A lot of people think I had such a rosy career, but I wanted to

Hear the steady voice of the workman-hero: “A lot of people think I had such a rosy career, but I wanted to identify that one of the things that helps you have a long career is learning how to deal with adversity, how to get past it. Once I learned how to get through that, other things didn’t seem so hard.” In this testimony, Cal Ripken, Jr. sweeps the gilding from the statue and shows the scaffolding beneath. He tells us that endurance is not a gift wrapped in luck, but a craft hammered in weather. The field remembers the hours we do not see: sore mornings, cold bats, slumps that stretch like winters. The myth of a rosy career dissolves, and in its place we meet the homely king—habit.

The ancients would nod at this wisdom. They taught that the bow that is never unstrung will one day break, and the soldier who never meets the storm will never master the march. The phrase long career is less a timeline than a temperament: a promise to return tomorrow, and the day after, carrying yesterday’s lessons like tools. To learn to suffer well is to water the roots of longevity. Not to seek pain, but to convert it—to turn friction into polish, failure into footing, and doubt into discipline.

Mark the meaning of adversity in this creed. It is not a curse but a curriculum. The strikeout becomes a coach; the error becomes a mirror; the injury becomes a librarian of limits. When Ripken speaks of learning to get past it, he does not preach denial; he preaches digestion. The lesson is not “ignore hurt,” but “name it, treat it, and harvest it.” Those who refuse this schooling remain tourists on their own road. Those who take it become citizens of their craft.

Consider the tale that shadows his words. Cal Ripken, Jr., the Iron Man, did not merely show up for a record’s sake; he stitched a ritual of readiness—arrive early, study pitchers, sharpen footwork, respect small pains before they become large ones. There were slumps that would have rattled softer hearts, games where the ball seemed bewitched, seasons when the body whispered of limits. He got past it not by magic but by method: adjust the stance, trust the routine, keep faith with the next pitch. When the streak stood unbroken, the world saw a number; he saw a thousand solved problems.

History echoes this pattern beyond the diamond. Think of Ernest Shackleton steering broken men through broken ice; the expedition failed in its aim, but triumphed in its survival. Or recall Miyamoto Musashi, who trained not for a single duel but for a life of duels, each contest filing his edge. Their greatness was not the absence of storms, but the art of sailing them. Once they learned to pass through the gale, “other things didn’t seem so hard” because hardship had been measured, mapped, and mastered.

Let the lesson be chiseled plain: durability is a decision repeated until it becomes identity. If you would build a long career, do not pray for soft roads; cultivate strong feet. Make a pact with honest feedback and unglamorous drills. Praise will not lengthen your stride; process will. Talent will open a door; adversity will teach you how to live in the house.

Carry these practices like a pocket rule: (1) Name the obstacle—write it down precisely; vagueness cannot be fixed. (2) Shrink the problem—one variable per day; small wins stack into momentum. (3) Build a routine—warmup, review, debrief; the same steps, especially on bad days. (4) Study your slumps—treat them as data, not verdicts. (5) Strengthen the joints—sleep, nutrition, mobility; a career is built on recovery. (6) Find a council—coaches, peers, a friend who tells the unvarnished truth. Do these with stubborn cheer, and you will discover what Ripken discovered: once you have learned to get past it, the mountains do not shrink—but your legs grow certain, and the road, though long, begins to feel like home.