As a middle schooler, my very favorite booth at the annual spring carnival was the radar gun booth. The game was simple: the participant is given three baseballs to pitch into a net located about 15 feet in front of the participant. A radar gun catches the speed of the ball that is thrown. The participants is given three throws, and on the third throw they must guess the speed of their third pitch.
By eight grade, I had my strategy. I showed up and threw the first ball.
“60 miles per hour,” the man read from the radar gun.
Throw two – as natural as possible.
“59 miles per hour.”
Throw three.
If I guess my speed correctly, I win a slew of raffle tickets. Fortunately, after a few years showing up at this booth, I had learned something about myself. When the pressure of the moment builds and the throw finally counts, I knew that my body would jump internally.
It’s like the Vespa Scooter I would eventually own many years later. When you turn on the engine, it’s not a huge sound. It’s a slight rev and a little tremor of the frame that let’s you know the scooter is alive. Even just a touch of gas will set it in motion.
I would get Scooter-like jumpy – revved, quietly so.
And I worked hard to hide this jumpiness. I offered a subtle smile of nonchalant confidence. I casually stretched my shoulders. I even tossed the ball up, and if someone took a photo right there and then I imagine they’d have the ultimate poster of life in the Midwest – boy lightly tosses baseball, a slightly cocked grin, and ferris wheel spinning colorfully in the background.
“62 miles per hour,” I say. The man glances up at me, and though I do not look at him, I know he questions my guess.
Throw three – as natural possible.
“62 miles per hour! How did you know to guess that?” The man hands me my treasure of tickets.
How I wish I could learn to do the same thing today! I make dozens of decisions every single day. When those decisions are made without pressure, things are fine.
But when fear grows or possibility of failure inches into view or an angry email sits in my inbox… I should know by now that I throw faster than my norm. My body gets jumpy on the inside when the pressure mounts, which means…
I am more readily prone to send a too-fast email.
I am more readily prone to deliver too-fast words in response to the problem.
I am more likely to look for the first solution that can relieve the pressure rather than consider all the options.
I do not mean for it happen. I do not even control it.
Nobody is immune to pressure, especially those in leadership. But I do believe the best ones eventually recognize what the pressure does to them and the ways the pressure will have them throw.
However, unlike the booth, my sense is that the key to good leadership under pressure entails walking away from the third throw.
Take the ball that requires your decision or your response or your input… and go around the ferris wheel with it once. Heck, go a few times! Then grab a hotdog and watch little children get their face painted for the first time. Do whatever amount of spinning or eating or people-watching necessary to turn the engine off. Then and only then return to the booth and throw.
“60 miles an hour.” Strong, fast - but not urgently so. It is the kind of forward movement that comes from a centered place.