The Power of Positivity
“12 straight walks! That’s all you need is 12 straight walks to tie the game!”
My sister, Karen, was sitting next to me on the green wooden seats, and I couldn’t quite believe what she’d just hollered at the team on the field.
“You can do it!” she yelled. With sincerity.
I swear the batter turned to look at us, maybe double checking to make sure she meant it.
“This isn’t over yet! That’s what’s great about baseball!”
The batter wasn’t the only one turning to notice Karen. Other heads turned as the call of “ball one” spurred her to yell “three more and we got our first walk!”
There weren’t many heads turning to look, mostly because there weren’t many heads left to turn. It was a cold summer night in Duluth, Minnesota, and we were at the Northern League minor league Duluth-Superior Dukes baseball game. It was the mid-1990s and I was in graduate school at the University of Minnesota-Duluth.
Me at Wade Stadium a few years later on a warmer day
Big baseball fans, Karen and I were thrilled to be able to take in as many of these minor league home games as we could—on Karen’s dime of course as I had no extra money at that time. She had bought us partial season tickets behind home plate, and we were there, in the rain, fog, snow showers, and periodic sunshine. (Duluth can be cool, even in the summer, and it’s the only stadium I've ever been in where there was a roving vendor selling ‘Hot! Hot chocolate!’)
We were two of the hearty fans still there that night with the Dukes down by nine runs.
“YES!” she yelled as the first batter of that inning took first base on a walk.
My sister, Karen, in “our seats” in Wade Stadium in Duluth, MN
I’ll admit I was a little embarrassed. “Karen,” I said quietly. “I don’t think this is a likely thing to happen.”
“You don’t give up!” she turned to me. “You always keep trying. This. Could. Happen. That’s what’s amazing about baseball.”
True. I just wasn’t sure whether cheering for consecutive walks was the way to go. But she kept at it and the second batter walked as well.
“The pitcher seems rattled,” I said to her. Then I thought, I might be too if every ball I pitched was being cheered like a home run by the opponent’s fans, or fan in this case.
A single laced to right center by the next better scored a run and Karen went nuts. By the time the inning ended, they had narrowed the gap by three runs. “You’ll get them next inning!” she hollered as they left the field.
And the next inning, she was back to cheering—counting down how many consecutive walks they needed to tie and then win. And they kept on trying. There was no hiding from her voice. It isn’t just that she can yell loud when she needs to. The near-empty stands and our prominent location helped. The other team changed pitchers and she kept demanding that the Dukes not give up. She kept prodding, pushing, and persuading them to keep trying. They kept stringing together walks, bloop hits, and legitimate offense.
Years later, I read a poem by Katherine Harer about how as fans our job is “pumping belief” into others. Harer marvels that “nowhere else do we do this together,” this cheering together for total strangers to do well. By the end of the game, a surprising victory for the Dukes, Karen wasn’t cheering alone. And I wasn’t embarrassed. I was in awe.
I was partially in awe because she had felt comfortable just being herself in public. She wanted to believe in the players’ ability to come back. She wanted to see them succeed. She felt that positive energy could lead to amazing outcomes. She believed that the opposite, leaving or booing, would have a damaging effect on the players, confirming that they should give up too. So she very vocally let them know of her belief in them.
I was partially in awe because it seemed to have worked. Do I think she alone won the game? Of course not. Do I think that the Dukes players were, before she started cheering them on, maybe a little demoralized and ready to focus on just getting through to the end of the game? I do. It’s only natural to imagine that’s where they were at emotionally and mentally.
And I was partially in awe of the power of her positivity, of her optimism. “This. Could. Happen.” she said to me early on, and she meant it. Karen hasn’t always believed in herself, but she has always been a powerful example of belief in others.
Especially belief in me. Karen has always cheered me on, always believed in my ability to do anything I wanted. I remember one conversation in graduate school when I was telling her all my worries about how I was going to fail, how someday soon everyone would know I was not actually a good writer and not worthy of the degree I was seeking; my imposter syndrome was pouring out long before we knew what to call it. She challenged me: “How many ‘As’ do you have to be earn, how many semesters do you have to be successful, before you start to believe in yourself?”
How many walks do you have to get before you believe you might just make a comeback and win the game?
Everyone needs a Karen in their lives, someone like my Karen. (I’ve not appreciated nor been able to relate to the popularizing of “a Karen” meaning something quite different.) And Karen needs someone like that in her life too. She needs someone telling her it’s ok to be positive. It’s ok to hope. It’s ok to cheer when everyone else is leaving the stadium.
What really happened that night in Duluth, Minnesota? Well, to be fair, here’s what we know for sure: There were few folks left in the stands. It was cold. The Dukes were down by a lot. They came back and won—we think. It was maybe the summer of 1995. I haven’t been able to find a record or box score of the game. And maybe that’s ok. I don’t know that I want to read it. The way I remember it is perfect for me. The way I remember it is what helps me move forward knowing the power of positivity.