For The Participation Trophy Kids
I was listening to The Secret Lives Of Black Women Podcast episode with Mecca Woods. And Mecca said something about Libras that definitely spoke to me. She was saying how some Libras feel like it’s our job to make people realize they aren’t the only ones in the room. I know I definitely have some of that need to advocate / support in what I do for a living. I wouldn’t call myself an “ally” as much as I’d say I’m an empath.
I start here to say this… the anti-participation trophy people definitely feel there’s only one mainstream experience in the room. And that makes me sad. I don’t know if it’s America’s praise for the hyperbolic capitalistic lionization of dominating others or what. But I do know that scarcity of resources (in this case recognition) brings it out of folks.
Despite the fact that people have been having this same “anti-participation trophy” angst for 100 years now people still act insulted by the notion. It’s the parents who decided to hand these out and yet the same trophies are used to demean the children who are given those symbols. Weirdos.
But probably what makes me the saddest is the idea that there’s no value in participation. That there is nothing to be celebrated in trying unless you come in first place or are the best on the team. I’m so disappointed in that mentality from adults. Perhaps it’s why people shortsightedly call for Serena Williams to retire since she is coming in second at major tournaments this year?
When I was a kid I had debilitating asthma until I was 15. It’s not like the movies. You don’t take a hit from an inhaler and then run around just fine after. I’m talking long nights where my parents worried over if I was going to die or not. Even something as small as laughing too much could cause an attack. I still remember my mother running hot water in the tub for me to inhale slowly as I tried to will my chest to stop the spasms. Walks in the humid rain, Vick’s vapor rub and of course the inhaler.
Eventually it lessened as I got older but didn’t completely go away. Things other kids took for granted like running the mile in gym class daily, were not on the table for me. It wasn’t a matter of will power or mental toughness. My body wouldn’t allow me to simply put my mind to being excellent.
So when my asthma started to subside as I entered my teens I was behind the other kids in every sports skill area. I was also physically behind them in a way that I would never truly catch up to. I felt weak. I felt soft. I felt inferior. And some kids made sure to drill that into me as well. Thank God I never had the kind of parents who tried to make me feel that way at home.
For years I would watch my father play basketball from the sidelines with the other kids. Knowing I would never be out there. My younger brother would play in basketball leagues and excel and I knew that I’d have probably ended up in the hospital if I had done the same thing. I wasn’t jealous but I definitely felt isolated. Maybe it’s why I learned to love to read and get lost in nerdy pursuits. But eventually when I reached my teens the asthma started to not be as debilitating. I associated basketball with my father and my brother. With manhood, camaraderie and blackness.
So I tried out for a basketball team the first year my asthma went down a bit. I had been practicing by myself on shooting, dribbling and playing half court with my friends. You know, kid stuff. But I wasn’t even close to being ready to play basketball full court. I didn’t make it one practice. Had an asthma attack running laps. I honestly thought I could simply will myself past it. Because I had bought into what so many folks advocate that it makes you soft, weak, inferior to not be able to simply participate. That’s the baseline level right? It’s not even noteworthy. Unremarkable. And definitely not to be celebrated.
I cried. And this was before cellphones. So I cried until my mom picked me up and hour later when practice was supposed to end. I felt ashamed and embarrassed. The other black boys and our black male coach basically had to act as if I was invisible. I can’t blame them. There were 15 or so other kids participating. And I couldn’t even do that.
And sports culture prepares you for a lot of harsh truths but it doesn’t prepare you to console some 14 year old sobbing between the tiny gasps his body will allow him to have so that he can barely breath. Breath. The air taken into or expelled from the lungs. The thing we all need to exist. Here I am… barely existing.
Off to the sidelines. Off beyond the margins. Invisible. Not participating. Floating between life and death a breathe at a time.
The next summer as my asthma went away a little more I practiced again. All year long. Except this time I added dribbling around my block with a basketball between my legs every day. I counted the dribbles until I lost count. I went up and down a steep hill where if I lost the ball I had to start all the way over.
Then I worked on jogging with the ball and finally running. And I got better. And my body allowed me to be better. And finally two years later I tried out for a different team because I still would never want to see those same boys and coach I failed in front of 2 years ago.
I made the team. And the practices were brutal. Not just for me but for everyone. Our coach was Kenny Killman. A chain smoking Bobby Knight wanna-be who thought rec league practice was equal parts torture and terror. He took pride in his rec team winning the championship yearly and going undefeated.
But I made it through every practice. I didn’t excel. I was probably somewhere in the middle of my teammates. But my body never betrayed me.
I still needed my inhaler. But I was never on the sideline hoping I didn’t die by myself any more. Now I was sprawled on the floor with the rest of my team hoping we wouldn’t die together. Which was progress compared to the loneliness of thinking I’d die alone during my failed attempt at practice.
But I made it through the whole season. I was good at rebounding. By the end of the season I was steadily playing in the “5th quarter” which is essentially the part of the game where coaches put their best 5 on the floor.
I wasn’t the best. But I was participating. And I was pushing myself to the best my body could be at the time.
And at the end of the season we (a bunch of 16 or 15 year olds) had a party. And we got trophies. And everyone got one. I honestly don’t remember what my trophy was for. Could’ve been defense, rebounding or the dreaded participation one that everyone seems to mock.
What I do remember is that while my teammates had probably received trophies their entire lives from playing in different leagues their parents could afford the fee for… I had not. This was my first and only trophy I ever got for a physical activity.
And it meant the world to me to just… “participate.”
And no one ever seems to see that little kid in the room. They only think about the failure it is to “only” participate. They never think about the anxiety of entering a room of strange kids who will become your peers, teammates and hopefully friends… not knowing if you’re going to leave that first practice a sobbing mess trying to hide your tear swelled eyes from your mom as you try to explain that you’re never going back to that gym. Back to those kids. Back to that coach. Back to those parents again.
I cry now thinking about it because it did mean that much to me. So maybe before you go to decry the softness of kids today think about the other people in the room? The kids who overcome anxiety, disability, home life issues and more just to participate. The kids who are still learning what their bodies can do, improving at a slower rate than you’ve notice or maybe just don’t see sports as the pinnacle of achievement. Think about those kids and not just a way to lionize yourself at their expense.
Or don’t. Just let me be that invisible kid on the sideline that you walk past because you’re uncomfortable with the idea that not all of us fit into the macho narrative that being the best is simply a matter of willpower.
