Margin for Error
PaPa hung the hoop on the streetside face of the carport above the concrete that sloped at an angle toward the asphalt street. The “driveway” pad was mostly smooth. Its only demarcation, a seam where the cement met the pebbly tar, naturally, at right about fifteen feet.
In most respects the outdoor half-court was perfect. A boundary line of gravel flanked it to the left. To the right, it was walled off by yard-- grass sometimes mingled with stickers, sometimes mud. The court didn’t sit atop a hill where the Oklahoma wind was known to sweep. The airspace above it wasn’t threatened by stretching branches of nearby trees. The street it met at its inborn free-throw line was almost always quiet. The slant of the surface, however, was the cause of much chagrin.
Following a lengthy debate, “Let’s just do it right,” PaPa finally announced with end-of-story resolution, “with as little wrong as it will be.”
So, the decision was made to affix the goal at a regulation height of ten feet from its base, which would, of course, require a slight adjustment when shooting from long range. This seemed to be the lesser of two evils. (At least lay-up finishers wouldn’t need helmets this way!) Perimeter shooting, however, would require vacillating aim. When bouncing a rubber Voit at the free-throw mark, it felt like preparing to shoot with concrete up to your shins.
I often worried the sloping driveway would have a detrimental effect on my shot. Was I practicing a habit that couldn’t and wouldn’t convert? Would every attempt that hit the rim from the driveway be a swish inside a gym? Maybe. Maybe not. There was no real way to know. But the amorphous margin for error gave me freedom to explore.
The taller target helped me experiment. Shoot freely. Stretch without feeling a pull. Risk. As I did those things, my shooting touch expanded. And much to my surprise, so did what I believed I could master.
Confidence gets forged in a roomy cauldron. When we get curious, we get better, no matter what it is we’re attempting to do.
Too-hard tryers, perfectionists, potential-bearers, the over-consequenced, the tournament favorites often find themselves constrained by aiming precisely at a spot. Such rigor toward a target confines and confounds the best of us. We need the space to trust ourselves.
On Wednesdays, if I sit down to write a blog not due until the following Monday, I write easy. I take my time chasing thoughts that lead to ideas that may ultimately lead to a field of nothing. It’s never not worth the adventure. My margin is expansive. I can afford to look under rocks and reach behind clouds.
But if I sit down to write on Sunday afternoon, the deadline a mere 24 hours away, I write rigid. I play it safe, don’t explore. The scope of whatever thought I am unpacking has prickly edges. My margin is stiff and narrow. I can’t afford to swing and miss, there isn’t time.
It’s easy to get duped into thinking that confidence gets built by succeeding, but internal muscles aren’t beefed up when we win. We learn to flex by searching. It is a gift to be given room.