I stood there frozen with fear. The other boys scattered as the teachers came running over to assess the situation. I panicked and started crying immediately before the first question could be asked. I expressed my deep regret and pleaded for forgiveness. The teachers understood this was an anomaly from my normal behavior so they sought to calm me down by saying that no one was hurt; it was just a broken window. I would calm down, then think about my actions again and begin crying again. This process repeated itself as I sat in the school office waiting from my parents to arrive.
When my father finally arrived, I cringed as I was hoping my mother would arrive to pick me up; his wrath was surely going to be greater that hers. After speaking with the administrators, he walked over and asked if I was OK. I responded, “Yes.” He took a deep breath, exhaled, and then stated, “I am not mad; I am just disappointed.” Not the response I was expecting. Those words cut deeper than if he was mad. “Get mad Dad,” I thought. It is better than being disappointed. I came to grips with his comments, wrapped my arms around his shoulders, gave him a big hug, and said, “I am sorry and I love you and I will pay for the broken window.” My father responded, “I love you too”. Then he leaned in and said on the topic of paying for the window, “Yes you are going to pay for the window from your piggybank. That piggy is going to squeal.”