Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Bill Butterworth blends humor, storytelling, wisdom, and practical advice which has made him one of the most sought-after speakers in a variety of venues throughout North America. Bill speaks frequently for corporate clients that include American Express, Ford, Disney, Bank of America, and Chrysler. A highly regarded author, Bill has written books on topics ranging from sports to psychology and self-help issues. He has been a columnist, editor, and script writer. Bill lives with his wife, Kathi, in Newport Beach, California.

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Balancing Work and Life

Waterbrook Press

Chapter One

One

What I Know About Balance I Learned on the Track Team

I can describe my entire childhood in one run-on sentence: I weighed back then what I weigh now and I was four feet shorter and my last name was Butterworth.

Can you visualize it? It’s not a very pretty picture.

Like everyone else, I quickly observed that our school had a group of kids who really ran the place. They were the cool ones. In the school I went to, just outside Philadelphia, the cool kids were the athletes. I naively grew up thinking all athletes were cool, but that is not necessarily so. It could be that you went to a school where the band was tough or the chess club ruled. But in my hometown it was the jocks, and I wanted to be just like them. Yet there weren’t many coaches anxious for me to join their team.

I can remember, however, the first time the football coach laid eyes on me. He took one look at my size and began to drool with animal anticipation. “Butterworth,” he barked, “if I could just get you on my offensive line, my strategy would be simple. I’d have you hike the ball and roll over. The defensive line would be lost for hours. They wouldn’t even know what field they were playing on! We could score at will.”

Naturally excited at the prospect, I went home to tell my parents the good news that the football coach not only wanted me, but he wanted me badly. I recall being heartbroken when my folks said I couldn’t play football. “I don’t want to see my ‘little Billy’ [my first oxymoron] getting hurt,” my overprotective mother said.

I was no medical doctor, but I honestly believed that, because of the way I was built, it was physically impossible for me to get hurt. There was so much padding on my body, it would have been a miracle if someone could have found something hard enough to break–unless there is an ailment known as strained cellulite.

But football was out of the question.

I was crushed.

So, in a complete admission of failure, I joined the marching band. It was a Fat Kid Fraternity, where the common bond was the pain of rejection. There I was, taking up the entire back three rows of the marching band, watching the cool kids instead of being one.

But that all changed one day after a social studies class. “Butterworth, I want to see you after class,” my teacher announced as the bell was about to ring. I slowly walked to the front of the room like a man being led to the gallows, wondering what I possibly could have done. I was stumped, for I worked hard to keep my nose clean at school.

Mr. Warren greeted me warmly. “Butterworth, have you ever considered going out for the school’s track team?” he inquired.

I was stunned. Gee, kids make fun of me all the time, I thought. Now teachers are asking me to stay after class for a little one-on-one heckling. But I maintained a positive demeanor. After all, this man was responsible for my grade in social studies, so I didn’t dare come off disrespectful in any way. I swallowed hard and squeaked out the only response I could think of:

“Sir, I don’t think I’m very fast.”

Mr. Warren held back a chuckle. “Son, I wasn’t thinking of having you run.” He paused while I let out a sigh of relief. “There are other parts to a track team,” he continued.
“There are the field events. I think you’d be very effective in the weightman events.”

“Weightman events?”

“The shot put, Butterworth. The big steel ball that you place under your chin. You don’t throw it; you put it.” He illustrated the motion by bringing his hand from his chin out to its full extension.

“I see.”

“And then there’s the discus, Butterworth. You know–the plate- or saucer-looking thing that you throw. Surely you’ve seen the famous statue of the discus thrower, haven’t you, Butterworth?”

My face turned ashen.

“Relax, Butterworth, relax. They wear clothes now when they throw it.”

“Oh.”

“Ask your mom and dad if you can come out for the team,” Mr. Warren suggested. “We’ve got a place waiting for you.”

I went home that evening with absolutely no expectation of a positive response. I felt that my parents were anti-sports and track would be treated no differently than football. I was braced for more despair. It was painful enough being a fat kid, but add to it parents who protest the coolest activity in school, and you’ve got all the ingredients of a defeated childhood. So imagine my complete surprise when I threw the question out and was met with encouragement.

“That sounds like a great idea!” my parents replied. They liked the idea of a noncontact sport. I could throw the shot put and the discus to my heart’s content. (Although I do remember having to sign a form promising my parents I would not try to catch these implements after they were thrown.)

Overnight I was transformed from a member of the marching band to BILL BUTTERWORTH–ATHLETE. I liked the way that looked and sounded. I finally felt cool.

In the northeastern part of the country, where I grew up, track is a two-season sport. Winter track takes place indoors, and spring track is outside. I quickly discovered that if you are a weightman, winter track means going into a tiny–and smelly–room off the boys’ gym and lifting weights. This continues until spring, when you are finally allowed to go outside. Weightmen love the spring.

All humility aside, there were certain parts of this weightman scene in which I excelled. Mainly, I had great form. I knew how to slide across the circle, crouched low, and then, at just the precise moment, explode with great intensity (and a primitive grunt) in order to throw the shot put a mile. In the same way, I knew how to spin around through the circle for the discus throw, like a spring unwinding. I knew how to uncoil and, once again, explode at the optimum moment of release.

Yes, my form was outstanding…especially without the implements.

It was when I actually had to throw the darn things that it all unraveled. You see, I had no strength. Even with my perfect form, great slides and spins, and intense explosion, neither the shot put nor the discus went any distance when I threw it.

I was the only guy they measured with a ruler.

But I refused to become discouraged. I was one of the cool guys, and that’s what mattered most. I even remember the day I discovered how they keep score in a track meet. Points are awarded to those who come in first, second, or third. I did a little mental math and realized that I was the fifth man on my own team. That meant I would never score any points unless the opposition forfeited and malaria worked its way through our squad. But a chance to score points came up in a rather unusual circumstance.

As I was growing up, my parents saw to it that I was in church every Sunday. At the time, we went to a church that I would describe as “socially active.” By that I mean they had sporting events for every taste. They had church flag football in the fall,...