Participation Trophy

        In the heaping pile of discarded objects, its golden silhouette stood out. The surrounding
trash—empty Coca-Cola cans and a pair of tattered, neglected sneakers—made its suspiciously
average figure seem out of place: a faceless baseball player the size of an action figure, forever
frozen mid-swing.
        Its base flaunted: 2006 Little League Finalist. No mention of his name. Not even his
team. The same trophy must have been reproduced over a thousand times with the same title; its
banality was insulting.
        Throughout Neil’s life, it rested on his mantel, silently gathering dust. He had spent that
entire season bound to the metal bench in the dugout, only rising at the end to shake the opposing
teams’ hands. It was all a chapter he buried deep in the confines of his mind, just as he had the
trophy, hidden and out of sight all these years.
        Now, clenching it in his clammy hands, the trophy stirred something within him. He had
spent the day rummaging through old stuffed animals, love letters, photographs, and CDs, but
none of those objects evoked anything profound in him. So, why did he feel so strongly about
this trivial trophy?
        If anything, he was the least deserving of its praise. Every drill, every routine, every rule,
every forced cheer. It all felt like everyone was just putting on a play to mock him. The field
served as a stage for their theatrical performance.
        The morning of his final game, Neil had to carpool with some teammates he barely knew.
When a Minivan pulled into his driveway, he awkwardly squeezed into the back seat; his quiet
“thank you for driving me” drowned out by the hollering of excitement from the other kids. Just
a benign, silent presence, unable to meet their enthusiasm. But he didn’t want to brave another
“We paid good money for you to be on this team, so you better appreciate it,” or “How do you
expect to make any friends when you’re moping around at home all day?” lecture from his dad.
So, carpool it was.
        When they arrived at the field, he found his usual place on the bench, watching the game
from a distance, unable to protest or complain. It was a gloomy day anyway, with pale clouds
engulfing the forecasted sun. After nine innings of not-so-fast balls and triple plays that
should’ve been singles, he felt satisfied watching his teammates throw their gloves and hats
down in frustration.
        But what he remembered most vividly that day was the stands, packed with everyone’s
family but his. Brothers and sisters with cowbells and painted faces, grandmothers with canes,
fathers aggressively arguing with every call—enabled by an ice-cold cooler of Hamm’s beer on
the sidelines—all cheering for their team. Neil’s gaze oscillated between these stands and the
parking lot, slowly losing optimism each time he looked back.
        After the game, he joined his teammates in line to receive their participation trophies,
stepping over what seemed like more sunflower seeds and spittle than grass. Trophy in hand, he
settled on a nearby curb to observe the aftermath from a distance: disappointed fathers lecturing
their inattentive sons, thrilled mothers half-joking about their son joining the “big leagues” one
day, grandparents sluggishly scurrying to their cars, and younger siblings yanking on the shirts of
their parents, desiring to get home.
        Eventually, he was approached by the same mom who’d driven him to the game. “Do you
need a ride back as well?” Her smile creased in a way that looked like an apology. He looked
over at the already-full minivan; his teammates had suddenly seemed to shake off the loss as they
knew a Culver’s cheeseburger awaited them as soon as the car took off.
        “No, thank you. My dad will be here soon,” he responded. But Neil knew he wouldn’t.
He just couldn’t bear being in that same backseat.
        “Okay, sweetie.” She began walking away, but just before getting in her car, she called
out, “Oh—and good playing today!” She shut the door before Neil could say “Thanks,” or “I
didn’t even play.”
        The walk home was humiliating, sporting his full uniform and clutching the measly
trophy as if it were earned. Why hadn’t he just tossed it then? That way, it wouldn’t have
lingered all these years on some forgotten shelf, noiselessly plotting, waiting to remind him of a
game he’d forgotten he ever played.
        After the first half mile of the walk, he could feel his heels aching in his gradually
decaying cleats. Each step sent a jolt of pain through the unforgiving bladed studs on the soles of
his feet. But each step also meant he was closer to taking them off. The hour it took to get home
felt endless, like a long punishment for declining the offer of a ride.
        As he crept in through the front door, he carefully removed his cleats from his throbbing
feet, hoping to avoid any interaction. But it didn’t matter anyway. When he glanced into the
family room, he noticed his dad slumped in a reclining chair, snoring louder than the television
set.
        Neil took inventory of each item in the room, as if trying to retrace his dad’s steps that
night: Six Coors Lights…well, that couldn’t have been all at once. Okay, two Coors Lights, a TV
dinner for one, then another Coors Light—probably followed by another one right after to wash
it down. Some broken glass, barely swept up. The television remote. Two more Coors Lights.
And finally, the remote to recline the chair, cementing his spot for the night.
        Through the static, Neil could just barely recognize what his dad was watching: a rerun of
the 1986 MLB World Series. He knew the story all too well: Red Sox up 3 - 2 in the series vs.
the Mets. In Game 6, the Red Sox led by 2 runs in the bottom of the 10th. The Mets get on base.
Now tied at 5 runs. Mookie Wilson with a grounder toward Bill Buckner at first. The ball slips
right through Buckner’s legs to secure a Game 7 for the Mets. The Mets win the series in Game
7. Buckner’s error becomes notorious for costing the Red Sox the series.
        But Buckner’s embarrassment couldn’t amount to Neil’s, watching his dad, passed out
drunk, more interested in a decades-old rerun than his own son’s game.
        Neil could feel his stomach dropping. The bitter memories only resurfaced because of a
frivolous trophy. Moving aside a broken Matchbox car and a frayed sweater, he lifted it from the
trash bag. Its smooth plastic caught the summer light, creating a glare on his bedroom wall. He
could sense its unwavering gaze, judging him, even though it had no eyes.
        Impulsively, Neil tore the trophy’s body from its base. There, he thought, as he hurled the
disjointed base into the now-overflowing trash bag. The remaining figure, a cracked torso barely
fused to its legs, rested in his palm. He almost felt sorry for it. What was it now, besides a
fractured emblem of the sport? It hovered in his hands before finding its place in the box with the
rest of the items that he couldn’t let go of. Not yet.

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