The Raiders may have fallen short of their state goal, but their reaction to the loss is what makes them winners.
After the 8A state softball championship game ended and I finished my work at Dodgertown, I made the trek back to my hotel and sat at my desk to write the recap. I replayed the audio I got while other reporters and I questioned head coach Ashley Bullion, extracted what I needed and finished the story.
But after it went online and my work for the night was finished, I started to dwell more on her comments than I had before — not that I wasn’t paying attention, just that I was very much in the moment. For someone who talks about winning at everything as often as Bullion does, she was quite upbeat. Ten minutes hadn’t even passed since the final out was recorded and her team was eliminated, yet she spoke glowingly of the experience and the effort and the girls’ mentality.
I couldn’t help but wonder how I would handle being in those cleats — losing the single biggest game of my life after playing so well all season.
Walking around the Raiders’ dugout after the girls trudged through the handshake line, I saw several different emotions. No one needed to say a word to me to tell me how they felt. There was frustration, clear as day, but not outright anger. Of course, there was also sadness in some of the girls’ faces, and who could blame them? But I also saw some “whatever” looks, some slight smiles and even a grin or two.
I didn’t see any lashing out, and I didn’t hear anyone raise her voice. I saw a group of athletes keeping their cool at a time when it’s so easy to lose it.
I’ve seen far worse at the high school level. I’ve seen many Gatorade coolers become victims of assault. I’ve seen outright anger and heard language that would make someone’s mother cry. And this is just talking about regular season games, district tournaments and the occasional regional tournament game. Few of those situations have even come close to the gravity of actually being in the state’s final four.
I first thought I might be angry if it were me. But I thought more of Bullion’s words and realized that, were I in that team’s exact situation, I probably would have kept my cool, just as the girls did.
That’s what they’ve long been conditioned to do, and that’s what they did.
Addressing the smartphone recorders and TV cameras, Bullion talked of her team’s run through the history books and its significance beyond the school. She wasn’t exaggerating. The historic run really did energize a fan base like no team since the 1982 boys basketball squad, the last Plant City High School team to make (and win) a state championship series. It created a legitimate buzz around town, even among those who don’t normally follow softball. It was good for these girls to get a taste of what happens when you practice what is preached, with hype surrounding the team and journalists from print and television stopping by practices to let the rest of Tampa Bay know there’s life out in East Hillsborough. That’s the kind of buzz that comes from having a championship team.
Besides the loss, there was nothing to be upset about.
Champions know how to lose as well as they know how to win. You can see this in any sport. Dwelling on anger or sorrow after taking an “L” gets you nowhere. The best athletes and programs know that a loss is just a wake-up call, and they learn from their mistakes. In these cases it’s not how you finished, but how you plan to start again.
Like Bullion said, now that the girls got this far and saw what it takes to win at states, they’ll know what to do the next time around. That’s how you succeed at your craft.
That’s the attitude I — really, anyone — would want to have.
