A Minute of Fame

Ever wonder if you'll get your 15 minutes of fame? My fame only lasted a minute, if that.

            You know, everyone is entitled to his or her 15 minutes of fame. I am still working on my 15 minutes, not attaining my allotted 15, but may have collected oh, maybe six or seven minutes so far. Personally, I think single fame minutes are much easier attained than a one-time lump sum of 15 minutes. For that to occur, it would mean I was someone famous for a whole 15 minutes; not likely, so in this way I can spread my not so famous minutes out for more minutes later on. I think about them, my accumulated minutes, and suppose they are not really fame at all but notoriety. Attaining fame implies I am especially noteworthy outside my personal sphere of family, friends and relatives, which is scarcely possible for me. Notoriety can mean I am notorious (highly doubtful), or I am simply not certain the fame achieved was really such a mentionable thing (more likely). Here is how I attained my minute of fame�"or was it notoriety? You judge.

 

            Junior High School is always a tough time for kids, and I attended in Akron, New York. Akron Central School was a typical, medium sized school, you know, red brick, three stories, white trim with, at the time, about a hundred or so kids in each grade. We all came from the village or the surrounding rural farming area. My tough time in junior high set me up for a tough high school.

            I was a bulldog. I stood four feet two, weighed a hundred fifty, and my teeth exhibited a severe under bite. My lower teeth stuck out farther than the top, you know, bulldog like. My orthodontist, Dr. Lisa Straker, meant well, but she was a do-gooder perfectionist. She fixed me up with the usual nice metallic tooth bands, but on top of this, she insisted I lose weight and weighed me during every appointment. She set up a weight loss program; she instructed me on eating right and getting proper exercise. I suppose in retrospect, she did me a huge favor.

            I did as she instructed and ended up with straight teeth, skinny physique, and paranoid self-image. I remember sitting in Algebra class hating myself because I ate lunch, pinching the tiny roll of fat, actually skin, I imagined formed in the past hour. After school, I ran, did beau coup sit-ups, and ate next to nothing. No, no fame there, I failed that damn Algebra class.   

            Quickly, it seemed, I became a high school freshman. Sports were so-so in my school, plus being a rural school if someone wanted to be in sports you just signed up and you were in. Somewhere along the line, someone told me that football players worked out hard, you know, lots of running and physical activity. I was now a skinny runt, so this was for me. Muscle building and keeping fat under control were first and foremost for me, never mind I had never played or watched a football game in my life. I signed up.

            The first day of practice came to past. It was a beautiful, sunny fall day a couple weeks before school started. As I made my way through the shiny, vacant corridors, the yelling of the unruly crowd of teenaged wannabe football players echoed from the dank basement locker room.

            Summer cleaned, the locker room had an overlaying fresh smell, but under the freshness was a lingering�"you know. Youthful adrenaline and budding testosterone overflowed. Shoving and arguing ensued, but everyone eventually got a locker. Coach “Budda” (named for the way he sat on the sidelines) waddled in, unlocked the storeroom, and dragged out a couple huge broken down cardboard boxes. He shouted over the jostling din, “suit up!”  A chill still shoots up my back.

            The bigger, older boys descended upon the boxes like a pack of hungry hyenas on a downed gazelle. Amid the rustling, rattling, and arguing they pulled out the strangest looking equipment that ever befell my virginal football-shaped eyes. A rattle of plastic came forth from jerseys with shoulder pads, elbow pads, stomach pads, and back pads, and trousers with butt pads, crotch pads, shin pads, and hip pads, and then on top of the feeding frenzy, a box of cleated shoes was pulled out. I looked on in shell-shocked trepidation.

            After the alpha boys left, I pawed through the remaining entrails, donning the equipment the best I could from observing those who had already clip-clopped out the door on cleats. That stuff just did not fit well. When I finally got it all together, I glanced around and left behind a lone, fat, half suited-up kid sitting on the bench holding his head in his hands. I pressed on, stumbling down the path flanked by the shadowy rows of mature spruce trees. Faltering out onto the bright, sun-flooded field, I readjusted my pads, jersey, and trousers. As I joined the others on the field, my bouncing, loose shoulder pads slid forward or back, or alternated one forward and one back, and my trousers wouldn’t lace up tight so migrated down over my skinny hips. I trudged on to infamy�"oh no, not quite yet, not there.

            Nevertheless, I managed to stay decent through the drills, wind sprints, and skid pushing all while keeping my trousers up, jersey down, and repeatedly putting my pads and equipment back into place. When we were finally allowed a water break, I tossed in the towel and went home. I was a damn quitter, and there is no fame in this world for a quitter.

            After school began, I heard cross-country running relied on very little equipment, just shorts, sneaks, and tee shirts, stuff I could handle, so signed right up. Coach Jerry Drayer was my history teacher, and he seemed like an all-right guy until he turned into the running coach from hell. The first couple practices were okay, just running on flat land four, five miles and a few sprints, but when the practices escalated, s**t, a normal practice meant at least twelve mile runs and sprints up the hill from hell. From the base of hell hill looking up, it was like facing a wall; you had to scale it not run it. Well, despite all the hard work, it turned out to be a fun season and everyone gained times, muscle and speed except me, skinny me usually brought up the rear. I do however distinctly remember enjoying one final inter-regional running meet where we ran through a downtown Buffalo park as it snowed. You know, it was a nice cruise among hundreds of runners in the cool, damp, cotton ball snowfall. What made it even more special was that I didn’t come in very last.

            I was on a roll. Cross-country season ended, and the winter season followed closely on its heels, so to speak. My lack of hand/eye coordination precluded basketball, seeing I didn’t know how to play anyway, and I heeded a bud’s suggestion to sign up for wrestling. I didn’t have a clue about wrestling either. Hey, I was a lightweight, and a shoe in for easy victories.

             Wrestling was a workout like football without the bulky equipment to worry about. Coach Drayer led us through our paces, and I shot for the 108-pound class. This I could handle: Tough workouts and subsiding solely on oranges. There was no pinching of fat anymore. Besides who had the time? Wrestling was much more coordination than I ever imagined with countless arm, hand, foot, leg, head, and body moves to work in coordinated lightning-fast actions. The keyword here is coordinated. Something I was not. I wrestled a few times but always found myself rather quickly on my back to the count of three. Hey, I was just a freshman after all.

            Springtime and track season rolled around, a natural transition for a seasoned cross-country runner, and there was a crowd of us, it was easy to get lost. I ran the mile and did the hop, skip and jump. We really didn’t pay attention to events other than our own, like for example when a close cohort went from running his usual 50 and 100 sprints to a moderate length 880. He sprinted from the start and had a way, way out in front lead for the first half a lap of the two-lap race. At least I didn’t do anything so clearly stupid, but he gained some fame that day.

            And so it went, cross-country, wrestling, and track through my sophomore, junior and senior years. You know it never occurred to me how bad I was doing personally, such as never placing in cross-country, and in wrestling, where I had a 0 and 19 record. The high point of my wrestling career was when an opponent claimed that he pinned me in an all-time record eight seconds. I don’t remember much from that match. We were standing face to face, the whistle blew and from there it was all a blur. I saw the ceiling with a slap of three. Track? I came in second and third a couple times�"from last that is, but hey, we did have some great times on the bus rides to the away meets.

            So I stuck it out to my senior year. I lettered in the three sports, obviously proving that just showing up for the practices and meets really counts though not actually contributing one point to the team despite my truest desire to do so. It isn’t that I didn’t try hard because I did. It all came down to some time after graduation for my fame minute to come to light.

            After high school, I attended a vocational college. My high school guidance counselor called me for an appointment, which seemed odd, but I had other things on my mind. I liked Mr. Valenti. The small, bald, well-dressed man always had a ready grin and was pleasant, and to the point in offering something meaningful to me in the way of academic advisement. I sat outside Mr. Valenti’s office and wondered why I needed to see him after I had graduated months before. I sure couldn’t change the my course of destiny.

            As I waited thinking of my time spent there in school and my current girlfriend dilemma, the sunlight glinted and sparkled through the cut glass window set in the dark wooden doorframe. Perhaps the illumination of resolution would enlighten me. Mr. Valenti soon came out, welcomed me in, and offered me a seat. He asked me how I was doing. After my short response, he got straight to the point as usual, and he asked my permission to use my school experience as an example for other students. Taken aback, I didn’t know what he referred to. He told me that he could not remember any other student who had persevered, persisted in the face of constant sporting defeat in the history of Akron Central School as I had. He added that I would be a shining beacon (or some other special effect) for those who could not make the varsity line-up or win races, but who should always keep trying.

            I was dumbfounded at first but finally agreed. Maybe I gained my minute of fame right then, or maybe Mr.Valenti was just yanking my chain for a joke in the faculty lounge. Maybe he never mentioned my wonderful record to any student because no one ever stopped me on the street or called me to say, “Hey man, you are a real inspiration to me.” Fat chance of that I know, I’m realistic. You know, after leaving the guidance counselor for that very last time, it all soaked in. Someone, at least one, had noticed�"me. All those countless practices and meets came storming back, and I felt good for sticking it out for four years.

I am proud of my single minute of fame�"I think.   

 

           

Reviews

[wondering]

You would be an inspiration if only word had gotten out about the only kid who stuck out all those sports all those years. Perhaps they can put up a plack at ACS for those who did the same. I guess the difference is you did individual team sports and I did team-team sports. You might have been no noticed where I just blended in. Thanks for insight to someone I wish I had taken the time to know better