Practice Makes Progress

Practice

/ˈpraktəs/

noun

1.the actual application or use of an idea, belief, or method, as opposed to theories relating to it.

2.the customary, habitual, or expected procedure or way of doing of something.

Clichés. They’re like autofill for conversation. Whenever a discussion approaches familiar territory—or we just feel a little lazy—we can’t help but occasionally reach into our bag of recycled responses and use a reply that’s effortless and readymade. It’s the conversational path of least resistance. And not that there’s anything wrong with it. I mean, we use clichés because they often speak to some mutually-held belief or shared value. But let’s be honest, some clichés should’ve been left on the cutting room floor. For example:

There’s an elephant in the room. Who’s ever walked into a room, saw a giant animal standing over by the loveseat, and said nothing? Unless you’re being introduced to a Nigerian drug lord or P.T. Barnum, the elephant in the room will probably be mentioned. “I think we should address the elephant in the room.” Ya think? Should go without saying.

You let the cat out of the bag. Good. Why is there a cat in a bag in the first place? And more importantly, why is it a secret? And how did a cat in a bag become synonymous with spilling the beans? I can see I’m starting to open up a can of worms here.

And then my personal favorite, Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater. I mean, all the right boxes are checked on this one. Helpful? Check. Important to remember? Check. Anti-baby-throwing? Check. I only hope that this a cliché is of literary origin and not one of actual incident. Because, how many times would this have to happen before it gained the status of “platitude”? Surly, this was not a regular occurrence before indoor plumbing?

“Honey, I just threw the bathwater out. What do you say after dinner we head over to the general store and pick up those mason jars for when we churn butter in the morning?

“That sounds nice, dear.”

“I’ll get the horse and buggy ready.”

“Dear?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Where’s the baby?”

“Oh, my sweet Moses!

“What?”

“I think I threw the baby out with the bathwater again!”

But if there’s one cliché that really gets my goat, it’s practice makes perfect. Winston Churchill once said, “They say that nobody is perfect. Then they tell you practice makes perfect. I wish they’d make up their minds.” Back in 2002, in a banquet hall filled with pressed tablecloths, and fine-ish china, I made up my mind. Practice doesn’t make perfect.

When I was in high school, the athletic department hosted a formal sport banquet every year. There, three awards given for basketball: Most Improved, Most Inspirational, and, the most coveted title (at least in my mind), Most Valuable Player. The first year I played (my sophomore year), I received the Most Improved award. It was nice to be recognized, but at the same time, I wasn’t really sure how to take it. I mean, in front of family, friends, and the girls’ athletic division, I received marble-etched proof that of all the players who sucked at the start of the season, I sucked the least most by the end. Not exactly high praise for athletic vitality.

At the banquet my junior year, I walked across stage to receive the Most Inspirational award. I thought it was a step up from “Most Improved,” but, like the prior year, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. How was I inspirational, exactly? Was I Miracle-on-Ice-inspiring or Rudy-inspiring? I mean, both are inspirational, but there’s definitely a difference. I think I broke the school-record for most charges taken in a season that year, but that says more about my ability to take a hit than it does athletic ability (every fourth quarter, I was like Steve Rogers holding that trashcan lid saying, “I can do this all day”). Not exactly a stat that makes it to the local newspaper. It was either that, or the fact that I didn’t quit basketball altogether after running through the wrong cheer tunnel my first varsity game. I suppose that could’ve been a little inspiring. But either way, as I’m writing this paragraph, I see it was more Rudy-inspiring.

At the banquet my senior year, there was only one more award left to complete the trifecta. The crème de la crème. The MVP.

I was finished with my chicken and side salad as the first two awards were announced and received. I didn’t need dessert. Didn’t even want it. All I wanted was one thing: to make my fraternal-twin plaques, triplets. And as the moment arrived, I readied myself to a pre-stand position in my chair—well-postured with an ever so slight forward lean. The envelope’s seal was torn and the announcement began. “And the award for most valuable player goes to…” It felt like the Academy Awards, but with less twerking and more viewers.

As soon as the name was announced, I knew something was off. Most notably, the name wasn’t mine. As the applause started, my posture loosened. And then so did my tie. Despite my hours of practice, the one award without emotional ambiguity was given to someone else. I joined in the ovation and celebrated the success my friend and teammate.

To be honest, I knew winning the award was a longshot. But I just couldn’t help it. I wanted it. And when I didn’t get it, my mind started to go a little Kurt Cobain. No, not like that.   

Paraphrasing Churchill, Cobain said, “Practice makes perfect, but no one’s perfect, so why practice?” Obviously, the implied conclusion is flawed, but this “what’s the point” attitude is an all-too-common response to adversity. And later that evening at the banquet, as I picked at my dessert, I started to question whether all those hours of practice really mattered.

Researcher and adjunct professor Dr. Jesse Marczyk writes, “If you want to be the best version of yourself that you can be, you'll need to spend a lot of time working at your skills of choice. Nevertheless, people do vary widely in terms of how much practice they are willing to devote to a skill and how readily they abandon their efforts in the face of challenges, or simply to time.” This devotion to a skill is what researchers call grit.

The American Psychological Association defines grit as:

A personality trait characterized by perseverance and passion for achieving long-term goals. Grit entails working strenuously to overcome challenges and maintaining effort and interest over time despite failures, adversities, and plateaus in progress. Recent studies suggest this trait may be more relevant than intelligence in determining a person’s high achievement. For example, grit may be particularly important to accomplishing an especially complex task when there is a strong temptation to give up altogether.

If it’s worth the practice, it’s worth practicing with grit; but we also must know when to use it.

Grit is a powerful trait. And with grit power, come grit responsibility. It’s true, no one’s perfect. And Cobain’s conclusion isn’t completely off the mark. Professor of Engineering Psychology at the United States Military Academy in the Department of Behavioral Sciences and Leadership, Dr. Michael Matthews writes, “The message here is clear. Grit is indeed a critical factor in achievement. But it is best applied to tasks and goals for which you have the innate talent and interest to sustain growth. Engage in honest self-appraisal and identify what you have the physical and cognitive skills to be good at, then use your grit to fan the talent flame.”

It's fair to say that when it came to basketball, there was only so much flame to be fanned (more of a smoldering fire). I had some talent. Not sure it was innate. Had some interest. Not sure it could sustain much more growth. I think shallow down, I knew my basketball career wouldn’t extend past high school, and maybe that’s what was eating at me the night of the banquet. It wasn’t about the result of an evening, but rather the end of an era. I had reached my talent ceiling, and no amount of grit could help. But as Semisonic so aptly put it, “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.” I didn’t know it at the time, but the following fall, I would take my first psychology course in college—a new beginning with currently no end in sight.  

That night, I didn’t receive the title of MVP. And by all accounts, the right decision was made (I didn’t even vote for me). I wasn’t the best player on the team. I did, however, leave that evening with a takeaway. I used to grade the end-of-season awards from worst to best—"Most Improved” to “Most Valuable.” I realize now that I had it wrong. If I could do all it again, I’d gladly accept “Most Improved” every year.

Practice doesn’t make perfect. But it does make progress. And anything worth the practice is worth the grit. And should we happen to reach our talent ceiling sooner than expected, let’s not dwell on the frustration. We need to get up, shake it off, and keep moving forward. Otherwise, in our dwelling on the end, we may miss the next new beginning. And that would be worse than throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

James 1:12

“Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him” (NIV).