Wrestling Wednesday: Why Orange Cassidy is a Good Role Model

All Elite Wrestling superstar Orange Cassidy gives the impression he couldn’t care less — about anything. He looks disinterested as he’s introduced by Justin Roberts before matches. He rolls into the ring under the bottom rope, which I’ve never seen. And he wrestles with his hands in his pockets. This week on AEW Dark Elevation, he executed a wristlock using only his feet. Despite appearing like he couldn’t care less, Orange Cassidy is a good role model for those of us who care entirely too much.

Aggression is hereditary. I inherited my aggressive nature from my father. But until I read Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy, I thought my aggression was a learned trait, and something I could unlearn. That’s not how it works. Some things stick with us forever. They are inevitable. I am inevitably aggressive and competitive. My father made his aggressiveness and competitiveness work for him. Mine has only hindered me.

My dad was the guy who jumped out of a plane the first time and took to the air like a fish to water. He took to everything naturally. My sister inherited that athleticism, as confirmed by Bob “Feisty” Feisthamel, the man who taught us all how to jump out of planes. I inherited my mother’s mind and body, which ain’t all bad. It made academics a breeze, but in athletics, that same mind has been a bigger obstacle to overcome than my lack of athleticism.

I’m the guy who in his first start at second base in Babe Ruth Baseball botched the first play of the season because minutes before, my veteran first baseman admonished me for barehanding his warmup grounders. He told me to stop showboating, and out of fear, I said nothing and started gloving his grounders. As a result, instead of barehanding a slow roller that died on the infield grass, I tried to glove it and couldn’t pick it up, allowing the batter to reach base.

I’m also the guy who let that play destroy any confidence I had playing the field for the entire season, and I was good defensive infielder. I improved as a hitter that season, but I was such a liability defensively that I was moved to right field, where I was even worse. But at least fewer balls came my way. That was the last year I played baseball, but it wasn’t the last time my athletic performance was diminished by my lack of mental composure.

After I gave up baseball, I spent my spring evenings hitting hundreds of serves at the tennis courts near my house until the sun went down. But none of that practice taught me how to control my emotions and compose my mind. It was simply an outlet for my anger, which didn’t play well with an opponent on the other side of the net.

If you’ve seen John McEnroe or Nick Kyrgios play tennis, that was me in high school, and I’m not referring to their quality of play. I’d scream at myself when I made a mistake. I’d hit every shot as hard as I could when I got frustrated with an opponent who didn’t hit the ball back with pace but managed to return everything. I had to buy a new racquet every year because I abused them so. But my coach, Rich Lindgren, a Montana High School Hall of Famer, never gave up on me. In fact, the only time he was obviously disappointed in me was when I resisted playing a match immediately after finishing one. I played the match because disappointing him would have felt worse than being embarrassed on the court.

That’s exactly what happened my junior year at the Divisional Tournament, played on our home courts. I lost my first two matches because of my emotions and was set on quitting the sport. But on the first day of practice my senior year, a friend of mine who had graduated returned as assistant coach and demanded I attend. I don’t know if I ever thanked him, but if this reaches you, Tyler, thank you.

It wasn’t until my coach let me play doubles as a senior that I realized my potential. I was really excited to be paired with one of our many accomplished upperclassmen. We had been contenders for the State A Championship every year because all three of our doubles teams were competitive. But instead of pairing me with an upperclassman, my coach made me the only doubles player paired with an underclassman. At the time, it made no sense to me because I was the last player I’d want as a mentor. I doubt my coach ever had a more difficult player to coach in almost 50 years of coaching.

But my coach knew me better than I knew myself. He knew if I was forced to set an example, I would do my damndest to set a good one, despite my deficiencies. He was right. In our last practice before the Divisional tournament, we beat our best doubles team that would place at State. We were a set away from making the State Tournament, and when we didn’t, I wasn’t even disappointed. I was proud. I’ll be forever grateful that he taught me this game I can play the rest of my life. But I’m even more thankful that he managed to teach me how to enjoy playing, even in defeat. But in the end, I still cared entirely too much.

If only I had a role model like Orange Cassidy in my youth. Maybe I would have cared less and accomplished more. I’m playing in a few tennis leagues this summer, and my goal is to embody Orange Cassidy on the tennis court. I failed to do so despite winning my first match. I got mad at myself, muttered obscenities, and abused my racquet. Again, aggression is an inherited trait, but if I take the court intent on portraying a character like Orange Cassidy, I’m less likely to lose my cool and the match.

When we’re young, role models choose us more than we choose them. Michael Jordan wasn’t a suitable role model for many of us. Sure, his commitment to practice and pursuit of excellence had me playing basketball all day, everyday. But it also made me care as much as he did, and it didn’t help my game like it helped his. Kirby Puckett made me believe I could be a baseball player. A pudgy guy playing centerfield like a boss and hitting everything thrown at him made the game look easy. What I should have appreciated was how much he appreciated playing the game, but even that might not have been enough to overcome my aggressiveness. Had I known Andre Agassi, whose game (and fashion) I emulated, hated tennis as much as I did back then, I might have never considered quitting. But his book wasn’t written yet.

If your emotions seem to be working against you, Orange Cassidy provides an exemplary model for achieving more by caring less. Don’t let the results dictate your demeanor, because once you allow yourself to be seen discouraged or enraged, your opponents see an opportunity to capitalize. And unless you’re Michael Jordan, the weaknesses in your game provide plenty of opportunities for your opponents to beat you. So make them beat you. Don’t beat yourself.