I got pretty upset when I didn’t make varsity senior year. At some schools they let every senior in, but I guess my class was really into basketball- not that any of the other classes weren’t- and so there weren’t enough spots. I mean, I ended up getting moved up, but that wasn’t the point. I’d trained for months. I played two leagues every season, even over the summer. I clocked in thirty hours a week at the gym on top of practices. I had no friends who didn’t play basketball. I didn’t even ask anyone to winter formal because I assumed I’d be busy that night with one of the first practices of the season. I don’t really know who I would have asked, but it’s not important.
By now Cameron was already a junior in college- on a full basketball scholarship, of course. He was away with the team the night I found out, out bonding and partying or whatever, and my parents were out doing something, just the two of them. I probably should have been mad at them for abandoning me but, I don’t know, I didn’t say anything about it. They asked if I was okay, of course, and offered to stay in with me, but I knew they didn’t actually wanted to. They had tickets to a show, that’s what it was. They had tickets to a show for their anniversary and even though they probably would have stayed if I’d asked them to, I couldn’t to that to them. It wasn’t like they could do anything about it, anyway. So they went out and I was left alone in a dark house with a frozen pizza and some big important game that I didn’t feel like watching.
I was in the kind of mood where you can’t just sit around and do nothing but you don’t know what you want to do, so I wandered into Cameron’s room. Everything was in perfect order from the last time he’d been home- he’s a bit of a neat freak- and even though everything in the room was kind of dull in the dim light from the lamppost outside, his trophies shined on his desk. They took up at least a third of its surface, and it’s a pretty big desk. Slowly, I picked up each of the trophies and read their inscriptions: “Cameron Reese: High Honors in All Classes” “Cameron Reese: MVP 2011” “Cameron Reese: Rookie of the Year” “Cameron Reese: Nicest Guy” “Cameron Reese…” “Cameron Reese…” “Cameron Reese…” over and over and over and over.
I have trophies too, a decent amount, but their pity awards: “BZ Reese: Sixth Man Award” “BZ Reese: Most Improved” “BZ: Blood, Sweat, and Tears”. They’re all for the same thing, in the end: Hardest worker we don’t really need.
So anyway there I was, standing in Cameron’s room, holding his trophies. And all of a sudden, I got mad. I’m not an angry person, usually. I mean, I get upset, but I like to think that most of the time I can keep it under control and rationalize what’s happening. But not this time. I just had this white hot rage explode like rocket fuel inside me and I whipped the trophy at the wall, smashing it right into the poster of Kevin Garnett. Everything inside me felt like it was collapsing into dust and my mind went blank as I picked up trophy after trophy after trophy, screaming at the top of my lungs, hurling them at the wall and watching them crack and splinter and fall to the ground in a heap.
They were just plastic, really. They’re made to look so nice, a little golden person standing on top of a stone pedestal, but they’re all pretty cheap. And they all crack on impact. Even the nicer one. How stupid is that? No matter how nice you make your f*ing trophy, no matter how glorious your goddamn accomplishment is, it still shatters the second it hits some drywall. Bam. Crash. Splat. How f*ing pathetic.
I smashed them all. All thirty seven trophies and certificates that my brother had earned over his thirteen years of school and eighteen years of basketball. I ended up throwing all the pieces in a trash bag and dumping them in our neighbor’s trash can. I just ran and dumped it in their bins, I was so scared of my parents finding the mess. It was snowing when I went outside, but I was so nervous they were going to come home that I didn’t even bother to put on a jacket. I’m not even sure I remembered to wear shoes.
I got it all cleaned up by the time they got home. I was sitting on the couch when they walked in, watching Late Night or something stupid. They asked me how my evening was. I said fine. I asked them how their show was. They said fine. Then they went to bed. No one even went into Cameron’s room for a couple more days, and even then no one said anything about the missing trophies. I don’t know if my mom just thought she’d put them away in the attic or donated them or if she somehow knew what I’d done, but she never said anything to be about it, and I was eternally grateful. Cameron never said anything either. He probably just assumed he win more.
I haven’t gotten angry like that ever before, or ever since. I just try to stay happy. Stay positive. Get excited for the day when they see how much they need me and I have a whole desk full of trophies, more than anyone has ever had before.
It’ll come.
It has to come.