It's Not My Fault

Think about the last time you heard a truly spectacular excuse. A masterpiece of misdirection, not just a flimsy, see-through apology. It might have been at work, when a missed deadline was blamed on a mysterious software glitch that only affected one person. Or maybe it was at home, when a forgotten chore was attributed to a sudden, urgent phone call that left no trace in the call log. These excuses are intricate stories we tell ourselves and others. They function as a kind of psychological currency, allowing us to buy our way out of accountability. But what if the real art lies in recognizing the universal human need that powers the excuse? What if our relentless drive to deflect blame is a fundamental, even predictable, part of our social wiring?

This very question became an obsession for Joshua Shifrin. As a practicing trial lawyer, Shifrin spent years in a world where assigning blame is the entire point of the game. He witnessed firsthand how intelligent, successful people—from corporate executives to ordinary citizens—constructed elaborate narratives to avoid responsibility. He noticed that the patterns were shockingly consistent, regardless of the stakes. This was about human nature. Shifrin began documenting these encounters as a field guide to the human art of the excuse. "It's Not My Fault" is the culmination of that decade-long project, a book born in the trenches of the courtroom, where the architecture of blame is on full display every single day.

Module 1: The Anatomy of the Amateur Excuse

Let's start with the basics. Why do we even make excuses? The book suggests it's about managing the psychological sting of failure. For the amateur player, the stakes are personal. A loss can feel like a direct reflection of your worth. So, we build a defensive wall of reasons.

The first layer of this wall is often our own bodies. Minor physical ailments are the go-to excuse because they are common and unverifiable. Think about it. "Tennis elbow" is a classic. You can drop your racket, rub your arm, and your opponent can't exactly prove you wrong. The book lists a whole catalog of these. A blister. A bad back. A cramp on a hot day. These excuses work because they are plausible. Everyone has felt a twinge of pain. Leveraging this shared experience makes the excuse socially acceptable. It’s a simple way to signal that you weren’t playing at 100 percent.

But what if your body feels fine? Then it's time to blame your tools. Equipment failure is the perfect scapegoat because it shifts blame to an inanimate object. Your gear is the problem, not your skill. "My strings are too tight." "This racket is too old." "My shoes don't have enough grip." This is a powerful move. It externalizes the failure completely. You didn't lack control. Your string tension was off. You didn't miss the shot. The racket's sweet spot is too small. One of the most relatable examples is breaking a string and not having a backup. It’s a moment of pure bad luck—or so the story goes.

Then there's the environment. You can't control the weather, can you? So, attributing a loss to court conditions or the weather makes failure an act of nature. "The sun was in my eyes." This is a timeless excuse, especially for a botched overhead smash. "It was too windy." This one is great because it makes the game sound almost impossible. The ball was moving like a "ping pong ball." You were battling the elements. Poor lighting, an unswept court, a lack of windscreens—all of these transform a personal loss into a struggle against an unfair environment. The universe is against you.

And here’s the thing. All these excuses serve a single purpose. They protect our motivation. By finding a reason for the loss, we give ourselves permission to try again next week.