I ran across a post that made me think. A guy named Robert Miller shared it on his Facebook page. I don't really know Rob, but we're "friends." Typical, right? Ugh, I won't go down that path. I have other points to harp on today.
I did meet him at a Marty Gallagher seminar at the University of Pennsylvania a couple years ago, and he's the model for Marty's CrossCore Hardcore book, so we're not complete strangers. I used to be a hot model, too, back when The Purposeful Primitive came out. Then I was replaced by young and beautiful Rob. I'm not bitter or anything, but I do hate him. Not really. Well, maybe.
Do I know much of anything about the guy, though? Nah. I do know a couple things. I know he was in the Navy. How do I know this? I'm fucking smart; that's how. And it says so on his page. "Aviation Warfare Systems Operator 2nd Class June 1997 to June 2002." There's also this telling cover shot of Rob looking like a broad-shouldered, trim-waisted, Navy badass:
Captain America? Good guess, but no. Rob Miller.
In addition to my awesome deductions about Rob's naval career, I also know he shares thoughtful insights from time to time. What, you ask, do I mean by "thoughtful?" Well, knuckleheads, they made me like... umm... you know... think! How so? In a nutshell (great AIC song, by the way), they were what I'd call atypical or unexpected for a meathead who served in the Navy. Right or wrong, I have certain expectations - stereotypes would be more truthful, I suppose - of dudes who train with weights and know how to operate automatic weapons.
Those expectations are part of the reason I've often felt like I don't quite fit in with fellow lifters. Our mutual interests, and maybe even value systems, seem to end with the iron. No need really getting into all of that, though. Suffice it to say Rob has surprised me and broken the mold quite a few times.
Still, I was dubious when I saw the post he shared titled, "Joe Rogan Brilliantly Explains Why Americans Are Still Asleep." I think I even rolled my eyes. The words "Joe Rogan" and "brilliant" in the same sentence? Hmm. Maybe I'm stereotyping again, but those two certainly don't go together anything at all like Forrest Gump's peas and carrots. More like oil and water, I thought.
Admittedly, Joe is another one I don't know much about, but facts are facts, Jack, and two facts I know about Joe are that he's a stocky looking meathead and an announcer for the UFC. This shit is oozing more blood lust than Charlie Manson's followers. Never mind the podcasts I've not once bothered listening to; clearly, I already had pretty strongly formed, albeit poorly researched, opinions.
So yes, I fully anticipated Joe's litany of reasons why America is asleep to include gems like being too lenient on illegal aliens or maybe failing to assert our world dominance with a continuing strong military presence in the Middle East. Heck, maybe ole Joe would say we should hunt down terrorists and behead them on primetime TV to send the right message.
All of this seemed like the sort of unreasoning I'd expect from the face of MMA. But I clicked anyway. I had five minutes to waste confirming my intellectual superiority.
And then something interesting happened. Joe was questioning some stuff. He called out big business. He wondered about the motives of our elected officials. He even put on his own air of superiority by pointing out the stupidity of average Americans, though I really think he was correctly speaking more about mental laziness.
And he said "fuck" a few times. Ah, sweet music to my ears. He had me at hello.
Joe Rogan, a guy I'd have handpicked as the poster child for blue collar "We'll put a boot in your ass" mentality was anything but. Listen for yourselves. The part around the two-minute mark where he's talking about getting sucked into the trap of nationalism particularly resonated with me. It really is easy to allow that to happen when you're a West Virginia boy who loves nothing more than to hang around a campfire drinking beer and talking shit with your buddies. 'Merica damn straight! We're #1, baby... ass kickers all the way!
Back to Joe. He sounded a little... dare I say it... counterculture! And how did counterculture become so uncool anyway??? Maybe a cool guy like Joe Rogan can make hippies hip again. I'm old but not old enough to have actually lived in the 1960s. Well, maybe just the tip; I was born in 1969. I may not have lived it, but I sure as hell read about it.
Those cats questioned shit, man. Side note: it's more fun if you reread that last sentence aloud and all drawn out like a pothead might say it, in a voice something like this one:
Anyway, back in the day, bucking authority and asking those hard questions wasn't frowned upon. Well, I suppose it's always frowned upon by the establishment. But it was also celebrated and revered by a large and vocal minority. They sang songs about defiance; songs like "Ohio" that memorialized the Kent State students who were tragically shot and killed protesting President Nixon's Cambodian campaign.
Now? Now we're living in some kind of weird opposites world where it's somehow cooler to fall in line, and I don't see much of that 1960s mentality at all - not the protests or the great songs celebrating the protests. I see young people mostly allowing themselves to be led like lambs to the slaughter. Maybe they're too busy playing video games to bother questioning anything. Now I do sound old!
I see so many people saying the same dumb things that I've fallen into my own trap. I think I know what a guy who looks like Joe Rogan is going to say before he even has a chance to open his mouth. Shame on me, I reckon.
But man does it ever feel good when you get that sort of completely unexpected surprise that just shatters the world order you've come to expect. BAM! It's like fireworks going off all around, exploding your normal way of thinking and replacing it with something new and beautiful. Like when some woman who looks like she'd have the voice of ten thousand hissing cats opens her mouth and beautiful angel music floats out.
That was wrong of me. I know. Too much emphasis in our society on looks. But everyone thought it, and many said it way before me. Doesn't make it right, though, and at least for once real talent didn't get ignored. Ah, whatever. Just have a listen:
More of this, please!
That's right. I want more of these unexpected surprises to inspire me to keep on being a disagreeable pain in the ass. They're around. I'm just not looking hard enough or appreciating them well enough when I do see them.
There's my friend, Marshall Roy, a meathead with muscles on top of muscles who doesn't look like he'd give one single fuck about feminist issues. But he does. And he's not just a quiet bystander about it, either. He calls out poor behavior. Hell, he even calls himself out sometimes for stuff that isn't even bad. Scan the dude's Facebook page. You'll be hard pressed to find a week that goes by where he doesn't stand up publicly for one of the core issues he believes in supporting. His actions match his words.
Clearly doesn't give a shit about using a proper coffee cup. Does care deeply about humanity.
There's my other friend, Derek Rodenbeck. Yep, I have a couple of them. He's another meathead. Notice a theme here? But he's an artist and a thinking man's meathead. He stood in my kitchen the other night and told me about his tour in Iraq and work as a PR agent for the Army's war propaganda machine. Derek took that camera of his out on his own and filmed some shit. But he didn't hide his footage away. He showed it to Army brass and pointed things out he didn't think were kosher.
Sure, they quashed it, but that's irrelevant. More importantly, Derek - a dude who looks like yet another male model, only this one has been crossed with a crazy bearded homeless street fighter; a dude who you'd expect to blindly charge right into the fray waving his sword wildly above his head (and I'm sure he'd do that, too, if his Army brethren were being asked to do it) - isn't just that. He's also a dude with a little Rob Miller and a little Joe Rogan and a little Marshall Roy in him. He's a dude who asks hard questions. He's a dude who knows the sword isn't the only way to prove you're a man.
Homeless psychopath who hedged his bets by pairing two types of camo? Indeed it would appear so. Truth seeker? Definitely.
I'm picky. I want to be inspired the way I want to be inspired. I want credible sources who've lived in the house, or at least in the same neighborhood, whose residents they're criticizing.
I don't want more Rosie O'Donnell's. I haven't actually seen Rosie on television in years and don't even know what she stands for anymore, so don't take that literally. She's just my poster person, justified or not, for advocating positions on which one has no credibility to speak. You know, typical rich Hollywood asshole telling us to support this cause or that cause but knowing little about it other than how to open her fat wallet and throw a few bills at the problem - a ceremonial act only and one utterly devoid of any real sacrifice. But who am I to judge? At least a person like that is doing something.
Still, the point is this. If Rosie told me to turn the other cheek and be a pacifist it would have the opposite effect. Remember that scene in Braveheart where the King is pondering the possibility of an enemy confronting his timid son and immediately being emboldened to invade? Yeah, it's like that. The bitch couldn't fight her way out of a wet paper bag, and I know it just by looking at her. There I go again assuming things based solely on appearance. That's okay; I really am right this time.
Please don't beat the shit out of me!
You feel me, dog? Seeing that, I smell blood in the water and am inspired, or maybe irritated, to violence. She has no credibility on matters involving aggression, because her only real choice is pacifism. Where the hell would violence land her other than the wrong end of a gut punch?
But if a meathead says violence is a poor choice and to try kindness and inclusion instead... hmm, that's interesting. Certainly, violence is a viable option for most meatheads I know.
And if Rob Miller or Derek Rodenbeck tells me to question our government... well now... that's entirely different, too. They've served. They've lived it. They know a thing or two about that of which they speak. Both sides of the coin, if you will. That's inspiring. I think I'll sit up and listen to that.
I've talked to enough people who served in our armed forces to know that many of them are the wisest and most skeptical people you'll ever encounter. They're far more leery of our government's motives and have far more insight into the way the world really works than most who haven't served. I guess the military does that to you. You see things you don't want to see; things that change you.
This Memorial Day, I have some grandiose ambitions. I'm going to start by cleaning up my own house. I say I want more inspiration, but maybe I should try being more inspiring.
I can be a little angry at times. You don't say! That anger is good when it's a driving force behind creativity or when it makes folks uncomfortable and prods them to see things from a different perspective. I've written some of my best material when I was pissed off. Lately, though, I think my anger has been turning me into that unbecoming green man a little too often.
So, mid-year's resolution... a little less anger and a little more thoughtful discourse on the issues that are important to me. I suppose this was a decent start. Surprising coming from a meathead, huh?
I also plan to say a prayer for all those who died in service. Along with that, I'm going to keep right on questioning a government that sends them to their deaths repeatedly, with little explanation of the motives, risks, or intended outcomes, and then treats those who somehow manage to make it out poorly when they return.
I approve of this message. Never was much of a Patriot anyway.
Three years will have passed on May 18th -- half the span of her short life -- and the heartbreak of losing Roo has not lessened. I wouldn’t want it to, so this is in some ways a self-fulfilling observation. But I’m not really buying that. Purposefully wallowing doesn’t have anything to do with my inability to heal. You just don’t heal from this no matter how positive your attitude is or isn’t.
The loss of my daughter, in fact, is easily the defining moment of my life. Other milestones good and bad -- graduations, marriages, divorces (yes, plural, as I am perhaps a more flawed being than many), hirings, firings, passing the bar, squatting 600 pounds, the upcoming publication of my first book -- all pale in comparison.
Don’t get me wrong, that 600 squat was damned sweet, and I’ll tip a glass in celebration of that one anytime you want. That was a fine day; a day shared with a few very good friends that should be celebrated over and over. I just don’t relate to anyone who says they had a feeling of disappointment on reaching a long sought after goal. I had none of that; only elation that persists to this day when I think about that wonderful moment in time a few short weeks before I had any inkling of the coming storm.
That’s my high water mark, and I couldn’t care less who thinks it’s a dumb one. I was a cockstrong motherfucker that day. I was turning the corner on a mess I made for myself, or so I thought. When Mike whispered in my ear that today was the day, not tomorrow or any other day, and that I should go out and take what I had worked so long for, I believed him and I seized the moment in one of those rare instances when the stars were all aligned just right. That some may not get it makes me savor it all the more.
Don’t fool yourselves; we all have that high point and it’s not always somewhere out there in the future. Sometimes it already happened. You can kid yourselves if you want, but I speak the truth. This doesn’t mean things that happen in the future can’t be good; they’re just not going to eclipse that one great thing.
A 655 deadlift last summer for a 25-pound PR as an old man… yep, that was pretty fucking cool and worth a drink of its own. I did it with the support of some really awesome folks, too. But it ain’t a 600 squat in a meet with three who were there for the entire training journey -- Gallagher, Wills, and McCammon -- cheering you on.
And you ain’t going home to hug your precious daughter, tell her what a bull daddy was today, and celebrate with ice cream instead of a drink. In case we’re not clear -- and I'm really talking to myself here -- that will never, ever, EVER happen again. Let that knife sink into your belly good and deep.
As
if it wasn’t in deep enough, I took a picture of her lying there in her casket
in her little Warehouse Mouse t-shirt. I wanted to feel every ounce of pain; I
still do. Pain like that and the sort of love we had go hand in hand.
Mary
found a seamstress who sews these custom shirts and sent her a picture to see
if she could duplicate this goofy mouse character Roo loved. She did a
fantastic job, sewing a mouse with bright orange, fuzzy hair that stuck out
from the fabric in sort of a three-dimensional rendering. Roo was so proud of
that shirt; I’d catch her patting her mouse on her tummy when she wore it. I’ll
share a picture of the mouse, but I’ll spare you the casket.
The few family members who knew I was
considering taking a picture of Roo after she passed advised me not to -- that
I wouldn’t want to remember her that way -- but I took it anyway. I knew
there’d be no more pictures to take, and this last morbid shot was the best I
was going to do. I don’t look at it, but I don’t regret taking it either. When
you have nothing to eat, you’ll pick from the garbage can.
I recall the day she died far more vividly than the best of my days, including even the day she was born. The sound of a steadily beating heart on the monitor just doesn’t ring in your ears like the deafening sound of one flatlining. Like coaches say, you remember the losses more than the wins, I suppose. And this one was the ultimate loss.
I ran across a Rose Kennedy quote on loss. She buried four children, I believe. “It has been said that ‘Time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens, but it is never gone.”
I believe her, though I don’t even think I’ve reached the scar tissue stage yet. I’ve been told I don’t have much of that self-protecting instinct, so maybe it’ll take quite a while or not happen at all. Maybe I’ll just walk around with open wounds.
I can take it, but I do sometimes wonder about those who try to endure me. I was an angry bear to be around at times before; now my fangs are really bared. I can often feel how agitated and unpleasant I am, and I don’t even want to do anything about it other than hit the gym a few times a week to keep from boiling over.
I figure this is reality and you can deal with it or leave. Makes no difference to me. The one I needed to stay the most is already gone. Your departure won’t even register.
There’s no silver lining in this dark cloud. Let’s expose another cliche. Everything actually doesn’t happen for a reason. That one irks me the most of all of them. Some things just happen. Either that, or God is just a dick. Take your pick.
Want to see me at my darkest? Tell me it happened for a reason to my face. I’ve heard some good ones… so she wouldn’t suffer; so I could write something real. Thanks, but I was just fine writing about fake shit, like lifting weights, for grown men who remain stuck in adolescence. And that kid was tough as a corn cob. She’d have suffered if it meant she could come back and play some more in the yard and jump on her trampoline.
I’ll give you a reason. You’re at the emergency room having your jaw wired shut because you’re too stupid not to keep your mouth shut about that which you can’t possibly know or understand. There’s your fucking reason. Or maybe I’m there having mine wired shut because you have skills on top of your ignorance. Either way, I don’t care, and not caring about what anyone thinks of me or even about what happens frees me to speak my mind.
Everyone enjoys watching a train wreck until they realize it's about to crash right into their living room.
You don't like that I swear a lot? It's offensive? Since when did you become such a pussy? Is this what happens to us when we get old? Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. How ya like that? It's on you. I always swore and you knew this, just like when you date someone and expect them to change. Sorry Charlie; ain’t happening. It ticked way up after my kid died, you say? Fucking right it did and you're a shitty fucking friend for caring about something so utterly meaningless.
Offensive language??? Really??? This may as well be Allen Iverson lamenting the lunacy of questioning his commitment to practice. Come the fuck on. I don’t have any real proof, so maybe I really am completely koo-koo and am just imagining this, but I have this persistent gut feeling that’s the dumb ass reason a few of you look away.
I don't pick up the phone or call you back? Again, it's on you. I've always hated the phone; always been this way and you know it. I feel trapped and suffocated from the moment I pick the damned thing up. I don’t know how to end the call graciously and some of you fools talk just to hear yourselves. Nevermind how trivial these crises sound from my perspective.
Maybe I have a goddamned disorder. It got worse? Damned right it did. Losing your kid fucks you up. If you didn't want to chit chat before, you really don't when your head is a war zone with mortar shells going off all around. Email me, bitches. I always answer email. Every. Single. Time.
In fact, my inbox is completely empty right now because I reply, thoughtfully I might add, to every single friend, and even a few who are in relationships (haha, couldn’t resist), who has ever contacted me. I clear my head and I write, but only when I’m good and ready. It's how I communicate best.
You don't approve of some of my choices? Finally… progress and not more idiotic bullshit! You actually hit on a good one. I don't approve of them, either. I did some truly assholish things to some great people. And I admitted it, asked for their forgiveness, and tried to move forward. I don't approve of you passing judgment when you clearly have your own imperfections. So there.
Bottom line... I'm not saying my behavior was exemplary, but I should have gotten somewhat of a pass, at least to the extent you didn’t just turn your backs. I went to hell. I'm still in hell. I needed my friends, and I needed them on my shaky terms, yet most of them abandoned me before grass grew on the mound of dirt covering her body.
Now? Now I don't care. It all sorted out and I see who's left. To this precious group... thank you from the bottom of my heart. I love you. To the rest... not “Go to hell.” It ain’t that bad. But I don’t need you like I did before; that’s for sure.
I floundered around. I still flounder. But I started writing. I made a couple breaks for myself and a couple fell in my lap when I put myself out there that more than made up for a few rejections. None of it fixes losing Ruby, and nothing ever will, but I can kind of stand on my own, at least for now, with the support of those who stuck it out with me.
I’ll write some more. I’ll keep working on this idea of a business built around what I love -- strength. We’ll see how it goes.
I guess I’ll catch up with all you transient friends sometime when it's convenient. Maybe we’ll just continue to like each other’s shit on Facebook without even really taking time to look at it or read it. That seems like a great plan.
Maybe you had your own shit to deal with. Hell, maybe you were just busy and not put off by something I did or didn’t do. Whatever the reason, I forgive you, though it would have been swell of you to ask. I'm just bummed you're not who I thought you were. If you read that and thought of Dennis Green, you know your football so there’s at least something redeemable in you.
Roo lives on in my mind as an absolutely perfect, innocent child, but life is far from perfect. In reality, if she’d have lived longer, she’d have let me down in some way. She probably wouldn’t have been a lifter. Ugh. Open me up while I’m awake and jiggle my liver around with a spoon, why don’t you.
Far worse, I’d have let her down. I wouldn’t have always just been an indestructible gorilla to climb on and drag around by the finger. I’d have been a guy who hurt her mom, among other things.
But we'd have found a way to patch it up. We’d have had no choice. She was my soul, and you can’t live without your soul. I know this too well.
As seems to be my MO, I started this letter raging and now that I got it off my chest I’m starting to breathe a little more easily. I better say this now, while my mood has softened a bit, before the beast returns. I’ll never apologize for speaking my mind, but I am sorry if my words hurt or offend you.
Yes, I’m even sorry about the swearing, but not sorry enough to stop. I really, really like to swear! It actually makes me happy and sort of giddy. If “baked potato” was a taboo word and “fuck” was just a word for a vegetable (or is it a starch?... fuck, I don’t know), I’d probably run around hollering baked potato.
I’m sorry for some words I’ve already written and sorry for some I’m going to write. Most of all, I’m sorry you didn’t get to know her, so you might understand what all this turmoil is about.
If my words get too heavy or I’m just being too big a jerk, tune me out for a while. The best part of me died three years ago. You all are stuck dealing with what’s left wandering around post personal apocalypse, or maybe making the self-preserving choice not to deal with it sometimes.
But come back when you’re ready. Even if at times it seems as if I’m trying to alienate, I’m really reaching out and trying to connect through my writing. We want to connect with other human beings, and our ugliness shows when that’s not happening.
Sometimes I get it right; I know because a few of you have told me as much. Despite my demons and slights, both perceived and real, you are important to me. And if you wade through enough of my venom, you might find something you can use to get through your own dark hours.
All this outrage over participation trophies in youth sports has me puzzled. They're not new, you know? I collected a few all the way back in the 1970s -- when parents were all supposedly hard asses who wouldn't dream of coddling their kids -- and in backwards-ass West Virginia, no less, where political correctness and worrying about hurting someone's feelings are about as popular as the EPA or gun control.
If we had 'em, I know you civilized folks from Connecticut and Michigan and Kansas had them too. They weren't as big or flashy as the championship trophies, but they existed and no one seemed to mind. But boy are they ever the devil's handiwork these days. I really laugh when I hear some lifter dude rant about them. The irony is that the objector is usually the same sort of dick weed who enters every damned division at the local power meet and "wins" them all. Never mind he was the only goddamn entrant in the Dave's Gym Sanctioned by Dave Backyard Power Wars age 38 to 38.5 sub-sub-masters women's novice raw except not raw because they allow a belt, knee wraps, wrist wraps and a tourniquet and you don't have to walk it out division.
Wait? Novice? Pretty sure we've been competing in the same meets since '94.
Well... yeah... but I've never won the open division so I'm still considered a novice.
Have you ever entered the open division?
Umm, no, but that's beside the point.
Fine. Whatever. Congrats on your big win. Um, I mean wins. My head hurts. See ya.
That's right, bitches! A war chest full of trophies for me!
See that one in his left hand? Your other left. I have an identical copy. Won it in '97 in York. We only got seven attempts for the entire meet instead of the usual nine and you could use them any way you wanted as long as you spent at least one on each lift. I might have taken five attempts to get in one deadlift, but I earned that shit that day.
I used to store my car keys in it, but every once in a while I'd have a couple drinks too many, fill it up, bellow something about being the Bull God or King Fucking Kong, and take a big swig without remembering to remove them. I hid it from myself so that wouldn't happen anymore and now I don't know where it is.
This guy guzzled one too many drinks from his Best Actor trophy.
At any rate, I love all of my brethren who compete, but if most powerlifting awards aren't fucking participation trophies, then I don't know what the hell they are. And yet the hatred is real.
There was even a commercial during the Super Bowl denouncing them. This dad and his kid get in the car after the big baseball game the kid's team won. Dad takes the kid's trophy, rips the participation moniker off, writes "champs" while muttering something about winning every game, and smugly hands the trophy back to his kid.
Apparently, that commercial was a smash hit. The only thing I thought about smashing when I saw it was my TV screen.
It's a car commercial, and I guess the theme is excellence or something like that. And it's for Kia. That's right, fucking Kia. I'm not saying they're bad cars. Hey, I know it's not just the Big Three anymore. I was around in the 1970s when Datsun sucked. Then they learned how to build cars and became Nissan, which I understand is half decent. So while I've never driven or even ridden in a Kia, I'm sure they're alright.
The point is, if I was giving out trophies to car companies, Kia would get the participation trophy, not the excellence trophy. In no way, shape, form, or fashion do I associate Kia with anything other than being a player in the game -- a participant. Excellence? Well, that's reserved for Mercedes or Audi or some other precision engineered German bullshit.
As thick-headed as I am, I do realize that even by mentioning this steaming turd a few of you will Google it and give them extra publicity. Oh well. At least I didn't link it right to your curious little finger tips.
Let's clear something else up. The damn commercial doesn't even make sense. They act like there's only one fucking trophy for everyone, and that ain't how it works. In reality, the winners, and even the runners up, actually do get trophies with the appropriate designation. And then everyone, winners included, gets the smaller participation trophies. At least that's how it is in West Virginia, but maybe we're just smarter than the rest of you dumb fucks.
I'm not trying to expose plot holes in commercials -- 'pot holes' might not make sense there but it sure would be funny since, you know, I'm talking about a car commercial -- or to denigrate car companies. I'm working my way toward crucifying asshole parents. Let's get to that.
So your eight-year-old's team won every fucking game, huh? Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. No one outside Mayberry gives a shit anyway, and I bet the big winning streak didn't have diddly to do with your little spawn. In fact, they probably won 'em all in spite of your bumble fuck brat.
That coach of yours is the youth league Lombardi. When that kid from the wrong side of the tracks showed up sporting muscles like a testosterone-infused teenager from fighting off his five older brothers, ole coach knew he had a ringer. Think Kelly from Bad News Bears only big, athletic, and with less resemblance to a pot head ne'er-do-well.
Tell me again how this douche carried the team.
All of you living-on-credit-to-impress-the-neighbors yuppies with perfectly manicured lawns wouldn't dream of letting your kids cavort with real-life Kelly, except of course if it meant he might carry their shitty team to victory. And carry he did. Man-child might be fielding with his brother's hand-me-down Goodwill glove, but he catches better bare handed than your coddled sissy-boy with his $350 Rawlings. At least you won't have to worry about your golden child knocking up some poor little rich girl in a few years; that kid couldn't catch herpes in a whore house.
Not to worry, though, that public school thug your team's genius coach found ran down every ball hit out of the infield, belted 106 home runs, and brought home the coveted championship of Pleasantville. He was a goddamned one-man wrecking crew.
Even so, his parents didn't show up to see a single one of those tape measure dingers, and they certainly weren't showing up to collect some lame trophy, participation or otherwise. They're not going to win any prizes for model parenting either, but at least they're not pushy assholes. And they're not so deluded as to think winning every game, or any game, at eight years old matters one iota. Hell, if I had to choose, I'd take the deadbeat parents over the win-at-all-costs psycho nut job parents.
And if your team didn't have said ringer, then you probably won because your jerk of a coach played the best nine players only while everyone else sat there keeping the bench from flying away. Either way, even if your kid was one of the anointed nine, he ain't the next Mike Trout. Keeping with the fish theme, he's just a big fish right now in a very small pond. Odds are, you'll have burnt him out with all this ludicrous pressure to win before he even makes it to high school ball.
Speaking of high school, if this was high school ball we were talking about here, things would be a little different. By the time you get to high school, things are getting a little serious. College scholarships are on the line, and winning actually starts to mean something. Not everyone plays, and no, there aren't participation trophies.
But here's a little newsflash for all you dumb fuckers who didn't even play anything in high school. Even at this somewhat advanced level, participation is still recognized. There's a thing called a sports banquet at the end of the year. At least there is in communities where the residents don't have their heads completely up their asses. At the sports banquet, the name of every kid who participated is read aloud as they walk to the front, shake hands with the coaches, and receive a nice little participation certificate. Sure, there might also be some awards for stellar play, but every kid, even the ones whose names the coaches don't remember, is acknowledged.
Let me reiterate this, because it's probably the only point I'm going to make in this entire article that's not laced with profanity. Participation is recognized and appreciated at all levels of sports.
You might have heard of Peyton Manning? He's an actor. He's also that old geezer quarterback -- younger than me, though, by damn near a decade -- who just rode a phenomenal defense to a Super Bowl victory in spite of his own shitty play when, really, Tom Brady and the Patriots should have won if they hadn't been decimated by injuries. Wait, I'm about to trail off on a tangent about deflated footballs and growth hormone and media coverage and public perception.
Manning, we're talking about Manning. He might be done as a player, but he's still all the way there as a man in my book. While he rehabbed a foot injury during the season, a practice squad receiver named Jordan Taylor ran routes for him every day. When Manning limped back into the lineup to claim that Super Bowl, guess who he bought a brand new suit for to wear on the flight to the big game? That's right, you guessed it... practice squad player, scrub, loser, participant... whatever you want to call him... Jordan Taylor.
No chance of seeing the field. Wearing a fucking sweet suit anyway.
You hear these kinds of stories all the time. Some marginal player who barely made the team emulated the other team's star quarterback in practice so the first team defense could kick the shit out of him, get their reads down, and perfect a winning game plan. That dude who's just another guy and was never going to play during live game action made all the difference in the world. His participation mattered, and you can bet your ass his teammates know it and will recognize it in some fashion.
It's not just the stars who win games. Every member of a successful team, from the star down to the guy who barely made the team, contributes in some way. That's a huge part of winning culture, in sports and in life. By telling an eight-year-old participation doesn't matter, you're telling him there's no point being a good teammate if you're not the star.
I was one of those kids in Little League who rode the pine. Whatever wire disconnected since, I was a good kid back then - timid, small for my age, and with lousy eyesight that hadn't been sorted out yet. But I was proud to be on a team; I liked wearing my jersey; and I did whatever my coaches asked without question because my mom taught me to be polite and respectful and because I wanted to help out. Guess I had being a good teammate pretty well figured out. Most kids do when their parents aren't filling their heads with nonsense about how winning the pee-wee bowl is somehow going to propel them to NFL stardom.
What exactly does a real star player look like? I've heard professional hitters talk about picking up the rotation of the laces on the ball as it comes out of the pitcher's hand and determining whether it's a curve or a fastball early in the ball's flight. That's right; they can see the LACES! That's what true talent is, and your kid ain't got it. I promise you that.
This bully hates participation trophies. He's holding a couple he stole from his sons to teach them participating sucks. With genetics like that, I'm sure no one in this family is losing sleep over a participation trophy.
You could forget me picking up the laces. I sure didn't have it either. I couldn't even see the damn ball. It just looked like a white blur about three feet long hurtling toward me, and it didn't help that I blinked every time I felt it coming close. It wasn't until after I grew up that I turned into a masochist who would enjoy being hit in the face, but at eight I wasn't so ridiculous and was actually afraid of a baseball thrown by some kid who I just knew didn't have a clue where it was going.
Every disastrous at-bat, I'd take whatever flailing hack or three I could take and resume my position on the bench. Or I'd just stand there with the bat on my shoulder, hoping the pitcher was too wild to get three strikes over the plate and would walk me. I was so damned short that actually worked sometimes. Whatever strategy I employed, I netted all of about three hits in that entire illustrious season. I think two of them went for extra bases, so at least I was swinging for the fences.
Most of the time, I sat there with my thumb up my ass, wishing we could get out of the hot sun and go swimming soon, and glimpsing the field only for the bare minimum youth rules required. Thanks, coach. I really stand a snowball's chance in hell of improving at this game while sitting here watching the kids who already know what they're doing do it some more. Maybe I shouldn't get that fucking participation trophy after all, seeing as how no one ever lets me, umm, participate.
The truth is, there are a lot more kids like I was in any youth sport than there are really good or interested ones. They're kids. They don't even know what they like yet. And much of the time, even the sane parents are enrolling them in anything and everything that comes down the pike in order to keep them busy and work off some of that crazy kid energy so they'll sleep at night. Participants are really all they're going to be.
The hope, I guess, is that they'll find something that really interests them at some point, and I suppose that sort of "throwing darts at the board and hoping one sticks" strategy isn't a bad one. Exposure to different experiences and all that jazz. You think more parents would realize this is what's going down. Maybe they do. Maybe it's just the crazy ones who are so vocal in their disdain for the kids who are there for the experience and haven't figured out yet if this is their life's passion.
Why is this bench warmer wearing a blanket? It's hot as fuck out here.
So what's behind all this vitriol toward the participation trophy? The best I can figure is that it comes mostly from a bunch of frustrated jock wannabes who never did much even in their so-called primes and certainly don't do anything these days besides drink beer and move further and further away from anything resembling athletic. Their tales of their youthful athletic exploits get bigger with each passing year. In reality, most of these peanut dicks could have never hoped for anything more than a participation trophy themselves, but of course they conveniently forget that fact so they can take the hard-line, tough guy stance.
I got a little something to say about that. For starters, shut up fat boy and sit your blow hard ass down. I got trophies for everybody and there ain't shit you can do about it. I'm the real bully up in here, only my marks are the other bullies. You don't like it that everybody's kid gets a trophy? Do something about it. I'm just itching to make you eat this fucking thing.
Guess what else? I got trophies for all kinds of people you probably hate as much as I hate you. The same sort of jackass who doesn't think an eight-year-old deserves a participation trophy probably thinks liberal is just another word for pussy. Yep, I just said the dirty word. Oh yes I did! Not pussy, dumb ass, liberal. And I got trophies for liberals too, fuck-face.
I'm sick of listening to your fucked up logic about how anything left of center is weak or un-American. Social Security is 81 years old -- older than your dead grandma -- for Christ's sakes. It's pretty much ingrained in the fabric of our society. Capitalism is great, but only an absolutist moron with no appreciation for history would think it should dictate every policy decision. Obamacare, for example, while not perfect, is monumental legislation that improves hundreds of thousands of lives.
And if driving a giant pick up truck to make up for the fact you have a tiny little penis even though you never do anything resembling manual labor isn't environmentally irresponsible, then it's at least a pretty stupid way to spend your money. So go ahead and do that. Give a big chunk right back to the big business you so love voting into office. The rich get richer at your foolish expense and you think middle class economic woes have something to do with food stamps and free loaders. Moron.
You like apples? How you like them apples?
Call me a liberal pussy to my face, motherfucker. We'll see who's what when you're spitting up a mouthful of blood and your goddamn teeth. Don't act all horrified and offended. I'm just putting it in language you'll understand. Bomb the terrorists' families, right?
Are you finished, Mr. Slade? No, I'm just gettin' warmed up.
I got trophies for gay people too and all kinds of trans this and that people. You're definitely the type who would be chafed by that. Gay! Gay! Gay! We're all gay and we're coming to your house to fly a gay pride flag in your front yard and ass rape you right there in your own bed!
I'm no expert on any of this sexual identity stuff, by the way, and I don't pretend to be. Hell, I don't even really understand the terminology. Could you tell when I just wrote "trans this and that" above rather than elaborating? But I don't have to have a complex understanding to know what should be common sense.
I've never lost a wink of sleep worrying about someone else's sex life, and you're an idiot if you have. As long as whatever is happening between two people or a big ole group of them isn't hurting anyone who doesn't want to be hurt, then have at it. Fuck whoever you want. Fuck your couch if you want. And if you need somebody to strap a homophobic bully who hates liberals and participation trophies to a chair, tape his eyes open Clockwork Orange style, and make him watch gay porn until his dick shrivels and falls off, I'm your man.
You're really not my favorite person mister pushy dad raising your all-star athlete kid and teaching him to begrudge all us lesser beings our loser participation trophies. That's coming through here, isn't it? Let's try it one more way just in case it's still a little fuzzy.
If you're feeling left out, I brought your trophy. It's a pointy little Father of the Year trophy, and I think I'll wedge it up your ass. I still can't hit a baseball, but I did grow up strong like bull. I'm pretty sure I can make good on my threat, at least with the piece of shit audience to which this little ditty is directed.
Really? This thing is so fucking great you put a watermark on it so I can't use it. I should shove it up your ass.
Oh wait, you'd probably enjoy getting rammed in the ass, even though it's the last thing you'd admit. That little trophy would open up a whole new world to you. Never mind. I ain't doing you any favors.
There's a flaw in my logic anyway. You're probably also the type who thinks it's a good idea for regular citizens to tote concealed weapons around town for protection, and you'd likely pull yours on me instead of just taking your well-deserved beating like a man. I won't argue with you there. I figure a gun is about your only chance in this fight provided you don't shoot yourself in the foot pulling it out like I imagine you probably will.
So there it is. The self-annointed super hero Captain Participation Trophy -- champion of children, lousy athletes, liberals, and gay people and hater of overbearing jock dads -- is here to save the fucking day. Never mind you think liberal and gay are the same thing. That's completely beside the point.
CPT will fuck you up!
Here's a shiny participation trophy for everyone. Weeeeeeee! I'm even giving one to those sensitive kids I read about who jump imaginary jump ropes in gym class. They weren't jumping as well as the other kids and their feelings were hurt, so the teacher confiscated all the ropes and made everyone jump air to level the playing field. It doesn't take much timing, after all, to jump air.
I might even think that's taking it too far and that a few of us could stand to toughen up just a little, but fuck it. Everybody gets a trophy today. And all you jump rope all-stars can keep right on jumping and stop worrying about anyone else's business for a change.
Jesus, forget my piddly biases about who should have won the Super Bowl. This was a downright righteous fucking tangent! What was I even talking about??? I don't know. Actually, I think it all fits together rather nicely. But for the sake of trying to stay on topic, let's get back to my original rant. What the hell was it? Oh yes, participation trophies in youth sports. Right.
Of all the causes to passionately defend, why in the world would I pick this obscure one? I dunno. It touched a nerve. Obviously.
This kid has more trophies than you. Nah-nah-na-boo-boo.
I pictured my little girl when I saw that commercial. She wasn't going to win anything yet, and maybe she never would have. She was tiny -- much tinier than I was at her age even though I was small -- and way behind other kids.
I knew she knew a lot. She could navigate all over the place with this uncanny sense of direction. She was at Ocean City when she was maybe three years old. A full year later she returned and led her mother by the hand right back to the same room she stayed in previously! Yet she was barely speaking -- just a few words and broken phrases. So yes, she had a ton of catching up to do and would have been lucky to even participate in an organized sport in any manner.
But if she had, I bet she'd have marched off the field carrying her participation trophy like it was a gold nugget. I'd have kissed her soft little cheeks and told her how proud I was. Then we'd have ridden off to get ice cream and celebrate while listening to her favorite songs. One time we were sitting at a picnic table eating ice cream, and she tasted my flavor and decided she liked it better than hers. She didn't say a word -- strong, silent type that kid. She just slid her bowl in front of me and slid mine in front of her. That was that.
She'd have probably slept with her little trophy the night she got it. She liked taking everything she could carry to bed with her, especially new stuff. She'd trudge up the stairs tripping over the tattered blanket she drug behind her, both arms full of toys and sippy cups and whatever else had her attention. I usually walked right behind her, scared to death she'd topple over and go careening down the stairs backwards on her head.
I sure wouldn't have wanted anyone telling her her trophy didn't matter. Because it would have mattered to us. If someone said it didn't matter, it would have been like saying she didn't matter. And boy did she ever matter. I miss her so damned much. She's with me every minute of every day. If you're ever talking with me and you think she's not there somewhere, she is.
You don't need to feel sorry for me. Hell, I'm kind of a venomous jerk at times. And I certainly did some really stupid shit, but I knew -- I still know -- something few people ever get to experience. I know true, unconditional love.
I realize I went a little nuts here. I'm almost done, though. There's just a bit more swearing, spitting, and teeth gnashing to endure.
Here's all I'm really saying. Life can be hard sometimes. Really fucking hard. And you might not have a clue what the hell someone is going through; what kind of loss they've suffered; what kind of addiction is gripping them; what kind of guilt they carry; or what demons haunt them.
Don't do as I do. I'm a lousy example. Do as I say. Be a little less judgmental of others. And if all you can do is outwardly be nice while inside you're seething at their stupidity or incompetence or weirdness or whatever, then do that.
Sometimes, participation, even just dragging out of bed to participate half-assedly, is all someone can muster. If it's not directly messing you up, and maybe even if it is if it's only temporary, then let that be good enough.
If someone had ever said my daughter didn't matter, explicitly or tacitly, I'd have certainly jumped in their face and threatened them about like I did here. I might have even beaten their ass. Oh well. Sorry not sorry. That's my kid you're fucking with. I guess that's why this particular issue is a hot button with me.
Sooooo.... I think that about covers it. I'm pretty sure I managed to get everything off my chest that's been bothering me and probably piss half the people I know off in the process. Damn do I feel better! If you're still around, here's a little present for you.
If you don't agree with what I wrote, it's not a difference of opinion. You're actually just stupid, and you can fuck off. Facebook really should have added that option to the new like buttons.
Now check out the short video below. You'll be treated to something way better than anything I ever wrote.
First chair drummer? Oh hell no. Participation trophy for being a member of the band? You bet your ass!
