My last post has me thinking about trophies. Growing up, I collected them. I had at least fifty of them, stacked on top of a filing cabinet in my room, taking up space in the bookshelves. I had swimming trophies, soccer trophies, football trophies and baseball trophies. There was a little one I got for third place in the second heat of the freestyle event at the El Centro Invitational, and there were big mammoth ones I got for being the Most Valuable Player during a couple seasons of Pop Warner. I didn't care much for medals and only slightly more more plaques...but if I got a trophy for something, you could rest assured I was going to keep it. As the collection grew, I constantly re-arranged it. Big ones in back, little ones in front. Important ones in the center, stupid bullshit trophies (as if there could be such a thing) off to the sides. Every now and then, I even dusted them, which should tell you a lot about just how important they were to my adolescent existence.
And then, one day, I threw almost all of them away.
I'm not really sure what prompted it. Maybe I ran out of room. Maybe it was because I could see the rest of the house slowly filling up with useless shit and I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't anything like that. Maybe they just stopped being so important. I don't know. What I do know is that, one day, I filled up a big black trash bag with 16 years of trophies, hauled it across the street to the trash bin in the parking lot of Calexico High School, and dumped it.
Out of fifty some odd trophies, I kept maybe five. Of those five, only two of them came with me when I grew up and left home. Of those two, only one of them is worth writing about. This one:
Though it's not the biggest, it is probably the most expensive trophy I ever received, a solid pewter figurine with a custom engraving. But it's not the price of it that makes it special. It happens to be the only award I ever received from my parents, and that makes it priceless.
Even more priceless, is what it reminds me of. Though I have often faulted them for not being around, my parents...both of them...went to every single game my senior year, sometimes driving a couple hours each way. Didn't matter where. Didn't matter when. I knew if I looked into the stands, they'd be there. When the season was over, my team had won the league championship for the first time in twenty years, and I was the first player in recent memory to be selected for First Team All League Honors for Offense and Defense. There were ceremonies and trophies and plaques, but none of it mattered as much as that little white box my dad handed to me after everything else was said and done.
"Your mom and I saw this in San Diego and it made us think of you. So we got it."
I don't think he said it, but somehow, hefting that little statue in my hand, I could feel he was proud.
I thought about that trophy today as my physical therapist had me going up and down four flights of stairs, running backwards and shuffling from side to side. The exercises were a sign of how well I am healing, but they also reminded me of those days on a football field. They made me think of how hard I worked to be excellent. To be better. It was never good enough to go slow, and fast was only good if there was nobody faster. I gave everything every time because, when there was a choice regarding who should get the ball, I wanted to make sure coach chose me.
The logical progression of these thoughts would be that they inspired me to do better at physical therapy so I could once again get the call, make my dad proud, or some other sappy rubbish. That would be the logical play, after all. But my thoughts took a funny turn here. You see, the interesting thing about football is that, making a great play on the field is sure fire way to get your ass kicked when you get off of it. As soon as you come to the sidelines, your teammates beat you senseless.
Way to go, Tit! BAM! a smack across the helmet.
THAT'S what I'm fucking talking about, brother!! BOOM! a shove in the chest.
Yeah, baby, YEAH!!! screams your coach as he grips your face mask and swings your head violently from side to side.
If you did really great, you migh even have the pleasure of being crushed beneath a pile of sweaty men children in stinky shoulder pads. And, if you have ever had the privilege of being honored in such a fashion, you know that you love every last second of it, because you know you're getting your ass kicked because you're so FUCKING AWESOME!!
See, this is the thought I had while I jogged backwards down the hall of a medical building, moving faster than I have in months. What if that's what's going on now? I mean, maybe, just maybe, the beatdown I feel like I've been getting is just Life's way of mobbing me when I come to the sidelines? Just your average brain numbing palm slap to the crown of a helmet? What if, all of this is just a way of reminding me that, if I keep being so ever-loving awesome, I'm gonna earn myself the best trophy ever?
I don't know. It's just a thought.
A thought quickly answered by my internal coach:
THOUGHT!! It's not your job to THINK, Tittle! It's your pansy ass job to get out there and make a goddamn play!
I briefly toy with explaining to him the inherent toughness of pansies. Maybe some other time.
I'm ready, coach. Give me the ball.
