Letter From the Editor
IT’S HARD to shake the memory of that time my 9-year-old son and I got kicked out of a Mets game at Citi Field in Queens. Before I rehash the gory details, it’s important that you know a few preliminary truths: 1) I love baseball. 1a) I love the New York Mets (apologies accepted). 2) I thought I was a cool dad. 3) I seriously effed up.
The night started in amazing fashion. Thanks to a work connection, we found ourselves on the field before the game. My son got to high-five a few of his heroes, watch them take batting practice up close and personal, and even got a few baseballs. We were in heaven.
An hour or so later, we were back on Earth watching the Mets get pummeled by the Cubs. Still, it was a glorious, albeit extremely hot, night. Around the seventh inning, we decided to hit the concession stand for some ice cream.
This is where things unraveled. After paying, I realized that the cashier accidentally rang up two chocolate and vanilla swirls in a novelty baseball-cap cup. (We had ordered only one.) I politely pointed out the error and asked for additional change. Unfortunately, since the register was now closed, we would have to wait for a manager. So we waited. And waited. The seventh inning ended. It seemed to get hotter. I asked when the manager was coming and was told he or she was on the way. No one showed. The next half-inning went by, and I’m pretty sure the temperature went up another five degrees.
This is clearly the moment when I should have realized that $3.75 is not a huge deal, and the time at a baseball game with your youngest child is precious. But in that instant, correct change seemed like the appropriate hill to die on. (Did I mention the heat?) So I kept asking where that manager was, perhaps in a slightly louder voice. When I got no response, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went around and poked my head into a back room of the concession stand to look for someone who could help.
Well, I finally got some attention. Unfortunately, it was from a phalanx of security personnel who asked us to follow them. I thought we were headed to get my money back. Instead, they deposited me and my now tearing-up and confused 9-year-old outside the gates. It was a total shock. And the kicker? My son screaming through sobs, “But my baseball glove is still at our seats!” (We did ultimately get the glove back, but that’s a story for another day.) The reason I’m opening up about this embarrassment is because it relates to the theme of our feature “The Art of the Fail” (page 78), in which we celebrate the fact that everyone screws up, in many ways both big and small. Whether you make a parenting blunder or sink an online startup, the real trick is to learn from those mistakes and use them to pave a path to future success.
In case you’re wondering, my son and I have moved on, and we’ve even gone to a few more games. Now we’re just waiting for our beloved Mets to learn from their own epic failures. Thankfully, there’s always next season.