"I don't get upset over things I can control, because if I can control them there's no sense in getting upset. And I don't get upset over things I can't control, because if I can't control them there's no sense in getting upset"
About this Quote
Mickey Rivers delivers a clubhouse philosophy with the blunt efficiency of a guy who’s seen too many bad hops to waste breath on them. The line loops on itself like a pregame mantra: control it? no panic. can’t control it? still no panic. That circular structure isn’t laziness; it’s the point. Repetition turns the idea into muscle memory, the same way athletes drill fundamentals until they become automatic under pressure.
The intent is practical, almost prophylactic. Baseball is a sport built to humiliate certainty: a perfectly struck ball can find a glove; a weak blooper can win a game. Rivers isn’t offering a poet’s insight so much as a survival tactic for a profession where failure is routine and publicly recorded. “No sense” is the key phrase: he frames emotion as an inefficiency, a leak in the system. It’s not that he’s denying feeling; he’s refusing to let feeling masquerade as strategy.
Subtextually, it’s also a quiet flex. To claim you don’t get upset is to claim composure as a competitive edge, a way of staying present while others spiral. In the larger sports culture, this is the anti-meltdown creed: don’t argue with the ump, don’t relive the error, don’t let the last inning colonize the next at-bat.
There’s a stoic echo here, but in Rivers’ mouth it’s less philosophy seminar, more hard-earned vernacular: accept variance, focus on inputs, keep moving. It’s emotional economy for a game - and a life - that won’t reward dramatics.
The intent is practical, almost prophylactic. Baseball is a sport built to humiliate certainty: a perfectly struck ball can find a glove; a weak blooper can win a game. Rivers isn’t offering a poet’s insight so much as a survival tactic for a profession where failure is routine and publicly recorded. “No sense” is the key phrase: he frames emotion as an inefficiency, a leak in the system. It’s not that he’s denying feeling; he’s refusing to let feeling masquerade as strategy.
Subtextually, it’s also a quiet flex. To claim you don’t get upset is to claim composure as a competitive edge, a way of staying present while others spiral. In the larger sports culture, this is the anti-meltdown creed: don’t argue with the ump, don’t relive the error, don’t let the last inning colonize the next at-bat.
There’s a stoic echo here, but in Rivers’ mouth it’s less philosophy seminar, more hard-earned vernacular: accept variance, focus on inputs, keep moving. It’s emotional economy for a game - and a life - that won’t reward dramatics.
Quote Details
| Topic | Wisdom |
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