I ran like a praying mantis for years

Nobody told me. There was film.

I was 17 years old when I learned I ran like a praying mantis.

My high school soccer team was watching film of a recent game (a thing we did to get better, in theory). At some point I noticed a player sprinting down the field with his hands bent down at the wrists, arms up, like a mantis chasing a bug across midfield. I laughed. Then I recognized the jersey number.

I turned to the guys next to me and asked, “Do I always run like that?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, like they were waiting for me to notice. Apparently everyone had known for years and nobody thought it was worth mentioning.

The summer I got better by not playing

Still, I felt lucky to even be in that room. Only the Varsity team watched game film, and I had finally made the cut.

My junior year, I was one of only two juniors still on the JV team. Every other kid my age had made the top team.

So, naturally, I decided the summer before senior year was going to be different. I practiced every single day in our backyard. And because we didn’t have a goal, I couldn’t practice the fun stuff (scoring, celebrating, being carried off on my teammates’ shoulders). I could only work on the unglamorous pieces. Juggling. Dribbling. Low, accurate kicks. Running. Lots of running (hands presumably in full mantis position).

I didn’t play a single game all summer. And yet I got dramatically better. I made Varsity my senior year, scored 4 goals, and got to see myself on the game tape.

Nobody gets good at soccer by only playing soccer

Watching the US advance at the World Cup this week brought all this back. Because when you watch a match, you’re seeing the smallest slice of what those players actually do.

The vast majority of their training isn’t games or even scrimmages. It’s drills. First touches. Passing patterns. Set pieces. One specific skill, over and over again, until you don’t even think about it.

Nobody watches a striker bury a goal and says, “I bet he came out of the womb like that.” We understand the goal is the visible end of a thousand invisible drills.

And yet that’s exactly what we say about funny people.

“Funny” isn’t one skill

Last week I made the case that nobody is born funny. Which raises the obvious follow-up... if funny is practiced, what exactly are you practicing?

Because “funny” isn’t one single thing. It’s a handful of separate, trainable skills wearing a trench coat. Noticing what’s absurd. Timing. Reading the room. Knowing when NOT to make the joke (perhaps the most criminally underrated humor skill today).

The people who seem effortlessly funny are good at several specific things they each got better at separately, whether they realize it or not.

Which means “I’m not funny” is the wrong conclusion. The more useful version is “which part am I missing?”

Maybe you notice funny things all day but never say them out loud. Maybe you commit to the joke but occasionally fire it into the wrong room. Those are different problems with different drills.

Just like my summer... I didn’t need to get better at “soccer.” I needed juggling, dribbling, and low, accurate kicks.

Your turn

Which part of funny comes easiest to you, and which part is missing? Are you a great noticer who never says the thing out loud? A committed joke-teller who sometimes misreads the room?

Hit reply or leave a comment and let me know. I read every response, and my money’s on a lot of secret noticers out there.

Enjoy the long weekend if you’re celebrating the 4th (and the regular weekend if you’re not). Feel free to practice your humor (or soccer skills).

Wit regards,
Andrew

P.S. I’d like the record to show that praying mantises are ambush predators with lightning-fast reflexes. So really, my running style was intimidating.