I make a lot of mistakes. I'm a mixture of shy and clumsy underneath this veneer of confidence. Flirtation makes me blush inside and brazenly smile outside--usually accompanied by some witty parry to the lady's jab. In fact, I'm at my best when I don't really care. I can carry on with the best of them, turn on the fabled charm (indeed!) and dance a tango. I can twist words and make jokes and control an entire setting.

But what happens when I do care? I crumble. I freeze. I make mistakes.

I've been a pressure player all of my life. Give me a deadline 20 seconds from now and I'll deliver what's due in 19. I don't leave myself much of a margin for error. I separate myself from my emotions and from anything else that could hinder me, so that I can get things done.

But what happens when it is about my emotions? I stumble. I balk. I mumble gibberish.

I wanted to be at the plate, bottom of the ninth, two outs, winning run on third. Because I knew I could do it. In fact, I always knew I would do it.

And what happened the first time I failed? It became about emotion. My life changed.

The greatest talent is to face defeat, hard defeat, and retain your perspective. While I've learned to do it with anything I can sift emotion out of, it leaves a gaping hole where, evidently, a heart is supposed to hang out. When I care, it's hardest. Let me say it again: when I care, it is the hardest damn thing in the world. And I'm scared.

I probably don't show it. I dress it up in a jester's outfit and laugh heartily until you believe me, but there it is. My fear, my hesitation, my mistakes. Because I care. Because I get a lump in my throat as the phone's ringing. Because the caterpillars turn to butterflies on the drive over. Because I'm scared to make a mistake, and do so from failing to act. And then I smile and say something dumb, recover and get it right but is it too early or late? I'm an idiot because I care.

And if I've learned anything: for this, I cannot be sorry.