WordPress apparently believes good advice has a shelf life of about two months.
At the end of May, it asked me to name the most profound piece of advice I had ever received. I wrote about something my mother taught me years ago: Listen carefully, wait for an opening and speak only when I have something worth adding to the conversation.
I’m still working on that one.
Some days, I follow her advice beautifully. Other days, my mouth apparently decides it has been oppressed long enough and stages a rebellion. But this question is slightly different. It doesn’t ask for the most profound advice I’ve received. It asks for the best.
That gives me just enough room to avoid writing the same post again.
One of the best principles I have tried to follow is simple:
Don’t let the ball hit the ground.
I don’t remember who first put it that way. It may have come from a coach, a teacher, a boss or someone at a leadership seminar. It may also be one of those expressions I heard somewhere, adopted as my own and have been repeating so long that I now believe it was engraved on a stone tablet.
The idea is that when something needs to be done, somebody needs to step forward and do it.
If there is a problem, solve it. If someone needs help, help. If everybody is standing around staring at a responsibility as though it might become less responsible if ignored long enough, pick it up.
Don’t let the ball hit the ground.
That principle has shaped much of my life. In newspaper offices, classrooms, churches and other organizations, I have often been the person who noticed what needed to be done and tried to make sure it happened.
Sometimes that meant taking responsibility for something no one had officially assigned to me. Sometimes it meant learning a new skill because there wasn’t anyone else available to do the job. Sometimes it meant staying later, working harder or finding a way around a problem that had stopped everybody else.
I like being dependable. I like being the person others can count on. There is something satisfying about seeing a need, stepping into the gap and making sure the ball stays in the air.
There is also a problem. Eventually, people notice that you keep catching things. Then they start throwing more things in your direction. Some of them don’t even look first.
Before long, you’re juggling six responsibilities, somebody is rolling another one toward your feet, and a person across the room is saying, “Doug will take care of it.” Doug, meanwhile, is wondering when Doug became an entire department.
The advice is still good. We need people who are willing to take responsibility. Far too many things fall apart because everyone assumes someone else will handle them.
But somewhere along the way, I’ve had to add a second line:
Don’t let the ball hit the ground—but make sure it is actually your ball.
That part is harder for me. When I see something being neglected, my instinct is to step in. When someone is struggling, I want to help. When a job is not being done well, I begin thinking about how I would do it.
Sometimes that is service. Sometimes it is leadership. Sometimes it is pride wearing a volunteer badge. And sometimes the ball needs to hit the ground so the person who was supposed to catch it realizes that standing there with his hands in his pockets was not an effective strategy.
Not every problem is mine to solve. Not every burden is mine to carry. Not every silence is asking me to fill it, although that last one brings me dangerously close to my mother’s advice again.
The best advice often requires wisdom in its application. Be dependable, but don’t make everyone dependent on you. Help people, but don’t prevent them from learning to help themselves. Step forward when you are needed, but don’t assume you are always the person who is needed.
And by all means, don’t let the ball hit the ground. Unless it was thrown to somebody else. In that case, I’m trying to learn to keep my hands in my pockets.
Enjoyed this? Subscribe and get future reflections, bourbon notes, and assorted nonsense delivered straight to your inbox.
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
