So, I finally got around to watching a documentary about Michael Jack Schmidt. Took me a while to get to it. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting it to hit me the way it did. You see these sports guys, and you think it’s all fireworks and talent from day one.
I actually went looking for it because I was in a bit of a funk. You know those days? Felt like I was spinning my wheels, not really getting anywhere with this new thing I’m trying to learn. A friend, probably tired of my moaning, just said, “Go watch something about Mike Schmidt. Guy wasn’t exactly Mr. Natural at the start.” That got me curious.
And yeah, the film showed it. The work, the constant thinking, the adjustments. He wasn’t just swinging a bat; he was dissecting the whole game. It wasn’t just about raw talent; it was about sheer bloody-mindedness to figure things out. That part really stuck with me.
It’s funny what reminds you of your own struggles
This whole Schmidt thing, watching him grind, it dragged up memories of when I tried to teach myself how to, of all things, bake decent bread. Sounds silly, right? How hard can flour, water, and yeast be? Well, let me tell you.
I’d just lost my job back then, the one I thought I’d be at forever. Suddenly had a lot of time on my hands and not a lot of cash. My wife, trying to be encouraging, bought me this fancy bread-making book. “It’ll be therapeutic,” she said. Therapeutic! My first few loaves could have been used as doorstops. Or worse, weapons. They were dense, flat, and tasted like disappointment.
I was ready to give up. I mean, really ready. Threw a particularly brick-like sourdough attempt in the bin so hard the bin nearly fell over. I was fuming. Felt like a total failure, not just at bread, but at, well, everything. My kid, who was little then, just looked at me and asked, “Daddy, why are you so mad at the bread?” That kind of snapped me out of it. Or maybe shamed me out of it.
So, I didn’t quit. I read more. Watched videos of old bakers who looked like they were born with flour on their hands. I measured ingredients like a mad scientist. My kitchen looked like a disaster zone most days. Slowly, so slowly, things started to change. One day, a loaf came out… okay. Not great, but not a weapon. Then, eventually, I baked a loaf that was actually good. The crust crackled. The inside was soft. The smell filled the whole house.
It wasn’t about becoming a professional baker. It was about proving to myself I could stick with something tough, something I was genuinely terrible at, and see it through. That feeling, when I finally got it, was better than any paycheck I’d had from that old job.
So when I watched that Schmidt documentary, seeing him struggle with his swing, make endless adjustments, deal with the pressure and his own intensity, it wasn’t just about baseball for me. It was about that damn bread. It was about the grind that nobody sees, the failures that make you want to scream, and that quiet little voice that sometimes, if you’re lucky, tells you to try one more time.
Yeah, good documentary. Made me think. And weirdly, made me want to bake some bread again. Maybe this time I’ll try something fancy.
