“For the genetic elite, success is attainable, but not guaranteed.” – Gattaca
I heard women are now allowed to join the SAS. Thank heavens! There’s no way those lads should be making their own sandwiches.
When I was a kid, life was a buffet of possibilities with a chocolate sauce fountain at the end. I should know, because I was that greedy little guy piling my plate high with everything from wrestling to chess club to that four ill-fated years of track where I learned that that shot put was never going to go farther than 38’.
Ever.
But it wasn’t just me. Back in the ‘70s and ‘80s and ‘90s, all of childhood was a sandbox—room to dig, build, and occasionally eat the sand just to see what happened. Hell, in the 1970s I don’t think mothers stopped smoking while in labor, and then let their kids go free-range until the police brought them home from the kegger at the old gravel pit. They said I was full of Schlitz®, but I would have differed if I didn’t keep passing out.
An original ad. Back when ads were based. And, probably a good enough cook for the SAS.
Outside of cheap watery beer, as a kid I could try everything, suck at half of it, and still have time to ride bikes with my buddies. I mean, they were imaginary friends, but at least they would stop staring at me when I yelled at them, “stop staring at me”.
The point is, I had time. Time to dabble, freedom to fail, and a real chance to struggle to find out what made John Wilder tick (spoiler: booze, tobacco, and women). I could dream of being an astronaut one week a Green Beret the next, and James Bond the week after. No one demanded that I pick a lane and stay there, probably because they were too busy smoking and drinking and driving. For me, though, failure was a teacher, not a felony.
Kids today?
They’re not at a buffet. They forced to pick their entrée at 12 and commit to it like terrier hangs onto a T-bone.
I remember a conversation with a colleague back in Houston, circa 2010. His daughter, still in middle school, had to choose: volleyball, softball, or tennis. One single sport, full commitment, no take-backs.
When his girlfriend asked if he was trans, he got so mad that he packed her stuff and left.
This wasn’t just signing up for the school team and seeing how it went. This meant off-season practices, traveling squads, private coaching, and summer clinics that cost more than my first car. All this for a kid who, statistically, had a better shot at being struck by lightning than playing at the college level. In Houston’s mega-sized high schools (the nearest one had 5,000 kids and a football stadium that could shame a small college) only the top 1% even make the team.
The rest? They’re sidelined, their dreams of spiking a volleyball or swinging a bat relegated to backyard pickup games, if they’re lucky.
Why this insanity? Two culprits: economics and elite overproduction.
First, economics.
Big school districts love their mega-schools. They’re cheaper per pupil to run, since they have fewer buildings, fewer janitors, more bang for the bureaucratic buck. Plus, a 5,000-student high school can field a football team that crushes smaller districts and draws 20,000 fans to a stadium that makes my college’s stadium look like a community rec center field for third graders. In Texas, high school football isn’t a sport; it’s a religion, though they do have better concessions.
But our high school coach wanted us to have a small ghost. He said he wanted us to show a little team spirit.
And it pays: Bigger schools mean bigger revenue, bigger crowds, and bigger bragging rights for state titles, but you still only need 45 uniforms and helmets.
The second culprit is trickier: elite overproduction.
Historian Peter Turchin (who I’ve written about before HERE) points out that societies often churn out more “elites” than they can sustain—too many people vying for too few top spots, whether in politics, business, or, yes, even high school sports. We see it in our polarized Congress and bloated corporate C-suites, so why not in our kids’ lives?
Parents, schools, and even kids themselves feel the pressure to produce not just good students or athletes but exceptional ones.
The result of this is catastrophic. It has produced a generation of tweens locked into one sport, one instrument, or one hyper-specialized path, all in the name of building a résumé for elite colleges that demand “well-rounded” applicants who’ve paradoxically had no time to be well-rounded. Or, you know, they could just have a great DEI score.
Whatever.
Dogs have masters. Cats have staff.
For the average kid, the stress this creates is brutal. Kids today face schedules that would make a CEO sweat. A 14-year-old might have 6 a.m. weight training, school, after-school practice, and a side hustle of “personal development” like SAT prep or violin lessons.
Free time?
That’s for quitters.
Social life?
Catch up on InstaFace® between reps.
The mental toll is real: you can look around and see kids today are drowning in depression and hopelessness. Part of this, I’d argue, comes from a life without failure. Most kids in Houston won’t lose a football game or a wrestling match or a basketball game. They’ll go and watch, sure, but they don’t get a chance to actually fail. Without learning that failure is really an option and that tomorrow is another day, every little setback in their life feels like a catastrophe.
Without challenges that force them to fail, adapt, and push through, they hit adulthood brittle, unprepared for real-world setbacks. I lost at sports in ways that made me want to cry when I was in high school. I didn’t cry because I’m not gay, but I learned that I could get up in the morning after losing and see that I was still there. My loss was temporary, but it really did help build may character. Today’s kids, locked into elite tracks or locked out of actual competition, often don’t face meaningful failure until it’s high-stakes.
By then, the stakes are too high to learn gracefully. They need safe spaces to crash and burn, like a JV wrestling match where you get pinned by a kid whose armpit smells like grape soda and Cheetos® or a debate club where your argument flops harder than a fish on a dock.
After the Little Rascals finished, Buckwheat became moslem and is now known as Kareem O’Wheat.
When we moved away from Houston’s mega-schools to Modern Mayberry, we did it mainly to escape this madness. Our kids could try things. They didn’t have to be the best to play, and they had room to fail without it defining their future or collapsing their ego.
That freedom let them discover who they were, not who a coach or a college admissions board thought they should be. They’ve learned that the struggle is the goal.
Well, that and the booze, tobacco, and women.
