I’m sitting here writing, while somehow also double-fisting popcorn and Kit Kats. Don’t mind the logistics of how I’m able to type while also stuffing my face with comfort food, just stay along for the ride, okay?

Over the past year or so, popcorn has become my comfort food. Anxiety too high? Popcorn. Bored? Popcorn. A long night of repeatedly failing at the one thing you thought you were actually good at? Popcorn… and Kit Kats. Which brings us to tonight. 

Over the past year and a half, I’ve pursued my passion for acting. So far, I’ve learned the art of voice over, got my feet wet in background acting, applied for screenwriting and audiobook narration programs, and very unintentionally became that one friend in every Southern California friend group who does improv. My apologies. I never meant for that to happen.

The only reason I got into improv is because I have dreams of performing in a musical, and being on the west coast, it’s not easy to find that specific kind of training outside of attending college… again. So I came across an esteemed comedy training school that offers musical improv, which is, as they say, not improv with music, but rather musical theater improvised. It’s pretty cool.

I was required to start my musical improv journey by taking Improv 101 so I could learn the basics. Turns out, even though I’m a writer who has succeeded at character and world building on paper, I struggle with doing so on the spot. When I do improv, I just kind of freeze, get in my head, and every ounce of wit or acting skill absolutely leaves my body. It’s rough. And while I had a good experience in that class, I had a full on crash out after our class show because I knew how bad I was struggling to make it through and felt like I was the weakest player (probably because I was). 

About a month later, I had the green light to take my first musical improv class and this is where I shined the brightest. I’ve been making up weird songs since I was kid, so telling stories through various song structures was a breeze. I loved this new musical world and felt confident I had found my “thing”. The end of that class show was a completely different experience than the last one: this time I was riding high and knew this was just the start of my beautiful artistic, musical journey.

Fast forward a year later and I’m now enrolled in level two (I took a long break in between classes). Right out the gate I was on top! In fact, for the first couple of weeks, every time I’d step up to the plate I’d knock it out of the park and was excited that, even after a long hiatus, I was able to jump right back in and kick ass. 

I was off to a great start and then I remembered… the week four slump. Ouch. Over the past two improv classes (now three), week four hits and I absolutely fall apart. Don’t know how, don’t know why, but here we are.

During tonight’s class, outside of our warm-up exercises, I couldn’t rhyme to save my life. I couldn’t remember song structure, cut myself off too soon with verses, couldn’t sing a basic chorus, absolutely crashed into a wall when it came to the bridge (and this is usually my strongest part of a song), my eyes couldn’t stay focused toward the audience, and when it came to the actual improv… oh Lord… my poor scene partner was having a hard time keeping up with the poor slop I was throwing down, which then led to me just driving our song into the ground. It was turbulent. I did, however, make my goal of dropping some sick harmonies during group numbers, but I could barely enjoy that win in the midst of so much failure. I just kept making so many rookie mistakes all night long. 

As I was driving home wearing my Dodgers jersey (because they just won the World Series the night before and I was celebrating), I replayed my worst moments of the evening in my head. While mulling over my constant string of strike outs, Shohei Ohtani, Mookie Betts, and Kiké Hernandez came to mind. All three men are phenomenal athletes, and yet all three men have struck out at one point or another throughout their careers, including the World Series past and present.

If Shohei performed at peak Shohei level every game of the regular season and post season, the Dodgers would most likely never lose. But Shohei doesn’t always Shohei and the Dodgers lose. Mookie Betts, another star player, admitted to Derek Jeter during the Game 6 postgame interview that he’d been struggling all season and didn’t feel like he really helped his team very much even now in the Series. In response, Jeter reminded Mookie that he’s a great shortstop and to not discount his performance or role on the team. As it would turn out, it was Mookie’s shortstop skills that aided the final winning play of the Series. Then you have Kiké, who, in his postgame interview after the Dodgers had won the Series, equated his performance to “the guy who only brought the pencil to the group project and helped the group get an A.” The man literally slammed into a wall, struck out, and ate so much dirt trying to make plays that just didn’t pan out, but he kept playing right down to the very crazy end of a very crazy series.

As I thought about these guys, it hit me: 1.) I can be the GOAT like Ohtani and still strike out, but it doesn’t mean that I cease to be a GOAT, 2.) Even a great like Mookie deals with some insecurity and impostor syndrome when he’s been on a long streak of not being a star player, and still needs to be reminded about WHO HE IS, and 3.) Sometimes, like Kiké, it really is enough to be the guy who brings the pencil to the group project because you’re still important to helping your team succeed even if you’re the one who occasionally slams into the wall so someone else can make the catch.

So while the perfectionist in me will inevitably struggle until I’m back in the game next week and have another chance to “right the wrongs” that everyone else has forgotten about by now, I’ll do my best to “think blue” and remember that it’s okay to strike out so long as I’m still willing to step up to the plate. Besides, how else am I gonna be the GOAT if the fear of striking out keeps me from playing the game? I just gotta keep swinging.

I don’t know about you, but swinging at air and eating dirt on occasion is better than staying comfy in the dugout, not having ever tried (or stopped trying) at all. So whatever you’re considering, take the risk, get in the game, stay in the game, and don’t stop until they’re retiring your jersey on the stadium wall. You got this.