The story of the little girl, a baseball and what really sticks

A long while back, I heard some guy tell this story on the radio. I never really caught his name or the reason he was telling the story, but it left a lasting impression on me. So in the ancient tradition of storytelling (including a little artistic license for each subsequent teller), I’m passing it on to you.

I’ve always had a love for baseball. So when my daughter was born, as some parents are known to do, I looked forward to the time when I could share that passion with her and–just maybe–inspire the same in her. From the time that she was quite young, we would pass many a summer Sunday afternoon snuggled up on the couch together eating popcorn and watching baseball games on television. As she grew a bit older, we added the ritual of going out in the backyard to play catch after the TV game had ended. So it should be no surprise that I looked forward to taking her to see a live, big-league game someday.

As it so happened, a new minor-league baseball team came to our town when my daughter was about seven years old, so we made big plans to go to our first real baseball game together. When the day finally came, it turned out to be perfect weather: clear blue skies, 75 degrees and a gentle breeze. We had great seats on the third baseline. The field was a vibrant green and perfectly groomed. I eagerly pointed out the position each player was playing and together we cheered each hit, diving catch and homerun. We shared hot dogs and soda and peanuts. We sang along while the organist played “Take me out to the ballgame”. And to top it off, our team won.

As we headed across the parking lot to our car after the game was over, an elderly gentleman approached us with a baseball in his hand and turned to my daughter. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I caught this foul ball today and I come to these games all of the time, so I already have a few. Would you like to have it?” With wide eyes, my daughter gratefully accepted the ball and we both thanked the gentleman as he turned to go. It was the ending to a perfect day.

Years later, when my daughter was home from college, we were reminiscing about things we had done when she was a kid. I recalled my fond memory of that first baseball game we attended together and, out of curiosity, asked her what she remembered about it. She immediately responded with, “I remember that old guy that gave me the baseball!” Not the game itself, not the shiny new ballpark, not the players or the hot dogs or the organ music, but some random guy we bumped into in the parking lot.

Which made me think: sometimes the most meaningful things about the events we go to end up being experiences that weren’t necessarily on the program—it’s the personal interactions we have with other people who are attending the same event. Many times those exchanges lead to unforeseen learning, opportunities and lasting connections—all unexpected benefits of just being in close proximity with people who may start out as strangers, but they share a common interest with us.

It occurs to me that this is certainly an under-valued aspect of live events. And as experience designers, it’s worth giving some though to how we can build events that will facilitate those connections that lead to unpredictable but memorable conversations–to increase the chances that each attendee will take a few new “baseballs” home with them when they leave. What’s your favorite story about how you’ve seen this happen?

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The Starfish Story: one step towards changing the world

You may have heard this one, but I find that it doesn’t hurt to be reminded of it every once in a while.  First let me tell you the story, and then we can talk about it. 

Once upon a time, there was an old man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach every morning before he began his work. Early one morning, he was walking along the shore after a big storm had passed and found the vast beach littered with starfish as far as the eye could see, stretching in both directions. 

Off in the distance, the old man noticed a small boy approaching.  As the boy walked, he paused every so often and as he grew closer, the man could see that he was occasionally bending down to pick up an object and throw it into the sea.  The boy came closer still and the man called out, “Good morning!  May I ask what it is that you are doing?”

The young boy paused, looked up, and replied “Throwing starfish into the ocean. The tide has washed them up onto the beach and they can’t return to the sea by themselves,” the youth replied. “When the sun gets high, they will die, unless I throw them back into the water.”

The old man replied, “But there must be tens of thousands of starfish on this beach. I’m afraid you won’t really be able to make much of a difference.”

The boy bent down, picked up yet another starfish and threw it as far as he could into the ocean. Then he turned, smiled and said, “It made a difference to that one!”

adapted from The Star Thrower, by Loren Eiseley (1907 – 1977)

 
We all have the opportunity to help create positive change, but if you’re like me, you sometimes find yourself thinking, “I’m already really busy, and how much of a difference can I really make?”  I think this is especially true when we’re talking about addressing massive social problems like tackling world hunger or finding a cure for cancer, but it pops up all of the time in our everyday lives, as well. So when I catch myself thinking that way, it helps to remember this story.  You might not be able to change the entire world, but at least you can change a small part of it, for someone. 

They say that one of the most common reasons we procrastinate is because we see the challenge before us as overwhelming, and that a good way to counter that is to break the big challenge down into smaller pieces and then take those one at a time–like one starfish at a time.  And to that one starfish, it can make a world of difference.

 

“A single, ordinary person still can make a difference – and single, ordinary people are doing precisely that every day.”
— Chris Bohjalian, Vermont-based author and speaker