Be Like Gravity, Man. Nice and Solid.

Stop chasing things that don't exist . . . like perfectionism

It is March of 1994, and Andre Agassi is in search of a new coach. One of the best tennis players in the world, Agassi is feeling some burnout, is injured, and when he loses, is losing ugly. He hates tennis, has said as much his entire life—not that anyone believes him—but it’s all he knows how to do and he’s far from finished.

Agassi’s agent, Perry Rogers, suggests meeting with a colorful, nearly-retired player who’s recently written a book (called Winning Ugly) that Rogers found impressive. They arrange to meet at an elegant Italian restaurant on the water in exclusive Fisher Island, Florida. Agassi and Rogers arrive first.

Then Brad Gilbert barrels in.

I’m reading about this in Open, Agassi’s fabulous autobiography, and I’m not sure what I think of this guy. Actually, I am sure of one thing: Gilbert sounds obnoxious. When the maitre d’ starts to show the group to the terrace, Gilbert insists they sit inside. Moments later, he leaves the restaurant to buy some cheap beer, brings it in, and then gives the maitre d’ instructions on how to serve it.

I’m sure that Agassi and his agent are glancing at each other in that What the fuck just happened? way, but they press on. They want to know what Gilbert thinks of Agassi’s game. This momentarily seems to catch Gilbert by surprise, and then he asks whether they want him to be honest. Yes, they do.

Brutally honest? Gilbert asks. Yes, say Agassi and his agent. Don’t hold back.

And then Gilbert launches into it: Agassi should be dominating. He’s lost his fire and his aggression. But that’s not the biggest issue.

“Brad says my overall problem, the problem that threatens to end my career prematurely—the problem that feels like my father’s legacy—is perfectionism,” Agassi (er, his ghostwriter, J.R. Moehringer) writes.

“You always try to be perfect, he says, and you always fall short, and it fucks with your head. Your confidence is shot, and perfectionism is the reason. You try to hit a winner on every ball, when just being steady, consistent, meat and potatoes, would be enough to win ninety percent of the time.”

Suddenly Brad Gilbert is speaking to me. Middle-aged woman, middle of the night, reading in bed, unable to put this book down.

I try to hit a winner on every ball. It’s all I know how to do.

I recall a conversation with a fellow writer, a brilliant author coach who told me to write B-pluses. I had blanched. Your B+ will be many people’s A+, she had said. She wanted me to use my energy wisely. She was trying to convince me how to win with meat-and-potatoes writing. She knew perfectionism could end my career if I let it.

I recall another conversation with a newspaper editor who was trying to show me how to get to it already. I bucked against the traditional inverted pyramid, the standard format of a news article that lays bare the facts, WhoWhatWhenWhereWhy BAM-BAM-BAM. Zero finesse. Sometimes, the editor was saying, when the house is on fire you just have to say the house is on fire. That’s enough.

I’m back to the page, where Gilbert is telling Agassi: “Quit going for the knockout. Stop swinging for the fences. All you have to be is solid.”

Agassi is a world-class athlete and I am just me, propped up against my pillows, but I’m sure I can feel what Agassi must be feeling in that moment: Yes, this sounds correct. But I have no idea how you quit going for the knockout. How do you downshift into solid and trust that you can still win?

Gilbert rails without pause for another full page in the book, a brilliant retelling by Moehringer, who writes it without any paragraph breaks so the reader can feel the breathlessness of the monologue. Gilbert is a motormouth full of Bud Ice and cursing and zen.

Right now, by trying for a perfect shot with every ball, you’re stacking the odds against yourself. You’re assuming too much risk. You don’t need to assume so much risk. Fuck that. Just keep the ball moving. Back and forth. Nice and easy. Solid. Be like gravity, man, just like motherfucking gravity. When you chase perfection, when you make perfection the ultimate goal, do you know what you’re doing? You’re chasing something that doesn’t exist. You’re making everyone around you miserable. You’re making yourself miserable. Perfection? There’s about five times a year you wake up perfect, when you can’t lose to anybody, but it’s not those five times a year that make a tennis player. Or a human being, for that matter. It’s the other times.

Agassi hires Gilbert on the spot, and they start the next day.

I start the next day, too. I start to think more about perfection. About what it means to always go for the knockout. I know I need to adjust my approach, have known this for a few years. But that perfectionist-knockout approach is part of my core memories.

It’s in a story my grandfather told, in which I am four or five years old, on a playground swing. Be careful, he warns, don’t go so high.

“I’ll show you how high I can go,” I shoot back.

It’s Field Day in first grade. Softball throw. I rear back, throw the ball with all my might, and some kid in the field gets in the way and the ball hits him. This prevents my ball from being the farthest. They don’t give me another throw, because apparently no one else cares about this the way I do.

I’m pissed. Begrudgingly accept my non-first place certificate with disgust.

It’s the most lines in the school play in fifth grade (I counted), honor roll, starter on every team, First trumpet.

It’s a high school basketball game. I take a shot from the wing, miss it, turn to head back down the court on defense. Apparently I’m visibly angry. A parent from our side calls out from the stands, teasing: “You can’t make them all!”

The hell I can’t.

I take to calling myself a perfectionist, doing so with pride. I don’t know where I learned this, but I think it’s a good thing.

The Price of Perfectionism

“What’s the price you’ve paid for perfectionism?” podcast host Dax Shepard asks author and organizational psychologist Adam Grant on a recent episode of Armchair Expert. “What is the toll it takes on you, if you think of it as an addiction or any other kind of pathology?”

Grant doesn’t hesitate: “Burnout, misery, depression, despair, rumination.”

But Grant shifts faster than I do.

“In small doses,” he adds. “I changed it enough, fast, that it didn’t take a lasting toll.”

The toll of burnout, misery, depression, despair, and rumination sounds familiar.

College softball. The coach is a screamer with a crew cut who seems to think this is the Marines. I’m playing a position I’m not suited for, plus I’m not hitting well. The coach doesn’t like me. He screams, I shrink. He doesn’t realize I berate myself enough for both of us. I get the yips and can’t field a ball cleanly anymore, can’t hit. He screams more. For the two years I play there, I hate—worse, I fear—the sport I grew up with, the one my mother coached. (Side note: that team my mother coached had a perfect record my freshman year of high school and won a state title. I started in left field.)

There’s about five times a year you wake up perfect . . . but it’s not those five times a year that make a tennis player. Or a human being, for that matter. It’s the other times.

In this and in other things, if I can’t figure out mastery, I burn out, I despair, I ruminate.

I also find a workaround.

I learn that the antidote to perfection is to hold something back. If I don’t give it my all, I can tell myself I would have aced that situation if only I had tried harder. I can still visualize a scenario in which perfectionism is (or could have been) attainable.

Of course, this isn’t really an antidote. This is a second helping of poison.

Now I go around either shooting for perfection or thinking I haven’t tried hard enough. Which means I’m lazy when I fail. Not human. Lazy.

Rumination is my companion. Why didn’t I try harder? What’s my problem? Dig in, dammit. Why can’t I dig in? What am I missing?

I don’t realize what’s happening. I just know I feel lousy and like a failure and that I clearly need to try harder, be smarter. It’s years later before I figure out that I hit the brakes when it looks like I can’t be perfect. Go big or go home.

Agassi immediately goes on a losing streak. Gilbert tells him good things are about to happen.

It takes Agassi most of that year to adapt to a new style, in which he gamely volleys and wears his opponents out, or adjusts to what he sees in them and exploits their weaknesses. He becomes a tactician, patient. When he needs to, he crushes the ball. In mid-September of that year, Agassi becomes the first unseeded player in nearly thirty years to win the Men’s U.S. Open.

It takes me decades to adapt to my own new style. I’m still working on becoming a tactician, moving somewhere past the “admit you have a problem” stage and on to some form of recovery. Author and shame researcher Brené Brown is a big influence.

“Perfectionism is not the same thing as striving to be your best,” Brown writes in her book, The Gifts of Imperfection. She drops another one on me: “Perfectionism is not self-improvement.”

Perfectionism is about trying to earn approval and acceptance, Brown writes, while healthy striving asks, How can I improve?

Agassi learns to ask this question, spending the year rebuilding his game in increments, something Grant might refer to as scaffolding. The key is to find the improvement, not the mythical standard of perfection.

The key is also in learning when to volley and when to crush.

“You can’t optimize everything,” Grant says on the podcast, “and knowing when to aim for excellence and when to settle for good, I think is one of the most important things we don’t teach.”

Shepard likens it to the Serenity Prayer: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. So much of life is about figuring out which imperfections are acceptable and which aren’t, Shepard surmises.

Grant agrees, but says he might amend the prayer.

“It’s not just about what you can change,” he says, “It’s about what’s worth changing.”

I’m replaying that quote on my laptop, making sure I’ve written it accurately, up late again, reading and re-reading this essay. Unironically tweaking it to get it the way I want. Wondering how to wrap it up.

Downshift. For crying out loud, downshift.

I want to stick the landing—and am mixing metaphors instead—wondering whether I’ve blathered on or kept it moving. I’m tempted to skip sending my weekly email in favor of finding something better to write, being something better in my writing.

But if I do that, I’m going for the knockout instead of consistency. I’m moving the focus away from what I pledged to do, which was to come here and write, to have fun with it, regardless of what happens.

I hear Gilbert: “Just keep the ball moving. Back and forth. Nice and easy. Solid. Be like gravity, man, just like motherfucking gravity.”

I actually have no idea what “Be like gravity” means, except that I need to close this, hit publish, and go to bed. Will I still win if I downshift?

Who knows. But I will improve.