The Winner Instinct

Ross Wetzsteon

My wife used to hate playing cards with me. "You're too competitive," she kept saying. "You get so intense, you can't just have fun—you always have to win."

That didn't have anything to do with the way I felt, but try telling her that. All I could do was deny that I'm competitive.

Then one rainy weekend in the country we played a vicious, back-and-forth game of rummy,' and when Kay finally edged me by three points, I could see that her pleasure in winning was jeopardized by her fear that I'd sulk.

"Now, don't get mad just because you lost," she said. "Mad? That was the closest game I've ever played!"

"You're just trying to prove you're not competitive." "Not competitive? Then why was the game so much fun?"

She smiled cautiously as she gathered in the cards. "Now you're just trying to pretend you don't care whether you won or lost."

"Of course I care, damn it, but don't you see?" It's not winning or losing that matters—it's the competition itself!"

I suddenly realized that when the subject had come up before, the only reason I'd always denied being competitive was that Kay had made it seem like such a dirty word. "Sure, women are just as ambitious and aggressive as men," she had said once, "but we've been inhibited from expressing competitiveness. We were told when we were young that the only way we could compete was for the attention of men—to compete in any other way was 'unfeminine.' But society defines competitiveness as a brutal, winning-is-every-thing attitude. So if by competition you mean imitating the macho" way men behave—no, thanks."

My wife just couldn't see that competitiveness means a lot more to men than that win-at-any-cost ethic. Listen to New York Mets' pitcher Tom Seaver, one of the most thoughtful athletes in America: "When we finally won the World Series, I realized I'd been wrong since boyhood. I'd always believed the thrill was in celebrating the victory. Now I saw that the thrill was in competition for its own sake." So I finally decided to admit that, yes, I'm very competitive, and what's more, I'm proud of it.

Now, I'm not going to deny that there are elements of adolescent insecurity or latent hostility or sexual rivalry in a lot of competition between men—all I'm saying is that there's another side to the story. Take male kidding around, for instance. I always tell my friend Arthur that he exaggerates so compulsively, he'll even tell people his summer house is at Six-Mile Harbor instead of Three-Mile Harbor. He comes right back at me: "You're putting on so much weight, pretty soon they'll have to give you your own zip code."

We indulge in so much of this typically male insulting humor that our wives can be forgiven for thinking that beneath our surface joking there must be bitter rivalry. Believe me, we see the "oh-you-men" way they roll their eyes, but what we actually hear when we insult each other like this is one of the most reassuring things a friend can say: "I know all your faults—you can't hide a thing from me—but I like you anyway. I accept you the way you are." Still skeptical? Just let some guy who's not a close friend try to get away with that kind of one-upmanship.

Male competitiveness in our professional lives is often a way to show our mutual respect. Sure, no one needs to be told that many men adopt a to-hell-with-the-bastards attitude in business; but far more often men also experience rivalry as a spur to achievement, as a means of being drawn to perform at the top of our abilities. I testified in a lawsuit a couple of years ago, and you would have thought the opposing attorneys would kill rather than let the other get the upper hand. But I overheard them talking after the decision. "I enjoy trying a case against you," one of them said. "You really keep me on my toes."

"Going up against you isn't any picnic," the other one answered. "I know I've got to do my best just to stand a chance."

Can you tell which one won the case?

I've heard other men express the same feelings in any number of highly competitive professions. "It's really sad," the owner of a newspaper where I once worked told me when a competing publication suddenly folded. "I ran a much better paper because of them. Now I'm afraid I'll get lazy." And while I'm not going to argue that men regret pulling off a deal against a competitor, their gratification is often less if they don't feel they were seriously challenged.

In sports the image of "winning is everything" is even more misleading. Most men I know get their real kick in sports not from winning but from the fact that the playing field is one of the few places where companionship and challenge come together. In bowling or touch football or Softball, stiff competition not only brings men closer together; it also encourages them to do their best. This paradox at the heart of sports allows men to feel both friendship and self-satisfaction, to share moments of pride. Of course, there are nonstop competitors like John McEnroe, but there are also competitors like my friends Josh and Michael—anyone watching them play tennis would think their lives were riding on the outcome. But after the match is over, you can't tell who won—they both feel great. Competition has pushed them to the limits of their abilities; they've done as well as they possibly could; they've done something well together.

Still think winning is everything to men? Take my friend Fred, who finally managed to beat his weekly tennis partner after losing something like ten sets in a row. "You must feel terrific," I said.

"Yeah, I suppose so," he said offhandedly.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Well, to tell the truth," Fred said, "he was so far off his game, it wasn't much fun."

I knew exactly how he felt—I play tennis so competitively that my friends call my game "Death in the Afternoon," but I'd much rather play way over my head and lose 2-6 than hack around and win 6-love.

So when my wife says that men can't relate to one another except competitively, that it's a way to disguise their animosity or assert their superiority—no more apologies from me. I now argue that there's much more going on, that men just as often use competition as a means of expressing acceptance or respect or sharing.

Take it from me—busting your butt to win has its own rewards, whether you win or not. I came home from a tennis match one day absolutely glowing. "You must have won," Kay remarked.

"Why do you say that?" "You look so happy."

"Well, actually I lost," I said. "But he was so good, he made me play better than I've ever played in my life."

From Redbook Magazine, March, 1984.