Putting yourself out there

On Monday morning I stood at the door and welcomed kids into my class while they gave me their condolences. That afternoon I sat down in the admin conference room with my principal to finish up a big grant proposal and before we got going he paused at his computer and asked, “Are you okay?”

This, of course, was because the 49ers lost.

The Friday before I wore an old Crabtree jersey and waxed poetic about the origin of the West Coast Offense and how, had it not been for Bill Walsh, Peyton Manning would never have been so successful.

Listen, I have an absurd amount of football knowledge and I have nothing to do with it unless I can taunt my high school students about their “team” that moved to LA. 

To give you some context (I promise I’ll be brief for the 75% of you who have zero interest in the NFL), I spent every Sunday afternoon watching the 49ers in their glory, alongside my dad and his friends. It’s a part of the Brazell DNA to love sports and any team or athlete that comes out of the Bay Area. I’m just honoring the family heritage, people. 

So yes, the 49ers lost on Sunday. And it was terrible not just because they lost but because I cared. And because everyone who knows me knows that they are my team. And they know I care.

As I was pulling in to my driveway from church, I said to a few friends on Marco Polo that it’s hard to be all in for a team because everyone knows exactly what you want. When you declare you’re a fan and you buy the gear and put a pennant up in your classroom, you OWN who you side with, but more than that, you own what you’re hoping for. 

It’s not a logical or rational act. You do it because there’s something driving you that you can’t explain. And it’s vulnerable because the outcome is something everyone will see, and there’s no hiding the loss. 

Here’s the deal. I’m a real adult with kids and bills and meaningful work. Clearly, there are more pressing issues in my life than a football team. 

But following the 49ers feels a lot like putting myself out there with things like this little blog. I have practical things to do like putting clothes away and washing pumping supplies. Yet I can’t ignore that my heart is drawn to take this idea in my head and put it into a cohesive, meaningful package of words.

A package of words I want you to read, engage with, and find connection.

And I want you to do the same. I love it when I see Hannah updating her new blog or Stu posting a new video about Mello-Roos. I love seeing Beans talk about her book, John sharing his new music, Julie excited about her new venture. 

Here’s the other part of the deal: we’re not lacking logical, rational, practical items on our to do lists and google calendars. 

But the stuff that makes our hearts beat faster–the ideas we have on long car drives or when we have uninterrupted time with close friends– that’s the stuff that makes us lose track of time in the best way. We feel alive and full, like anything is possible.

When we put ourselves out there knowing we could fail, knowing the work we’re creating could be left for just our moms to cheer on, we’re also opening ourselves up to something wildly bigger and better than the stuff that makes sense on paper. 

A few years ago we were at a wedding and we missed the NFC Divisional Championship when Vernon Davis caught a pass from Alex Smith in the end zone to give them their first playoff win since I graduated high school. My dad and I came home from that wedding and watched highlights. We sat on the same couch we did when I was 13, wiping away tears as we cherished the moment and honored the scope of the 49ers’s story and how it’s woven in to our lives. 

Yes, sometimes we put our music and videos and words out there and the likes are low and the engagement is so-so. But sometimes we do and it strikes a chord or makes someone feel seen or creates an entirely new dream of what’s possible. 

I had no control of the outcome of the game last Sunday, but it’s still worth it to have the community and connection that comes with being a fan. 

When we put our work– our heart, our soul, our dream–out into the universe, we do so knowing we cannot predict the outcome. But we do it because it feels right, like we were meant to do it all along. That sounds like all the logic I need.