Think of Me as Steven Covey's Go-To Girl

A long time ago, I loaned someone my baseball glove. I loved that baseball glove. It fit…well…like a glove. It was a Rawlings. Soft, worn camel-colored leather with the hole for my index finger, the red circular patch with a white cursive R. My name was written along the length of the inside in black ink. I never got it back. I asked and asked my friend Rocky, “Where is it!? Give it back. I know you have it!”

He said, “Kehoe! I don’t have your glove! I gave it back!”

“No you didn’t, Rock! You lost it, didn’t you?!”

“No! I gave it back to you. I swear!”

“Who’d you loan it to?”

“Kehoe, I swear! I gave it back!”

I had this conversation with my friend Rocky about a dozen stalker-like times and every time his answer was the same.

Not that I would have mentioned it during Rocky’s last days, but if I had, he would have sworn on his deathbed on a stack of bibles that he didn’t have my glove and I still wouldn’t have believed him. Because I knew I never got it back. Always having to get the last word in, Rocky pulled a handy from-the-grave hat trick a few summers back. Through bizarre coincidences that could only be orchestrated from above, I found out who has had my glove all these years. Sorry, Rocky! I believe you now!

I made a surprise visit to see my friend, Patty Sonorra, on my way to Margaretville one summer. At the time she was renting a room from some hippies who always had people stopping in to say “high.” One of the guys who walked in was Mike Day. We hugged and kissed and had a nice little reunion, remembering the last times we saw each other. Mid-catching up, another guy walked in who I didn’t recognize. He stood around and listened to the conversation in which Mike was retelling the story of the time I was playing left field in a softball game behind the A&P. Someone lobbed an impossible pop fly way over my head. Instead of running back to retrieve it after it landed, I tried to intercept the ball by knocking it out of the sky with my glove. It would stop in mid air, I’d catch it with my bare hands and gloat. People would cheer. I would bow.

Unfortunately, I didn’t calculate distances and velocity accurately and lost precious time running down that ball. That’s when the guy standing and listening said, “Kehoe?” He had an odd look about him, like he was putting vague pieces together. “Was your dad the hospital administrator?”

“Yea.” I’m thinking, Oh, no. Tell me my dad wasn’t responsible for your mom or dad either not getting hired or getting fired. Some people just don’t know how to bury the hatchet.

“I have your baseball glove!”

“YOU have it?? How’d YOU get it??!!”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is it! Go get it! I want it!”

He had just come out of a divorce and it was in a box in storage. I said, “Well, I want you to go find it and give it back to me. I have been going crazy about that glove. I was blaming Rocky for having it all these years and YOU had it!”

Years have gone by since that conversation. I had forgotten about the glove once I learned what had become of it. It was still out there. I knew who had it.  Chances are I won’t ever get it back because I never bump into this guy. I’m in Ohio. He’s in New York. But then he showed up on Facebook. We have mutual friends from Margaretville. So I proceeded to send him a friendly note that is sure to get my glove back into my loving arms once again.

Having authored several New York Times best sellers on effective communication — How to Win Friends and Influence Them with the Overuse of Vowels; How to Talk to People So They Give Your Stuff Back; How to Stop Obsessing and Start Living; The 7 Habits of Highly, Highly, Highly Effective People; and the one that got me on Oprah (twice), A Million Little Untrue Pieces – I was able to put my expert communication style in action.

Watch and learn:

Me: “Duuuuude, I want my baseball glove baaaaaaack!”

See how I didn’t come on too gangbusters at first? It’s what I left out that is of note. See how I don’t overwhelm with the use of  multiple exclamation marks? The only thing more off-putting than the overuse of exclamation marks is ALL CAPS. People don’t like to be yelled at.

Notice how receptive he is. He’s probably looking for the glove and foam packing peanuts:

Guy:  That’s a trip!

Me: Take the trip to wherever my glove iiiiiiiiis. I waaaaaaant it baaaaaaaaack!

By applying the overuse of vowels it gets the point across without using ALL CAPS or an abundance of exclamation marks. In the literary kingdom, that is considered aggressive behavior for which the user should be euthanized. But most importantly, the overuse of vowels implies that I am mentally unstable and anything could happen if the reader doesn’t comply.  Notice how his ears perk up:

Guy:  Interesting!

Observe how I address him with respect, restate my request and then describe the action I’d like him to take, as previously outlined in my book, The 7 Habits of Highly, Highly, Highly Effective People.

Me: Dude, you know you have my glove. You admitted it yourself. Pull it out of the box and give it to Gerry.

Guy:  20 plus years ago!!!!!!!!!!!!! A girls softball mitt from the 70’s really has not been my biggest priority over the years. I don’t see Gerry,I don’t live in Margaretville,and I ???? Very nice to here from you.

It is important not to judge him. Clearly, he is not as well-trained in effective communication as I. It is not necessary to call him stupid, dumbass, forgetful, hoarder. In fact, name-calling could backfire, especially once he catches on that he is sorely out maneuvered.  Upon laborious inspection, it appears that he has used 13 exclamation marks in the first sentence — that really is a phrase, not a sentence. It shows impatience and frustration. It’s not where I want him. I need him to calm down. Fortunately, in the second sentence he only uses four question marks. In the last sentence it appears as if he remembered who he is talking to and he is completely civil.

To reward him for his civility, yet not let the punctuation outbursts go overlooked, I reply as follows:

Me:  Thank you for your cooperation. My address is (undisclosed street), Upper Wonderful, Ohio (undisclosed zip.) It wasn’t the 70s. It was the 80s. But thanks for pointing out how long I’ve suffered not having it. Retuuuuuurn glooooove to any of our mutual friends if you can’t bring yourself to mail it. Nooooooot that haaaaaard. They’re a lot closer than Ohiooooooooo. Don’t let karma bite you in the ass.

Notice the foolproof use of good cop/bad cop in my closing sentence. I made Karma the bad guy here, not me. Highly, highly, highly effective. I think my glove should be arriving by FedEx this afternoon.

People come to me all the time and ask: “How is it that you can get away with communicating like this?” Providence, peeps. It’s just what I was put on this earth to do. It’s a calling.

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