In the grand tradition of the American pastime, nothing is quite as sacred—or as deeply annoying—as the “Slow Start.” The beginning of the season brings a special kind of existential dread that makes rational people do very irrational things.
By this week of the season, every MLB fan base is divided into two camps: those who are dreaming of going to the World Series and those who are trying to trade their All-Star shortstop for a bucket of practice balls and a bag of sunflower seeds.
We see a team go 12-18 in April and we don’t just see a bad month, we see betrayal. The fans start researching how to legally change their family’s surname to avoid association with the team or burn their jerseys and ball caps in the driveway. The general managers start pacing the office like a caffeinated squirrel, looking for a coach to fire or a star pitcher to ship off to a triple-A affiliate in a city that doesn’t appear on most maps.
But a “Slow Start” is just that—a start. Over the years, you realize that the baseball season is less of a sprint and more of a 162-episode soap opera where the protagonist always looks like they’re failing until the third act.
For many of us, life didn’t exactly launch with a grand slam. Some of us began our “season” with a series of questionable errors, or we hit a mid-career slump that makes a .150 batting average look like a Hall of Fame performance.
We have friends and family who “start slow.” Maybe they’re thirty-five and still haven’t “found their swing.” This is where “Patience” and “Love of the Game” stop being clichés and start being survival tactics. You don’t cut your family members from the roster just because they’re currently leading the league in strikeouts. You keep them in the lineup because you know the stats: Babe Ruth led the major leagues in strikeouts, and he turned out “okay.”
The beauty of the “Slow Start” is that it teaches us the value of the pivot. When a parent sees their son strike out four times in his first game, they don’t see a failure—they see a kid who is very effectively discovering what he isn’t good at. If baseball proves not to be his sport, you don’t trade him to the neighbors. You become the loudest, most obnoxious fan in the front row when his science fair project—a volcano that actually smells like sulfur—wins the blue ribbon. He didn’t lose the game; he just changed leagues.
A slow start is an experience that teaches us much more than it hurts, provided we don’t set the stadium on fire in the process. It’s the universe’s way of checking if we’re actually paying attention or just waiting for the highlights. Accept the slump for what it is: a temporary glitch in the matrix. The season is long, the cream eventually rises to the top, and through it all, two truths remain absolute: 1. Ballpark hot dogs are always delicious, and 2. The beer is cold.
Eat the hot dog. Stay for the ninth inning. The comeback is usually better than the opening pitch anyway.
Thanks for this one, Webb. Personally reflective and a colossal reminder. Good stuff.
Thanks. I have lots of slow starts these days.