Selling successfully has been a big part of my life for more than 50 years, but that doesn’t mean I’m unfamiliar with the scent and taste of failure.
And I also vividly remember encountering those inevitable cold streaks during which everything seemed to go wrong; you know, when you were afraid to pick up the telephone because you knew that bad news was calling. Even the ring was like an alarm clock awakening you from a deep sleep.
I stopped freaking out over them fairly quickly by shaking them off and busying myself with anything and everything, as long as the tasks had nothing to do with the act of selling.
I now laugh to myself as I recall how much I resembled the fictional sales guy I’ll call Charlie, whose tire blew out on a dark and lonely country road late one night.
When he looked in the trunk for a jack, he saw that there was none, so he began walking in hopes of coming to a house where he could borrow one. The longer he walked, the more paranoid he got about pushing someone’s doorbell well after midnight. Maybe he’d get shot
or maybe he’d be victimized by having scalding hot water poured on his head from an upstairs window. Or worse.
When he finally reached a small two-story home, Charlie reluctantly rang the doorbell. Seconds later, he heard a second-floor window open, as well as the thin and kindly voice of an elderly women who asked, “Can I be of some sort of help to you, sir?”
Without hesitation, Charlie looked up and yelled, “Keep your damn jack!”
My cold streaks usually lasted for a week or so before I returned to form.
Those who know me best recognize that, next to selling, following baseball is my favorite activity. And hot and cold streaks are a big part of the game, eerily analogous to selling in that respect.
At the beginning of the 2024 season, Anthony Volpe, in his second year as the shortstop for the Yankees, got off to a torrid start, spraying hits all over the outfield and sending his batting average soaring over the .400 mark, evoking comparisons with the great Derek Jeter.
A week or two later, he couldn’t buy a hit, his average soon flirting with a more human .250. At the time, I believed the Yankees would be thrilled if he had continued at that level throughout the season.
As a seller, I’m proud to say that I was like a .350 hitter, maybe even a little higher, but I don’t know if anyone other than me was counting.
Sellenthal is a monthly column by Ira Ellenthal, author of “The Last Book About Selling That You’ll Ever Need” (Amazon, $21.95).
