Business Lesson: Pick Your Battles

Arrogant Towel Boy

My hoop dreams turned into a nightmare one morning when I got out of bed and collapsed to the floor. The day before, I’d been flying high–literally–dunking at a local elementary school. Sure, the rim was only 8 feet, but I was pulling off 360 windmills, Statue of Liberty jams, and between-the-legs bangers like I was auditioning for the And1 mixtape tour.

Turns out, my leg was shot. I had to start physical therapy, which felt like the end of the world. But if you know anything about me, I don’t stay down for long. So, I asked the therapy clinic if they were hiring, and just like that, I landed my first job: working the front desk at the Colorado Athletic Club.

You’d think folding towels and scanning membership cards would be boring, but I loved it. The place was upscale, the kind of gym you could spend hours at without realizing it. Everyone was friendly, and I got to soak in the vibes of success.

One day, my childhood hero walked through the door: Chauncey Billups. If you’re from Colorado, you know that name. I’d watched him play in high school, seen ESPN cameras in our tiny gym to cover him. He was a McDonald’s All-American, 3rd pick in the NBA Draft, NBA Champion and Finals MVP, Hall of Fame player, and now the head coach of the Portland Trail Blazers. And there he was, standing right in front of me. I checked him in, played it cool, and even ended up playing basketball with the biggest sports star in Colorado not named John Elway.

Back then, I was all about fashion. I planned my outfits every night and ironed every piece of clothing–sometimes twice. My brother took it a step further, ironing his socks and underwear, but I wasn’t far off. The employee uniform was a white polo shirt and khakis, but I found a way to stand out: I’d wear brightly colored T-shirts under the polo to match my sneakers. If I was working five days, I had five colors–blue, red, yellow, orange, purple. Never repeating, no way.

In my mind, I looked fly. But one day, my boss told me to stop. “Only white undershirts,” they said. I was pissed. I checked the employee handbook–it said “white polo and khakis.” Nothing about T-shirts or shoes. I knew I was right and decided I wasn’t backing down.

For a while, they let it slide. Then they brought it up again. Maybe they asked nicely, but to me, it felt like they were picking on me.

I vented to my mom like I was being oppressed, assaulted, my manhood, my individuality, my humanity was being stripped from me in those t-shirts. She listened and told me to pick my battles.

I didn’t listen, I quit.

It took me many years later to learn which battles are worth my emotions.