Chapter Eight - Sell the Sacrifice Twelve Hours for the Culture

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sell the Sacrifice Twelve Hours for the Culture

IF I WERE evil, I’d make the schedule the pitch.

I’d say, “We work hard, but we play hard.” I’d make it sound noble. Maybe I’d even tell the new guys we knock from noon to eight, that it’s flexible, that you can pace yourself. But here’s how it would really go:

Morning meeting? 8:30 a.m. sharp.
Better be showered, dressed in red, smiling, clapping, cheering. Call it “hype culture.” Call it “energy.” Call it anything but the forced ritual it actually is.

You’re out the door by 8:15. Earlier if you’re in the far housing.
God forbid your ride shows up late—that’s docked points on the invisible scoreboard you didn’t know you were playing.

Then comes the field.

We’re talking sun-up to sun-down. Get dropped off around 11:30. Maybe 12:00. Start knocking. You knock till lunch. What’s lunch? Hour and a half. But it includes your ride to and from the lunch spot, so really it’s maybe 30 minutes at a gas station or Chipotle, sandwiched between car rides, if you’re lucky. No time to think. No time to breathe.

Then it’s back on the curb. More knocking.
You knock until 8:30 p.m.
Sometimes 9:00.
Sometimes later.

You don’t choose when to stop. You stop when your ride says to. And they’re not stopping until they’ve wrung every ounce of willpower out of the day.

You’re technically 1099. You’re technically “independent.”
But you’re on their schedule, eating what they eat, working when they work, riding where they go, staying where they stay. And you’re still going to be told to “take ownership.”

That’s the best part.
I don’t have to hold the leash if you chain yourself to the grind.

And if someone questions the hours?
I’d smile and say, “That’s just how winners are made.”
I’d tell them it’s about sacrifice. About building character.
I’d say it builds culture.

Because when the hours get long, and the pressure gets heavy, you don’t look outward. You look inward. You blame yourself for being tired.
And I’d never force you to stay.

I’d just make leaving feel like quitting on your team.

Twelve hours a day, six days a week. No overtime. No guarantee. No salary.

But hey, if I were evil, I’d call it “commission.”

And you’d eat it up like gospel.