No Crying In Baseball

I love movies that portray women in roles of strength, where they just don’t give a damn about what people think. I watch “A League of Their Own” anytime it is on. Being a bit of a tomboy myself, I relate to the women in this film. They just want to play the game, balls out, with dirt and grit, surrounded by their tribe of strong teammates, just the way they always have. But…

My favorite line is from Tom Hanks’ character Jimmie Dugan, exasperated that one of his players dare show the emotional weight of her experience, “Are you crying? There is no crying in baseball!” Immediately, Geena Davis’ character Dottie Hinson steps in to shore up the cavernous hole his lack of empathy creates. Her strong but unconditional love of her teammates steadies the ship that Jimmy so easily leaves tossing in the wind. It still never fails, this line gets me every time, “There is no crying in (fill in the blank)!”

Women in leadership are conditioned to suppress that part of themselves that makes them gloriously feminine; empathy. We feel the full weight of this suppression when we have an experience that rocks our own world and we seek the support and empathy of others to shore up our broke hearts. Unfortunately, as women, we often behave more like Jimmy Dugan than Dottie Hinson.

I was 38 years old. I was training with my husband for his first marathon. We were regular runners pushing 20-25 miles a week when we weren’t training for anything in particular. We had run Hood 2 Coast Relays in Oregon three previous years with PRs in each race (thats “personal record” for those who are wiser than me and haven’t taken up running). It was an unusually hot summer for marathon training but we ran anyway. I noticed I wasn’t getting that bounce after our runs that I used to get. I shrugged it off and kept going. Time passed, we continued. After each run, breathing became more difficult and my lips would turn blue. I was gaining weight on a steady clip. I was exhausted and crashing by 7:00 p.m. every night. I had had enough and went to visit my ENT. He chalked it up to allergies but sent me for an EKG just to be sure. My heart rate was 38-40 beats per minute. Abnormal by all standards.

I will spare you the details but after many doctor appointments and tests, I was diagnosed with heart failure. A virus had attacked my heart and weakened the muscle that pushes oxygenated blood to my body. Every time I ran or functioned at all, I was starving my body, brain, and muscles of oxygen. I was shocked. I was devastated. I was terrified. I turned to my network of friends and family for support as I took that journey toward healing.

I wish I could say that I had a team of Dottie Hinsons in my camp, no nonsense, “we got this kind” of strength I could lean on. I desperately needed that love and support and for the first time in my life, I was open to receiving it. It never came. I sought support and encouragement but was met with the need of others to unload their own burdens. So many people around me were hurting and struggling, that none of us had the resources in our cup to support one another. Just as my heart muscle could no longer function with the strength it once had, my soul was devastated.

I crumbled under the weight of it all.

Strong women believe we can give without receiving. We are wrong. I was wrong. Empty, clawing back to a place of basic functioning, I searched desperately for wisdom and insights. I read article after article. I meditated. I talked with spiritual advisors I trusted. How do I heal what was broken? The physical healing would take place. The treatment plan was in place. It was my soul that felt broke beyond repair.

First, I gave myself permission to be selfish, to set boundaries I hadn’t had before. I made tough decisions to limit the burdens I would carry for others. I gave myself grace in my brokeness. I set small goals to invest in rebuilding of my heart and my soul.

The Jimmy Dugans still find there way into my life shouting, “There is no crying in baseball!” Instead of taking their bait, letting them shout or allowing them to shake my world, I throw my glove, channel my inner Dottie Hinson and push old Jimmy back into the dugout to sleep it off. Then, I cheer on my team, the women who inspire me, the women who need a Dottie in their corner, just like do.

Women, on the baseball diamond of life, be a Dottie, not a Jimmy.