It is very likely that everyone who follows sports has seen it. Looking back on my minor league baseball days, I can think of certain kids who, in the last inning with their team down by one run and the bases loaded with two outs, you could count on a hit. It wasn’t always the kids with the highest batting averages, although they were generally among the best quarters in the league. In competitive sports, it often seems that there is an odd gift given to some particular players (or do they develop?) Of hitting the clutch hit, making the critical putt, or kicking the last second field goal. Comparing basketball legends, Michael Jordan obviously had the gift; Karl Malone and John Stockton (these two cannot be referenced separately) did not. The series of two finals in the late 1990s between the Bulls and the Jazz characterizes the difference between a player (and team) who can’t help but win and one who is destined to be no better than the latter.
Growing up in Tallahassee, Florida, I learned early and often what it means to be a second place teacher. Year after year, the Seminoles featured a soccer team that was destined for a national championship. Year after year, a wide right field goal against the Hurricanes or a last-minute touchdown pass attempt against Notre Dame would fall short, or a winning Gators series would destroy an entire season. Until the 1993 miracle against Nebraska, I thought Bobby Bowden was destined to hold an equivocal position in history as the most victorious coach in the NCAA without ever having won everything. Even after that national championship, the losses to Tennessee and Oklahoma left doubts in the minds of many people as to whether Coach Bowden possessed (with any consistency) the ability to really end a season the way it should be done. What made the difference for the 1993 and 2000 championship teams? Apparently Charlie Ward and Peter Warrick (obviously with some help) had, in addition to their hard-earned talents, the champion mentality that says, “I won’t lose, especially not the big one!”
The Florida State baseball team has been another example of how to dominate second place. How many times have they been to the College World Series? – 17. How many championships do you have? – 0. You don’t have to be a statistician to calculate that batting average. It’s almost as if there’s something in Tallahassee’s drinking water that gives Seminole teams a kind of psychological governor that forces them to lose when it counts, even after having dominant seasons.
Since then I’ve wondered if that second-place mentality is contagious. My own high school career seemed to go the same way. Taking an 11-0 record to the state soccer championship game, we lost 7-3 after a late touchdown was taken away due to a phantom illegal forward pass penalty. Not to make excuses, but I wonder if the referee somehow knew that our team was scheduled for second place. Four months later, on a much more individual level, I fell short again, taking home second place in the state wrestling championships. That failure was compounded by the fact that we won the team championship, which made it seem like the stigma of second place was specifically reserved for me.
So how does a person get rid of the inability to win the big game? Obviously, you start by taking the steps to become a contender in the first place, working hard to develop the skills to be among the best of your competition. Beyond that, becoming a champion seems to be tied to having more than a superficial determination not to lose. Getting that determination can’t be done apart from constant practice and intense focus, and it shouldn’t be done outside of the rules of the game (see Barry Bonds, Michael Johnson, etc.). It is likely to be a developed trait in a young athlete, gradually reinforced by earning a few medals on the way to becoming a competitive amateur or professional athlete.
