For the Love of the Game(s)
Two athletic competitions. Three thousand miles apart. One watched by hundreds of people; the other watched by hundreds of millions of people worldwide. Each provided me the rarely achieved “emotional hat trick”: smiles, tears, and thoughts. For our purposes, I will focus just on the thoughts.
Competition One: The NBA finals. As a lifetime Cleveland Cavs fan from my days in elementary school living in Northeast Ohio, I somehow amazingly convinced all four of my kids, who have never even been to Cleveland, to share in my passion for the team. Needless to say, the 11 PM high-pitched squealing heard throughout the DC suburbs on Sunday night was from the six of us jumping up and down as the Cavs earned the title.
Competition Two: The Wounded Warrior Games, hosted this year at the US Military Academy in West Point, NY. By virtue of Deloitte’s role as the presenting sponsor of the games, I spent time last week watching and getting to know many of the wounded service members from the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, Special Operations Command, and the UK Armed Forces who competed in the eight different sports in this Olympic-style event.
So, my thoughts: I keep coming back to the word adaptive.
When you watch athletes compete in “adaptive sports”, you witness true physical miracles as double amputees propel themselves across a volleyball court to save a ball from hitting the floor, use their mouth (seriously) to aim and shoot an arrow in archery, or in a seated harness, throw a regulation size discus. And yet when you talk to the athletes, they don’t see the miracle or the amazement. They see the logical outcome of adapting. Take a major challenge then figure out a way to set a goal for the future to overcome the challenge, sprinkle in a lot of optimism, a lot of commitment and don’t allow self-pity to enter the equation. Isn’t that a recipe that all of us can apply as we adapt to professional (and personal) challenges we never saw coming?
The Cavs were blown out in Games 1 and 2. Not even close. All commentators declaring the series over and the Cavs an inferior opponent. And yet the Cavs decided to adapt -- in very substantive ways. Suddenly, players that had literally played in every game of the season and playoff run such as Channing Frye and Matthew Dellavedova were exiled to the bench and replaced in the rotation by individuals who had seen very little action, but had kept themselves physically and mentally ready. Here was Tyronn Lue, an extremely young, rookie head coach with the confidence to make a bold, “on-the-fly” decision to change the recipe that had brought the Cavs to the NBA finals. And that adaptation brought momentum, more confidence….and eventually a trophy to Cleveland.
In business, aren’t both the individuals and the organizations who adapt the most adroitly to changes in the environment, the ones who ultimately both win more and have more fun? No doubt. And whether we need to adapt because our competition makes an unexpected move (fair or unfair), we unexpectedly lose a key team member, new generations of talent require new approaches to where and how they work, our clients change their minds about what’s important, a new technology renders “the ways we have always done it” no longer viable, we need to adapt. As individuals, we can borrow from the adaptive “playbooks” of the wounded warriors. As teams/organizations, we can borrow from the adaptive playbook of Coach Tyronn Lue and the Cavs.
There is one last point that connects the Cavs and the Wounded Warrior games. It’s the look I saw on the faces of people on the benches of the Air Force team in seated volleyball and on the faces of the Cavs reserves in the final moments of Game 7. You can actually see the expressions of the people in the background of this already-famous picture of Lebron’s otherworldly superhuman blocked shot.
It’s the look of commitment to the team’s success. These individuals had forgotten their own personal ambitions and frustrations with not actually playing in the game…and instead had come to grips with the fact that this was all about “we, not me”. Easier said than done, but boy, how much better would all of our organizations be if self-interest, ambition, and intra-team competition took a backseat more often to the overall success of the team?
One thing that the two events don’t have in common is the presence of an Opening Ceremony. I went to the one at Warrior Games- and I will never forget it.
Jon Stewart was the emcee of the opening ceremonies (NOTE: really funny guy, going with the Letterman-like “I just retired from talk show hosting and I don’t want to shave ever again” shaggy beard) and brought his teenage son along for the experience. He wanted to introduce him to the “unsung heroes” whose names never see the spotlight but who sacrifice so much for the freedom some take for granted. I love that sentiment as a parent. And so as I gather in my living room with my kids this August and cheer on the USA in a myriad of sports I would never otherwise watch, I will wait for the ultimate tear-jerker…when the Star Spangled Banner plays after a US gold medal. And I will make sure they- like me- are thinking about the warrior-athletes I met in WestPoint this summer, for whom the national anthem playing in a medals ceremony means just a little bit more.
I will leave you with a final, simple quote that a retired General and wounded Vietnam veteran shared at the Warrior Games’ opening ceremonies. It really encapsulates the spirit of the attitude of the athletes and this idea of adaptation that we can all keep in mind as we navigate the inevitable rollercoaster ride of ups and downs and unexpected turns in our careers: “It’s not what you lost that counts. It’s what you do with what’s left.”
P.S. I used to think that the greatest tradition in sports was the handshake line at the end of each Stanley Cup playoff hockey series. Teams who have battled tirelessly for seven games in extreme intensity, acknowledging each other’s effort with sportsmanship. To me, the greatest handshake line tradition is now at the end of a seated volleyball match at the Warrior Games. I dare you to not be moved.
