“Pressure is a privilege – it only comes to those who earn it.”
A few nights ago P and I were having supper in front of the television, watching the Braves play a game during the crucial last week of their season. That night the Braves were two games behind the Mets, and most had penciled them into the wild card slot given the strength of the Mets all season.
The Braves were heading into a season-deciding three game set with the Mets in Atlanta, with their only hope of winning the division lying in taking two out of three and hoping the Mets might stumble in their last series against the Nats.
One of the journalists who follow the team apparently asked a pitcher slated to throw one of those three games if the pressure bothered him. He answered simply, "Pressure is a privilege."
I was amazed at the profundity of a kid in his mid-20s who'd probably spent most of his formative hours on a pitcher's mound rather than philosophy class, but as it turns out he was reprising the wisdom of Billie Jean King, a tennis champion of the 1970s and something of a feminist icon. Still, he gets credit for at least knowing the quote, and it was surely on point, not just for him but for me.
There are always those liminal moments if you're watching and listening, those times that God or a Higher Power or the Universe speaks back to you as your subconscious wrestles with one crisis or another. Or at least that's been my experience, that discernment often lies in plain view.
I had been pondering and talking with P for days about how grueling the last few months have been, how it's time to slow down before it's too late. I work more now than when I was forty, and as the work piles up the pressure builds as clients who've placed their businesses and families in our hands because of some horrible betrayal or mishap relentlessly press for results. I'm worn out, and if this is going to be a marathon rather than a sprint, there's no doubt I need to do things differently. Learn to say no. Take on a little less. Delegate, even if that other person's work isn't necessarily remunerative for me.
But I need to quit wishing the stakes were lower, or that I was doing less consequential work. I get paid what I get paid because the things I'm asked to do are difficult, standing in a courtroom in another state one day acting as the ringmaster of a contentious hearing, then the next day working on a brief with hundreds of thousands of dollars at stake. I can think of an auditorium full of lawyer acquaintances who'd give anything to have that sort of practice, to not be chasing small cases and worrying about keeping the lights on and making payroll. As a friend of mine full of AA wisdom used to observe, "These are uptown problems."
So sure, I'll change things in the weeks and months ahead. I'll take on a little less, and live with the compensational consequences of that transition. If P wants a three-day weekend, I'll make that happen. But I'll catch myself and call myself up short the next time I start whining about the grinding stress of practicing law at this level. It's a privilege.
And what an early morning on the bay today.
I was up at five, and after a very stiff and achy run through the Cove shuffled into the office ahead of Steph, meaning I had the privilege to unlock and post the flag out front. It's still a strangely meaningful experience for this old fighter pilot, even in these fraught times for our country.
Now back at that wall of work that lies ahead today. Tonight I'll sit on the patio, and listen as the sounds of the bay mix with the Braves Radio Network, calling a now-meaningless game down in Miami after the Braves swept the Mets, won the division, and now will await the winner of the Wild Card Series.
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