This morning, I got angry.
One of my most painful memories, one about which I continue to be embarrassed even now, twenty years later, is of my behavior during a two-game little league baseball championship, in which my team, having never lost a game all year, was beaten twice by a team we had clobbered time and again during the season.
I played catcher, and consequently was involved in nearly every play–or at least close enough that my growing anger and frustration were visible to everyone with each additional run the other team scored. I slammed my mitt on the ground. I threw the bat after striking out. I kicked the dirt and argued with the umpire. I yelled and screamed at everyone–my coach, my teammates, the woman keeping score, and eventually, after my coach sat me on the bench to cool down, at myself. I was one of the best players on my team, but because of my rage, I was unable to help–not even able to participate–during the final two innings of the championship.
After the game was over, and we had lost, I refused to accept my gift certificate for a free shake at the local burger joint, opting instead to glare bitterly at the shiny cases containing the small gold medals which were being handed out to the winning team’s players. I wanted one of those medals.