Favors: The Currency of Saints and Hypocrites

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Aristotle? Bible? “Ideal man”? Mit-what-zah? Sounds like a fancy way of saying “make your own bed” to me. But apparently, doing stuff for other people is supposed to be some grand declaration of inner beauty. Let’s be honest, though, favors are a minefield. A social tightrope where good intentions trip over awkward silences and unspoken expectations. Or as my Irish grandmother used to say: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Me? I’ve been asked to fetch everything from a stray sock in a still revolving tumble dryer to the last-minute request for a kidney from a distant cousin I met once at a baptism gone wrong. Favors Large? Favors Small? It’s all relative, isn’t it? Holding the door for a granny is a breeze, but explaining Bitcoin to your dad feels a lot like pushing a boulder uphill with a sprained ankle.

Spontaneous? Well, I wouldn’t call stopping to help a stranded motorist “spontaneous” exactly. It’s more like that primal fear of being stuck myself that starts kicking in. Besides, the hero worship from the grateful “stuckee” driver it usually comes with free coffee – post action bribery, basically.

Now for me begrudging favors is where the real theater starts. Like the time a friend asked me to be his “wingman” at a club. Me, the social chameleon who blends in with furniture. That night ended with me explaining existentialism to a drunk bouncer while my Casanova friend snuck off with a girl who could bench press me. You call that a favor? I call it a prolonged emotional mugging.

And me asking for favors? Don’t even get me started. I’d rather wrestle a badger for its comb than admit I need help (or directions). Unless, of course, the reward is free pizza. Then all bets are off. I would tap-dance on broken glass for a slice of pepperoni heaven.

But here’s the thing Aristotle and Bible guy: maybe, just maybe, doing things for others isn’t about some cosmic karma balance sheet. Maybe it’s about the fleeting dopamine rush of seeing someone smile. Maybe it’s about proving to myself that I am not a complete jerk. Or maybe it’s just about avoiding the awkwardness of saying no?

Who knows? The human psyche is a tangled knot of neuroses and half-eaten biscuits. All I know is, next time someone asks me for a favor, I’ll weigh the awkwardness against the potential pizza payoff. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, I’ll surprise myself and do it out of the sheer, inexplicable joy of being slightly less than a nitwit. But don’t hold your breath.

–30–

A moment of his own

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When Evelyn, an outfielder for the Rockford Peaches women’s baseball team, misses a throw to the cutoff player, manager Jimmy Dugan unloads on her in a string of very vocal invectives.

Screaming, “Who’s team are you playing for?!” he reduces the young woman to tears. Evelyn’s reaction leaves a stunned Jimmy bellowing, “Are you crying?!” He follows it immediately with one of the classic lines of filmdom:

“There’s no crying in baseball!”

A problem guy

Dugan, a lead character in the film, A League of Their Own, is a case study of a guy with a short fuse. quickened even more by frustration and alcohol. Happily, for his players, he learns to lay off the booze and get a handle on his anger.

The scene where he first does the latter nearly causes him to implode. It also provides one of the funniest moments of this classic movie.

When Evelyn makes the same throwing error again, he signals with a summoning index finger for her to see him as the inning ends. Evelyn is full of trepidation, and Jimmy is trying mightily (yet visibly) to keep his emotional volcano from exploding. His entire body is in a state of tremor.

Steam rises

He begins his speech in a wordless manner as his hands do the talking while he twists his face into a pained smile inches from her face. Then he says in a forced, hushed tone, “You … missed … the … cutoff … again. Is that … something … you could work on? Thank you.”

His faux smile and the lack of vocal vitriol makes a genuine smile come to Evelyn’s face as she realizes Jimmy is trying to be nice. She knows she has just dodged a hand grenade and merrily runs back to the dugout.

I’ve seen this movie at least 10 times, and each time I realize how hard it was for Jimmy Dugan to tame his inner tiger at that moment. Once done, however, it seemed easier for him to handle the team of professional women baseball players he had been handed. And to win more games to boot.

A real struggle

As one prone to anger in his younger years, I understand the process Jimmy was going through. It was a painful, belated, growing-up experience for him. It’s a process that doesn’t work for all anger-prone adults, and it took time for me to get on the other side of it.

Still, as was the case with Jimmy Dugan, the resulting life just seems more peaceful without the pyrotechnics.

And, who knows? Maybe that peace helps keep crying out of baseball.