Page 62 of Sure Shot
Oh brother. They always want to talk about your childhood. “I was six.”
“Did the six-year-old Mark ever stand around with a toy stick, pretending to score the winning goal for… Who was your team?”
I laugh. “Well, sure. And we rooted for Vancouver. That’s where my dad grew up.”
“Kids are really good at visualization,” the shrink says with a shrug. “When you were six, you could picture it. But it would be years before you’d have the strength and muscle control to score a winning goal, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“So there you are, moving up through the ranks of club hockey and college hockey. Then straight to the majors. All that training and muscle development and skill. Your trip to greatness was smoother than some other guys face.”
“It was,” I admit. “Thanks to hard work and a healthy dose of luck.”
He nods. “You never slacked off on the hard work. But lately it feels like your luck is a little slippery, no?”
“Maybe,” I concede.
“Your wife leaves you. Then you get traded to a team that doesn’t appreciate you.”
This is a trap. You can’t trash-talk your teammates to a guy who knows them better than you do. “There are days when that seems true.”
He smiles. “It’s been a long time since you had to employ visualization, Mark. But I think it can really help you. I’m going to give you some exercises.”
“Great,” I say, because it sounds like he might let me out of this room soon if I agree.
His smile widens. “The trick, though, is that you actually have to do them.”
“Sure. You mean, like, sitting around and trying to picture Castro passing to me when I’m open?”
“Exactly like that.” He flips to a fresh page on his legal pad and clicks his pen. “You’ll start with just five minutes. You’ll close your eyes and play a mental film for yourself. A repetitive highlight reel, basically.”
Fucking Brooklyn. I knew meditation would come up. “Okay.”
“I need you to humor me.” He’s scribbling on the page. “I’ll send you an email tonight with complete instructions. Then you’ll come and see me again in two weeks. We’ll talk about how it’s going.”
Oof. “Sure thing.”
He puts the pen down. “Getting traded is very disruptive, Mark. Everyone knows that.”
“Uh-huh.” They know it. But if it doesn’t work out, they’ll just trade you again anyway.
“You can make this work. I can help you.”
“Thanks,” I say tightly. I shake his hand and leave his claustrophobic little office.
Visualization. What a crock.
I’m halfway up the block when I realize he didn’t make me talk about my divorce. So that’s a small mercy. Although I could have poked a giant hole in his visualization theories.
Early on, Jordanna and I spent a whole lot of time visualizing what our happy future together should look like. A house full of kids. A big, loud family like the one she grew up in. We were really good at visualizing. So good at it that we bought a big house in the suburbs, with a big backyard that was just waiting for a sandbox and a swing set.
And it didn’t do a lick of good. Visualization is a big load of bullshit. Nobody knows that better than me.
Twenty-One
Who’s with Me?
Bess
