I was watching some old highlights the other day—not even the flashy stuff with the wide receivers making circus catches or the quarterbacks throwing 60-yard lasers—but just raw footage of line play. You know, the stuff where players are basically engaged in a high-stakes wrestling match for three seconds before the ball even moves. It got me thinking about how much of our appreciation for greatness is actually superficial.
In almost every competitive arena, whether it's professional athletics, high-stakes business, or even just a group project in college, we have this obsession with the "stars." We want the person who scores the point, the person who makes the speech, or the person who lands the big deal. We crave the highlight reel. But there is a massive, silent engine running behind every single one of those moments. Without the people doing the heavy lifting, the dirty work, and the grueling physical maintenance that nobody sees on the broadcast, the "stars" would be nothing more than people standing around looking pretty.
It’s a recurring pattern in our culture. We celebrate the finisher, but we rarely celebrate the facilitator. In a team setting, there’s a specific kind of mental toughness required to play a position where your success is measured by how effectively you can disappear into the background. If you do your job perfectly, nobody notices you. If you do your job poorly, everyone notices. That is a terrifying way to live, yet it’s the foundation of every winning organization. I’ve always felt a strange sort of respect for the people who thrive in that kind of anonymity. It takes a different kind of ego—or perhaps a lack of a traditional ego—to find satisfaction in being the literal shield for someone else's glory.
I see this bleed into real life all the time. You look at successful companies, and everyone talks about the visionary CEO, but they rarely talk about the logistics managers or the mid-level operators who actually make sure the product exists and gets to the customer. If the supply chain or the foundational infrastructure wobbles, the visionary's ideas are worth zero. It's the same in a household; you can have a "star" personality, but if there isn't someone quietly managing the chaos, the bills, and the daily grind, the whole thing falls apart.
I think we’re moving toward a culture that is increasingly "influencer-centric," where the goal is to be seen. The idea of working hard in the shadows to enable someone else’s success feels almost counter-cultural now. We are taught from a young age to seek the spotlight. We are taught to be the protagonist. But a protagonist is nothing without a supporting cast that is willing to take the hits.
I’ve often wondered if we are actually teaching our kids the wrong lessons by only highlighting the "scoring" moments. If we only reward the visible achievements, we end up with a generation of people who want the trophy but lack the discipline to do the foundational work required to earn it. We need to find a way to value the "grunts"—the people who provide the stability, the protection, and the momentum that allow the spectacular moments to happen.
Is it even possible to truly value the "unsung heroes" in a world that is obsessed with viral moments and individual statistics, or are we destined to always overlook the foundation in favor of the finish line?
In almost every competitive arena, whether it's professional athletics, high-stakes business, or even just a group project in college, we have this obsession with the "stars." We want the person who scores the point, the person who makes the speech, or the person who lands the big deal. We crave the highlight reel. But there is a massive, silent engine running behind every single one of those moments. Without the people doing the heavy lifting, the dirty work, and the grueling physical maintenance that nobody sees on the broadcast, the "stars" would be nothing more than people standing around looking pretty.
It’s a recurring pattern in our culture. We celebrate the finisher, but we rarely celebrate the facilitator. In a team setting, there’s a specific kind of mental toughness required to play a position where your success is measured by how effectively you can disappear into the background. If you do your job perfectly, nobody notices you. If you do your job poorly, everyone notices. That is a terrifying way to live, yet it’s the foundation of every winning organization. I’ve always felt a strange sort of respect for the people who thrive in that kind of anonymity. It takes a different kind of ego—or perhaps a lack of a traditional ego—to find satisfaction in being the literal shield for someone else's glory.
I see this bleed into real life all the time. You look at successful companies, and everyone talks about the visionary CEO, but they rarely talk about the logistics managers or the mid-level operators who actually make sure the product exists and gets to the customer. If the supply chain or the foundational infrastructure wobbles, the visionary's ideas are worth zero. It's the same in a household; you can have a "star" personality, but if there isn't someone quietly managing the chaos, the bills, and the daily grind, the whole thing falls apart.
I think we’re moving toward a culture that is increasingly "influencer-centric," where the goal is to be seen. The idea of working hard in the shadows to enable someone else’s success feels almost counter-cultural now. We are taught from a young age to seek the spotlight. We are taught to be the protagonist. But a protagonist is nothing without a supporting cast that is willing to take the hits.
I’ve often wondered if we are actually teaching our kids the wrong lessons by only highlighting the "scoring" moments. If we only reward the visible achievements, we end up with a generation of people who want the trophy but lack the discipline to do the foundational work required to earn it. We need to find a way to value the "grunts"—the people who provide the stability, the protection, and the momentum that allow the spectacular moments to happen.
Is it even possible to truly value the "unsung heroes" in a world that is obsessed with viral moments and individual statistics, or are we destined to always overlook the foundation in favor of the finish line?