Silence floated through the air of Dyllan’s room like an oppressive smog, only beginning to clear after Dyllan forced out a few words. “It really is hard…”
“…I…” Andie released an empathetic sigh. “Look… I don’t know if this will help, but there was something my mom said to me after I lost my first baseball game - something that really doesn’t seem like such a big deal in retrospect. At the time though, it felt like a world-shattering event. I was just a kid, the only thing I knew about reality was what I’d gotten from cartoons, my parents, and my teachers. All of those things had told me that if you just work hard enough, just practice intensely enough and often enough, you can do anything. So I tried, I tried harder than anyone else. I skinned knees, stubbed toes, and nearly passed out once or twice - but I didn’t care, because I loved the feeling I got when all my work paid off and the whole team just got together and cheered. Pizza always tasted different when it was eaten at a victory party.” She rolled over onto the floor, laying down next to her broken friend. “Then, we lost. It was the biggest game of the year, and I’d been practicing harder than ever - everyone had. Everything was lined up, nobody was sick, our moms had personally made sure each and every one of us had gotten enough sleep, we had a plan and we stuck to it… but we lost. Everything I knew about the world, everything I’d been led to believe, it all told me that wasn’t supposed to happen. That effort was supposed to be rewarded, but right then and there, when it was most important to me, it wasn’t. The world didn’t care how hard I tried.”
Dyllan frowned. “…This is supposed to cheer me up?”
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“I’m just setting the scene - for when my mom walked in.” A nostalgic smile crept onto Andie’s face. “I was totally expecting some stupid forced rant about how ‘winning wasn’t everything.’ A real laugh coming from my hyper-competitive mom, and basically an accusation that I’d wasted half of my - at the time - ten year life. Then, as if she’d read my mind, she said: ‘I bet you think I’m going to tell you that it’s okay you lost, because winning isn’t important. But neither of us would believe that, so I’m going to tell you the truth and hope you’re mature enough to handle it.’ That was what she said, and it only got better from there. ‘See, Andie, winning is everything. That’s why you’re so sad. You’re wasting time thinking about losing, and losing is a worthless thing. You think anyone mocks famous heroes for all the times they screwed up? No! They don’t care. The failure of others is forgettable unless it’s in the context of how they overcame adversity and persisted - persisted until they won.’ Most important to me, though, is what she said next.” Andie grinned. “ ‘Losers aren’t people who lose, sweetie, they’re people who don’t win, and you’ve already won plenty of times. Look back on what happened, and learn from it. Learn from it so you can win again. Maybe not in the next match, or the one after that. Maybe your next win won’t even be at baseball. It could be getting an A in a class you care about, meeting someone special and raising a happy family, or even volunteering time and money for charity. Anything that makes you happy is a win, honey.’ ” Andie was quiet for a moment. “Finally, she convinced me to cheer up, and go spread my new motivation to my downcast friends. I’d had victories in sports before, but seeing all those smiling faces as they shouted ‘we’ll get them next year?’ That felt like the first time I’d won at life.”