Stories from Scott

I’ve been thinking lately about the things I’m just not very good at. I’m not sure what triggered it—probably another project gone wrong. I’m talking about the things I’m not just bad at, but exceptionally bad at. The kind of things I pour effort into but never seem to get any better at, no matter how many tries or how much enthusiasm I bring.

I was a horrible basketball player growing up, but I never practiced and hardly ever played—so of course I was bad at it. That’s not what I’m talking about here. I mean the things I truly applied myself to but just never got anywhere with.

In college, I was in a study group that required remembering lots of names and dates. I struggled. I had to study three times as long as everyone else just to squeak by. It was frustrating. Remembering names and dates just isn’t in my DNA, I suppose.

This isn’t a “woe is me” story. My self-esteem’s fine (wink). We all have things we’re good at and things we’re not. Remembering names and dates is tough for me—but numbers come easily, and I’m good with that.

So, in that spirit, I thought it’d be fun to take a little trip down memory lane and share a few stories about the things I really suck at doing.

Woodshop Woes

The smell of fresh-cut wood, the sound of machinery, the beauty of the stains… ah yes—wood shop. The first memory that came to mind was eighth grade, 1900-something. We’d spent the year learning carpentry: sanding, cutting, staining, shellacking, drilling. We got to use real machines—band saws, table saws, drills, sanders—all the cool stuff. It was wholesome fun. I loved building things, making something from nothing.

To demonstrate our mastery over wood, we ended the year with a capstone project: mass-producing bookends. Nothing fancy—just a base and two slats on the ends.

Teams of two or three handled each stage: cutting, routing grooves, drilling countersinks, sanding, staining. The teacher walked around offering help and inspecting our work.

I started on the drilling team. After a few tries, the screws refused to go in straight. Clearly the screws were defective. Upon inspection of my “progress,” I was moved to the band saw.

Then routing.
Then sanding.
Then staining.

How hard can staining be? You just rub the oil on the wood.

Moved again.

I swear it was the wood. I was having an off day. People were out to get me.

I looked around and realized no one else had been moved. Eventually, there were no stations left. I was asked to “stand over there.” The looks from my classmates said it all—somewhere between pity and disbelief.

I had spent a year learning the tools and techniques. I didn’t goof off. I enjoyed it. I tried. But when it mattered, I failed on the big stage.

To this day, I can’t hold a tool without my hand trembling. Any kind of tool.

Here’s a photo of me holding a wrench—notice the shaking. You’ll have to jiggle your screen a bit to get the full effect. 

The Grappling Fail

Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka. The Iron Sheik. Hacksaw Jim Duggan. Jake “The Snake” Roberts. Ric Flair. Dusty Rhodes. The Claw. Body slam. Suplex. Clothesline. The Camel Clutch.

Ah yes—professional wrestling in its prime: the 1970s and ’80s. The raging debate: Was it fake or was it real? I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure.

It was the sport in my family. Grandparents, uncles, my brother, and I huddled around a giant console TV—yelling, cheering, and raging. The drama, the showmanship, the athleticism. A beautiful, sweaty ballet of violence and theater.

Naturally, my brother and I were destined to wrestle in school. Of course we would. Of course we’d rule.

We practiced all the moves—the body slams, the suplexes, even the throat choke that stopped at the count of nine because ten was illegal. Looking back, I’m still amazed neither of us ended up in the hospital.

Yes, we were destined for greatness on the mats. We were destined to be champions.

It turned out my brother was and I was not. In fact, I was quite bad. I mean really very bad.

He was undefeated. I was just defeated.

For four years, I trained hard and took it seriously. I wanted to be good. But I never was. No matter how much I practiced, I didn’t get better. If anything, I got worse. My sophomore year, I didn’t win a single match.

There was no reason for me not to be a good wrestler. I was a pretty good athlete. I did well in other sports. I was strong and quick. There was no obvious reason for me to be a horrible wrestler.

But I was.

My sophomore year was my last year wrestling before I threw in the towel. I didn’t win a single match all year. I didn’t improve at all over the four-year stint. In fact, I probably got worse.

The one match I did win – back in my freshman year – was impressive in one sense: I pinned the guy in 30 seconds. Impressive, right?

Before the match, I decided try the “head-and-arm suplex.” It was a move a little more advanced than I was used to. The cool thing about it is that it involves using your opponent’s momentum against them. Very judo-like. It’s a very graceful move.

It starts in a standing position, head and arms locked. You push your opponent backward and when they start to push back against you, you pull them in as you twist backward, flipping them over yourself. When done correctly, they land flat on their back in a headlock, pinned in one swift motion. Match over. Like I said, it’s an elegant move. 

The whistle blew and we started circling. Sizing each other up. A couple of fake lunges. We locked arms. It was going to plan. I pushed him back hard a couple of steps and he pushed back. It was going to plan and I went for it. I took one step back and started to execute the move.  

I can’t say exactly where things started to go wrong. There were a number of things to consider: 

• My opponent didn’t look like he wanted to be there. He looked like his dad forced him to wrestle.
• He was quite a bit taller than me. Two or three inches.
• I had never executed the move, not even in practice. I had seen someone do it earlier that week and, like I’ve said, it’s a pretty sweet move. Maybe this was the first mistake.
• He did not push back as aggressively as he should have.
• I may not have fallen back or twisted as hard as I could have.
• There was a general lack of enthusiasm. I may have been thinking too much about the steps.

Instead of flipping him through the air over my head in that graceful motion, he kind of…. just fell on top of me… in an awkward collapse.

So there we were on the ground, frozen. I wasn’t sure what was happening. He wasn’t sure what was happening. I think everyone watching wasn’t sure what was happening. No one knew what to do next.

By some miracle, I still had him in a tight headlock, and through sheer stubbornness, I managed to roll him to his back and get the pin.

To be honest, he didn’t put up much of a fight. I think he wanted it to end as much as I did. We avoided eye contact when we shook hands after the match. There was definitely enough shame to share equally between us.

I once lived near a woman who had a really friendly dog. When the dog saw you, it would run up and immediately roll to her back for a belly rub.

– Just a random thought

They say “a win is a win,” but I disagree. I don’t think I ever truly recovered from that victory.

People say you should reframe bad experiences in a way that makes them seem more positive. I gave it a shot. I thought about doing this just in case my wrestling experience came up in casual conversation. Instead of saying, “I sucked, I lost every match,” I would simply say, “I came in second.”

Random Stranger: “Did you wrestle in high school?”
Me: “Yeah, I wrestled in high school.” 

Stranger: “Were you any good?” 
Me: “I came in second”.  

Stranger: “Wow. Second in the state?”.   
Me: “No.” 

Stranger: “Oh. Second in your Section.” 
Me: “No. Not exactly.”

Stranger: “Second in a tournament?”.  
Me: “Matches. Second in all my matches”. 

Stranger: …looks away

Awkward silence 

I decided against “reframing”. 

They ALL Got Away 

Fishing. Why? I don’t get it. You stand there for hours, waiting. Waiting for something to bite a worm. It’s a game of waiting. I don’t get it.

It seemed exciting when I was a kid. Everyone else was excited, so I went along. I vaguely remember catching a trout when I was about seven—mostly because my grandmother showed me how to clean and fry it. It smelled amazing.

Other than that one fish, I’ve fished several times with no happy memories. 

My big break came when I was around twelve. My stepfather took my brother and me to his parents’ house on a Sunday morning. He and his brothers were going fishing. This was the day I’d end my fishless streak.

The “break” came in the form of a fish hatchery. Thats right, a fish hatchery. The brothers would occasionally sneak in when the owner was at church.

I know, I know. I was 12 though. Twelve and excited to catch something–anything.

There was much excitement in the air.

“I hope you brought a bucket. You’re going to need it!”
“Those fish will jump right into your pockets.”

We snuck in through a hole in the fence and didn’t waste any time. Church only lasted an hour. Almost immediately fish were being pulled out. It was pretty amazing to watch. It was like we were fishing in a contained area stocked full of fish.

Within minutes fish were flying out of the water. Everyone was catching something. After 10 minutes, most of the guys had five or six fish. After 15, eight or ten. Eventually eyes started turning towards me. They were the odd, uncomfortable looks. Like they weren’t sure what to say and didn’t want to stare but couldn’t help it. I was very much familiar with that look.

A couple of the guys came over.

“Anytime now.”
“Best for last.”
“The last fish caught is usually the biggest.”

Finally, a tug on my line. Relief! Excitement! Redemption!

“It’s not putting up much of a fight,”
“Did he snag a boot?”
“The line looks heavy though,”

Then it surfaced.

“Hey! It’s a big one!”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Is it dead?”

It lay on the ground, flapping a little. It wasn’t dead. Not yet anyway. Someone picked it up to take unhook it and something gooey oozed out.

“Is it sick?” I asked.

“It’s pregnant. It’s a pregnant fish,” someone murmured.

I thought I might vomit. I hadn’t just killed a fish—I’d killed a pregnant fish. Someone tried to make me feel better:
“Hey, if you count the eggs, you caught more than everyone else!”

Someone tried to turn it into a positive.

“Hey! If you count the eggs, you caught way more than everyone else!”

That didn’t help. I had killed way more living things than everyone else.

Twenty minutes in a hatchery, and I caught one fish—one old, pregnant fish—while everyone else caught ten each. We released most of them, including mine. I named her Elsie. Our time together was brief but memorable.

So that is my big fishing tale. My tall tale.

While most people tell tales of the one that got away, I have this story. I feel like it was a sign from a greater power. A divine intervention, but not in a good way. Like God saying, “I can’t teach you to fish. If you don’t find someone who will feed you, you will starve.” Was I being punished for skipping church? For committing sin against a proper, church going Christian?

You would think that I would never touch a fishing pole again after that experience.

You’d be wrong.

I had the amazing opportunity to live in Anchorage, Alaska for a couple of years when I was twenty-two. The beauty of the land. Wildlife everywhere you looked, even in the city. I fed a moose Cap’n Crunch cereal from my bathroom window for a few days. I called him “Sparky.”

Friends invited me camping one weekend for the salmon run. “You just stick your hand in and grab one,” they said. I didn’t tell them about the hatchery incident.

As fate would have it, I caught exactly one fish over the weekend. That’s one fish over two days of fishing. Two days of trying to catch fish. I don’t know how many fish other people snagged. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. I know it was more than one though.

This time, the teasing rolled off me. I think I was numb to it—spiritually broken, dead on the inside. I finally accepted the truth: I can’t be taught to fish.

In summary 

This was probably a bad idea. No wonder my self-esteem’s in the gutter.

If you ever decide to compile a list of things you are exceptionally bad at, make sure you have a good counselor lined up. You’ll dig up all kinds of buried trauma—big ones, little ones, all waving hello. But maybe that’s the point — to drag all this stuff back up and laugh at it.

I’m going to go lie down now. My inner child needs a snack and a nap. Good luck to you.