Too Mean to Regress to the Mean.

When I was just fourteen, I made the varsity baseball team at the elite private school I went to. Not only did I make the baseball team, I was anointed the starting third-baseman. It was quite a feat for a kid of 14 to be playing alongside 18-year-olds, especially since I hadn't had my growth yet and stood only about 5'5".

I was, as a third-baseman needs to be "stolid." I read a scouting report once written by the great old timey baseball genius Branch Rickey (the guy who signed Jackie Robinson) of a great third baseman for the 1960s St. Louis Cardinals, Ken Boyer. 

Rickey blasted Boyer because Boyer wasn't stolid. Meaning he didn't stand in there and allow the ball to hit his body on his way to fielding it. A third baseman is a hockey goalie. Your attitude at the hot corner is straightforward. Nothing gets by me.

While I was stolid and sturdy as a third-bagger, I was less impressive with the lumber. So, Babich, my coach had me batting seventh. Against some of the stronger arms in the league, I wasn't sure if I could even get a foul tip. Especially challenging were benders. The pitches that went every which way, and usually at the last moment.

However, I hung in there.

In my first home game to the surprise of everyone, including myself, I hit a hard grounder directly back through the box, splitting the middle of the infield. Their second baseman fielded it and the throw to first would be close. I knew that as I was running to first. 

Their first baseman fucked up. He was standing directly on the bag. When I saw that the ball and I would arrive within milliseconds of each other, I took advantage of the fielder's miscue. Though I was 5'5" and he was probably 6'1". 

I ran right into him like Pete Rose (my baseball idol at the time) had done to Ray Fosse at the 1970 All-Star game.

I knocked the shit out of him and he dropped the ball and I was safe. They scored it a hit. 

This sort of combativeness will strike some people as wrong-headed.

But combativeness wins jobs, assignments, accounts and gets you on base.

I don't really care that in the parlance of today's HR-language-pablum we're all supposed to be "collaborative bridge builders."

I don't buy that. And never will.

When I got fired from Ogilvy, I knew I'd be competing for jobs against the 92,678 other copywriters who have been excised from our miasmatic "share-holder-value" industry that pays its CEOs 300x what median workers' salaries are.

I did one thing that was smart.

I chose someone to go after salary-wise. I chose to run into them head-on.

It wasn't another creative. 

It was one of a dozen or so Ogilvy CEOs. Not remotely a creative.

I said to myself, "I'm as smart as XXX. And I can write. She can only powerpoint. So if she gets $XXXX a day, I'm going to get the same."

That's as close as I could get at the age I was fired (62) to being the 14-year-old boy knocking over a first-baseman who had 50 pounds on me.

Like I said, I don't really care if it ain't all kumbaya.

I'm not in business to get along.

I'm in business to win.