Every summer in my teen years, my friends and I got excited for one particular event in Philadelphia: The Greek Picnic.
“The Greek” was a super-popular event organized by Black Greek organizations — college fraternities and sororities — in Fairmount Park since back in the 1970s. Greek weekend was basically dissolved about 20 years ago when it became much more about the general debauchery and, pardon the phrase, “niggerishness,” than about its original purpose.
It’s pretty much the same as what later happened with Memorial Day weekend in South Florida, with the streets basically becoming a strip club and local residents pressuring the city to do something (which the city did, in both cases).
Anyhow, my friends and I weren’t even in fraternities. Shit, we weren’t even in college yet when the Greek was popping off in Philly. While the picnic itself happened in the park during the day, everyone (including us) descended on Philly’s famous South Street Saturday night. And I do mean everyone: Greek affiliates, kids like us who were too young to pledge, adults who were too old to be trying to meet college students, and a healthy presence of Philadelphia Police.
I don’t know I could have even explained the concept of Greek organizations back then, at 17 or 18 years of age. All we knew is that Greek weekend, and all the females who’d be on South Street, was to us what Black Friday is to Amazon or Wal-Mart: our success that weekend could make the whole year.
We planned our departure from our Mt. Airy neighborhood. Decided who would drive. Went to the mall and styled outfits. Made sure we had pens and paper on hand (this was pre-smartphone, back when you wrote down names and phone numbers).
Some males were way too, as we say, “thirsty” on South Street for Greek night.
Trying too hard to get the attention of females who were clearly not interested (and becoming verbally abusive when they didn’t stop to talk).
Catcalling every single woman, playing the numbers game that one of them would respond to you.
Hoping the girls came to you just because your shoes matched your polo shirt.
This type of activity surely wasn’t limited to Greek night. But with so many people crowding a condensed space, it was a great opportunity to see it all on display.
Talking to girls on South Street on Greek night makes talking to people on the internet easy in comparison.
When men ask me about approaching and talking to women in public places (work, school, the gym), the best analogy I use is the smart batter in a baseball game.
While I wasn’t very good at playing baseball, I understand what’s supposed to happen. A good hitter doesn’t swing at every pitch he sees, hoping to get lucky and hit one. Against Major League pitching, that’s an easy way to strike out a lot.
A good hitter is a disciplined hitter. He knows which pitches are his favorites. He knows which ones usually get him on base, and which he smashes for home runs. Those are the pitches he’s waiting on, and he doesn’t get distracted by anything other than what he wants. When one of those right pitches comes around, he’s ready and takes advantage.
If the pitcher doesn’t give him one of the pitches he wants, the disciplined hitter doesn’t lose his presence of mind. He fights off a few foul balls, or takes a walk if a pitcher isn’t throwing strikes. A disciplined hitter doesn’t always succeed (being right 30% of the time makes you an All-Star in baseball), but he never beats himself. He never strikes out chasing after pitches that are out of his zone.
There is a time in life to seize the initiative and make things happen. There are times when shit needs to happen NOW. That time however, is not “all the time.” We must learn when it’s time to force things, and when it’s time to fall back.
Keep chasing after pitches that you clearly can’t hit, and you will succeed in forcing the action, but that “action” will be you striking out a lot.
Listen to #1681: Don’t Force The Action! to fully understand what I mean. Just go here; http://DreAllDay.com/1681-