You know, it occurs to me that I may have a sort-of-relevant mirror-image story to tell. One of the most profoundly embarassing stories of my life.
As a youngster I was very awkward–damned near physically retarded by comparison to my peers. That of course didn’t keep my psychotic parents from subjecting me to near constant ridicule by enrolling me in the stupid soccer league twice a year and basketball every winter. At first they could shame me into doing it semi-voluntarily, but after the humiliation started to scrape nerves, it came down to naked coersion.
I played basketball for what… five seasons, second grade through seventh? My statisics are impressive. Career scoring: 4 points. Foul shot percentage: the empty set. Steals: numerous, if you count the times the ball was stolen from me. Court time: one-eigth of the entire hellish time I had to deal with that shit, the minimum allowable by the league rules. Every kid on the roster had to play at least 1/8 of each game, and my coaches all ensured that’s exactly what I did.
Usually my five minutes of fame would come early in the game, so the team could make up for me.
This one particular year the coach had a couple of 8-th grade-ish sons who were classic jock pricks. The first hellish evening of practice one of the bastards caught me looking the wrong way in a passing drill and fed me a Wes Unseld inbound straight to my face as I turned my head. And yes, everyone laughed. It was all downhill from there.
And since I had no choice in the matter I was at every practice, on time, with my folks carefully delivering me straight to the coach so I couldn’t go hide in the bushes like I fuckin 'A would have had I been given half the chance.
The end of the season rolled around and the end-of-the-year party and awards ceremony was scheduled. Several eighteen-inch tall phallic symbols were distributed to the future of the NBA, and then I heard the coach making a chillingly familiar-sounding speech. It went something like this:
We have one final award for someone on this team. He didn’t put many [read: any] points on the board, and he didn’t win any games at the last second like Cochrane did. But he came to every practice, and showed up for every game. He was always there for us. A real team player. That guy is Sofa King.
And there I was, presented with the only trophy I ever won in my life, similar to the other guys’, but smaller in size. Like my penis. And there, inscribed on a little stick of brass is said:
**Sofa King
UNSUNG HERO**
Jesus H. Mary Wollstonecraft, I thought I was going to die. The kids who won the awards were leering at me mockingly. The kids who didn’t win the awards were pissed that I, the shittiest player on the team bar none, got something when they didn’t. The parents all had that, “aww, idn’t dat kyoot,” look, and the coach? He was choking one back, the fucker.
I tell ya–and this is the moral of the story–here is nothing more terrible than being presented with an award for sucking. That award was less than worthless. It was like a singularity that orbited my ten-year old life and stripped away my outer sphere of self esteem.
I kept that pathetic trophy around for years, first because I was required to display it, then because I thought it was kind of funny. Then when I was in college I knocked off the inscription plate.
So I mounted it on the base plate of my bong.