The Tryout: Part 1
Competition brings out the best in people – or so the saying goes. Whether trying out for a sports team or interviewing for a job, we have all had experiences in our lives where we found ourselves being judged by others, scrutinized on our ability to rise to the occasion and perform under pressure, carefully evaluated for what skills, talents and other intangibles we bring to the mix.
Usually, the difference between making a team or being cut, getting the job or not, comes down to things you can control; how prepared you are, the effort you put forth, how well you execute. That being said, these sorts of high-stakes, simulated interactions may only represent a relatively small sample of your overall potential. Whether it’s fair or not, your shot at a spot on the roster might hinge on whatever performance you are able to put on display during a few workout sessions in a gym, or an hour long discussion with an interview panel in a conference room.
Still, regardless of the outcome, you are willing to accept the results because you have done your best, you know that you have laid it all out on the line, and if someone else is able to outperform you in a head-to-head competition, then so be it.
Occasionally we just have off days, or sub-par performances, and things don’t work out the way we want. And you can live with that too. You move on from your disappointment and take the necessary steps to improve for that next time around.
But what about when there is nothing obvious you can blame? Nobody or no one thing that is responsible for your defeat, no clear champion for you to play runner up to?
Sometimes, despite our best attempts and seemingly doing everything right, for some unknown reason, we still come up short. Or even when things turn out in our favor, the satisfaction of our achievement is plagued by doubt and feelings of inadequacy, because we hear the whispers and unfounded claims that we hadn’t earned what we got, or the perception is that it was somehow handed to us, and not based on merit. Worst yet, we become so worried about showing any signs of weakness, that our being forced into continually playing defense actually starts to impede our ability to perform and compete, so we never even give ourselves a fighting chance.
When our fate is In someone else’s hands, there is a tendency for us to want to go back and break things down, analyze and second guess, and come up with an empirical explanation for the decision that was made. It’s just human nature, it’s an unnatural thing to be judged, so we need an explanation, we want the closure. Sometimes we don’t like what we find, some unfair process has tainted the results, or you realize that the only thing you have to blame is yourself.
I have had experiences in my life when I won competitions because I was the most prepared, and simply wanted it more than everyone else. I have earned spots because I was the most talented, and have won other jobs just because I was just the next guy in line. I have enjoyed quieting naysayers by consistently performing at a high level, while there have been other times when I have questioned whether I was really deserving of something based on my talent, and not just because I was taller than the other guy, or because of who I happened to know. And as a person with a disability competing in the high stakes game of life, I have had to constantly struggle with the feeling that my best isn’t going to be good enough, and that a current or prospective employer might somehow view my disability as a weakness.
In a perfect world, the science of picking winners and losers would be free of subjectivity, favoritism and bias, but I think we all know better. People are flawed, right or wrong, nobody is immune from allowing their personal feelings and preferences to seep into their decision making, coaches and hiring managers included.
Such is life…the outcome of a sports tryout or a job interview isn’t always fair. But we still play the game, and we learn from our experiences, one competition after the other.
Picture of Chris Knapp and his son Carson at a Lugnuts game when he was a baby. This picture was taken from the grass seating area out beyond the left field wall.
It is with this sports analogy, and drawing from my own personal experiences, that I thought I would introduce the topic of when and how to disclose a disability to a current or prospective employer. My intention is for this to be the first article in what I hope becomes a multi-part blog series that will shed light on this complex topic from a number of different angles and perspectives. For this first blog, I will share some of my life experiences that served as important lessons about winning and losing, and ultimately helped to form my outlook on competition, whether it’s competing in sports or in life. In part two, I will describe how I handled disclosing (or not disclosing) my disability at different points throughout my 15+ year professional career. In future installments, I hope to ask some of my former employers to weigh in on this topic and think back on their first impressions of me from the employment application and/or interview process, and also ask some subject-matter experts, who are far more well-versed than me when it comes to the topic of disability employment, to talk about the legal implications of when and how to go about disclosing a disability to a current or prospective employer.
The Competition for Starting Quarterback (1981 – 1982)
The earliest time in my life that I ever remember being judged competitively, was way back in fourth grade.
My first experience with any sort of organized sport was when I played Delhi Parks & Recreation flag football for Eastlund Concrete. Our team was made up of third and fourth graders from Sycamore Elementary in Holt, the grade school I attended when I was a kid. As far as flag football teams go, the 1981 edition of Eastlund Concrete was a juggernaut. Our group of guys dominated the scaled-down 60-yard Parks & Rec version of the gridiron, imposing our will on our opponents week after week, and beating the likes of McDonalds and Sammy’s Paddock to claim the 1981 championship.
The 1981 Eastlund concrete team. Chris Knapp, number 41, is sitting on the bottom right.
Now before any of you start belittling the fact that it was only flag football, or try to take away from our impressive accomplishment, let me explain that flag football back then was much different than the flag football that they play now. For starters, we wore full pads and helmets, which was a good thing, because the version of flag football we played back then was essentially full contact. There wasn’t tackling per say, but there definitely was no shortage of hitting. It wasn’t uncommon for a middle linebacker to throw their shoulder into an opposing player and drop them to the ground before reaching out and grabbing their flag. I would later joke that for not being tackle football, I sure spent a lot of time lying flat on my back.
That first season, I was one of the young kids on the team, and while I got my share of playing time, as is commonplace, me and the other younger kids were relegated to ancillary roles on the team. For me, this meant being stuck in the defensive backfield where I was primarily asked to play free safety. Even then, I was able to contribute to the team’s success, and like I mentioned in my introductory blog post back on October 15, I made an immediate impact when I got an interception in my first-ever game against Holden Electric.
That following year, after the older kids on the team had moved up to the next level, our coaches put all of us returning players, along with the new kids on the team, through a series of drills to determine who should play what position. My friend Jason Nelson and I were two of the fastest kids on the team, and by far, him and I had the best arms of the bunch. Since Jason threw a little farther than I did, and was slightly more accurate with his throws, he got the nod to start as QB in our first scrimmage while I started at tailback.
During our first series, we marched the ball down the field on the strength of my rushing, putting together a long drive that was capped off with my first, and what would be my only, rushing touchdown.
The next time we got the ball I was asked to take over for Jason at quarterback, which I remember thinking at the time, was a big deal. This was going to be my moment to shine, to prove to our coaches that I should be the one at the helm of our offense. As we broke the huddle, I clapped with a purposeful confidence, an almost arrogance, before turning and walking up to the line of scrimmage with the poise and swagger of my hero, 49ers great Joe Montana. As I leaned over my center Chas Grout, I surveyed the defense and began to bark out my cadence. The play that the coaches had called was a simple 32 run, which meant that the 3-back or tailback (which was now being played by Jason after we had switched positions following the initial series) was supposed to get the hand-off and run through the 2-hole, the gap between the left guard and center.
The ball was snapped, and as I pulled away from center I turned to my left so that I would be in textbook position to reach out and hand the ball off to Jason, who was now streaking toward the line of scrimmage. Jason got the hand-off, blew through the hole, and consequently ran through the entire defense for a 50+ yard touchdown.
While the results were the same, another six points on the scoreboard, in a flash, Jason had accomplished what had taken me a long, methodic drive and multiple rushes to be able to do.
Several things happened as a result of that play. First, I never got another chance to play tailback, Jason had solidified that job after his electrifying first run. Second, I actually got what I had been wishing for. By default, I was now the starting quarterback of Eastlund Concrete, even though this assignment would end up being far less glamorous than I had imagined, since 95% of our offense that season would consist of me turning around and handing the ball off to our star tail-back, who it turns out, was the most talented player on our team. And while nobody can ever take from me the fact that I was the starting quarterback for Eastlund Concrete during the 1982 Delhi Parks & Rec season, I know that this was only because I was second best at two different positions, which as a 9-year-old kid, was a very grown-up-like reality to have to process. I also remember it being one of the first real times in my life that I experienced humility, but it wouldn’t be the last
Making the Cut (1984 – 1989)
Like a lot of other kids who struggle with making the transition to middle school, I found it difficult to adjust from having been one of the more popular kids at Sycamore, to instantaneously being thrown in with kids from all five elementary schools in our district, who at the time, all sent their students onto Hope Middle School to complete 6th and 7th grade. I was never super outgoing or overly shy, so when I started sixth grade I found that I was perfectly content to just be another anonymous face in the crowd. Plus, middle school is when I (and most of the other kids) really started growing and going through puberty, so the more self-conscious I became of my changing body, the more I gradually withdrew from the social scene.
6th, 7th and 8th grade were definitely some of the weirdest years for me personally. I never struggled with the academic side of things, I was an above average student, so never let my studies suffer. And even though I had friends, for the most part I kept to myself, looking and playing the part of the loner. I wouldn’t say that I had completely given up on myself, but let’s just say that there wasn’t much I cared about during those years. For instance, there was a long stretch of 7th grade when I wore sweatpants to school most every day, which is one of the few things that our society universally agreed is a telltale sign that someone has officially “given up”.
Although it would still take a while for me to completely emerge from this teenage angst, things really started to change for me at the beginning of 8th grade. First, I became friends with a kid named Chad Horvath, a quiet, unassuming kid who lived in the townhouses near my home. Chad had recently gone through his own growth spurt, and like me, was still getting used to his new tall, somewhat gangly frame. Chad and I both rode the same bus to the junior high, so we hung out while waiting at the bus stop in the morning, or sharing a seat during the approximately 20-minute bus trips to and from school.
8th grade is also when I met my friend Brian Houser for the first time. Brian and I had gotten seated together in Ms. Swihart’s creative writing class and instantly hit it off. Brian was one of the popular kids. He was athletic and played sports. He was boisterous, confident and comfortable in his own skin – all the things that at the time, I was not. The one thing that we had in common was that we were both funny, and it was with humor that we began to forge the beginnings of this new friendship. We repeatedly incorporated Gumby and Pokey into our class projects, almost single-handedly resurrecting the careers of stars who most consider claymation royalty, and portrayed the crash-test dummies Larry and Vince in skits that we performed in front of the class. All of a sudden, because of this new friendship with Brian, my humor was finally able to take center stage, on display for everyone else to see. I slowly started to come out of my bubble, and as time went on, I became more confident in myself. It was around that same time that I once again longed to be popular. To be like Brian. To be a part of that crowd.
The game-changer for me was basketball. Besides Brian and Chad, there were several other guys trying out for the team that I knew: Jason Nelson, Dave Thelen and more, so I felt like this was a group that I could potentially belong to. However, at the time I tried out for the freshmen squad, I had never really played on a team, not even Parks & Rec, unless you count the times that I stepped in to help run drills when I served as the team manager and scorekeeper for some 6th graders that my neighbor Marc Coscarelli was coaching and had asked me to help out with. No, the extent of my basketball experience was limited to shooting granny-style free throws in my friend Matt’s driveway and playing pick-up games with Ryan Kratzer and the May twins in the junior high gym during lunch
But what I lacked in skill and experience, I more than made up for in grit, determination and hustle – and it didn’t hurt that I was tall.
A young Chris Knapp on the basketball court, jumping to block the opposing team’s shot.
I was fortunate to land one of the last few spots on the roster, but that was really only the beginning of my development as a basketball player. I improved incrementally with every practice, each opportunity to sub into a game. I excelled at defense, always willing to sacrifice my body to take a charge, or fully extend my long arms to block an opponent’s shot. I even started to perfect my own rather unorthodox jump shot, which resembled more of a knuckleball than the normal rotation most kids are taught. But because of my extended range and soft touch, it seemed to work for me, and if given the opportunity, I wouldn’t hesitate to launch a shot from my natural position out on the wing. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I made the first 3-pointer in Holt Rams basketball history. The 1987-1988 season was the first year that the 3-pointer was officially incorporated into MHSAA play. During an early season 9th grade “B team” game at the junior high, I was playing one of the offensive wing positions. I had come off of a screen down on the block and popped out to get open for our point guard Josh MacKellar, who subsequently passed me the ball. When I turned back toward the basket I was surprised to find that the guy who had been guarding me hadn’t been able to fight through my teammate’s screen, so I squared myself up to the basket and stroked a long arching jump shot which got nothing but net. At first I hadn’t even realized that I had hit a 3-pointer, as I ran up to guard the guy from the other team who was inbounding the ball I had glanced over and saw the referee (who coincidentally was that same neighbor, Marc Coscarelli) who was raising both arms up in the air to indicate a made 3-point shot. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when we had returned to the sideline for a called time-out that I was able to ask one of the guys on the bench, who confirmed that it had indeed been a 3-pointer.
A young Chris Knapp on the basketball court with people watching in the stands.
When I tried out for the JV team the following year the stakes were even higher, since there were fewer roster spots available. I’m almost certain that the one thing that helped me to make the team was a one-on-one drill where the coaches would line up two of us guys down on the baseline on opposite sides of the lane, and then slowly roll the ball out toward the foul line before blowing their whistle for us to run out and fight over the loose ball. Time after time, I would dive onto the floor, showing absolutely no fear or regard for my body. But it worked. I kept winning drill after drill, one-on-one match-up after match-up. I just wanted it more. At the end of the practice my knees and elbows were bleeding and covered with floor burns, and again, I had secured one of the last spots on the roster.
Although I continued to make modest improvements while playing within our program’s system as a member of the JV team, it was during that following summer when I began to regularly play pick-up ball at the Y.M.C.A. that I was able to really take my skills to the next level. The combination of being freed from the constraints of set plays and always being coached to take the safe option, and having the opportunity to compete against some of the best players from the Lansing schools, helped me to develop parts of my game that I had no idea I was even capable of.
Such is the paradox that was my basketball career. As a freshmen, some of the kids who I had beat out had griped that the only reason I had made the team was because I was tall, and part of me can’t disagree with their assessment. In tenth grade, at least I could point to my hustle as the reason I earned my spot on the roster, even though the floor burns never really translated into scoring prowess or any significant contributions off the bench. That following summer, by the time I actually got good and had really developed into a serious offensive threat, I had all but decided to hang up my sneakers.
Because I decided against trying out for the Varsity squad that following season, I’ll never know whether the gains I made at the Y.M.C.A. during the summer would have been enough to help me make the team. But even if I would have made the squad, I’m convinced that I would have been relegated to riding the bench. Instead, I chose to get a job so that I could make money to pay for car insurance, because having a car and freedom seemed like a much more attractive alternative to practicing your butt off every day, to maybe get substituted in at the end of a blow-out every once in a while to mop up for the starters.
Looking back, I don’t really have any regrets for having not tried out, and I was able to come to terms with the “what ifs” of it all. People make choices and we have to live with the consequences of those decisions. The real lesson I took away from the two years I played basketball for Holt was that opportunity isn’t always equitable. Were there more talented kids who deserved to make that freshmen team? Certainly. Did that mean that I deserved my spot on the roster any less? I don’t think so. It would have been pointless to worry about those things that were out of my control, and constantly live in the shadow of doubt and uncertainty of other’s claims that I somehow didn’t deserve what I had earned, just like it wouldn’t make sense for me to continually obsess about the results of some try-out in my junior year that never actually happened. I guess that there are just some things that we’ll never know.
The Walk On (1989-1993)
In terms of work, I was lucky that the first few jobs that I ever had were practically handed to me. When I was 13, Marc Coscarelli got me a job with Delhi Parks & Rec as a softball scorekeeper. I got paid $5.00 per game, and it was a perfect job for a kid, since I could ride my 10-speed to the high school fields or over to Valhalla Park whenever I needed to work a game. When I was 15, my neighbor across the street – who was the manager of Witmark’s Lansing store – offered me a job to work in their warehouse. I still had to fill out an application and go in to interview with him, but that was more of a formality since he had already made the decision to hire me. In 1991, when I applied for my job at the Holiday Inn South, my friend Brad Thomas was working at the Front Desk and had vouched for me prior to my interview with the human resources director, which probably helped me to land the job as a bellman/van-driver. A year or so later, it was my same neighbor from across the street, who was now working for Witmark’s parent company, that approached me about a store manager position for a new chain of dollar stores they were looking to open, so once again, I hadn’t done anything, and opportunity had landed squarely in my lap. In the spring of 1993, when I was looking to make a change and find a part-time job in the Lansing area so that I could start taking classes again at Lansing Community College, I had several options to choose from. I settled on a part-time office assistant position with a development company in East Lansing, which is where I would first meet my friend Bob Johnson.
Going On the Disabled List (1993 – 2001)
In the summer of 1993, when it became apparent that I was going to require surgery to repair the retina in my left eye, I made arrangements with my employer to be off for that next month. When I encountered complications halfway through my recovery which was going to extend my time out of work another three to four weeks, my employer informed me that they were going to repost my position, as they felt they couldn’t afford to leave the position open indefinitely. It was just a stupid part-time office assistant position, but at the time, on top of everything else I was dealing with, it hurt. My friend Bob tried to console me, using his own colorful language to tell me to “forget about” them, that there would be better opportunities, that it was their loss. Of course he was right, but like the baseball pitcher in need of career-saving Tommy John surgery, or the football player whose season is abruptly ended by a torn ACL, I was finding it hard to stay positive since I was facing the prospect of what would end up being the longest, toughest rehab assignment of my life.