trophies.

It’s been a busy fall over here in our home. With me training for a half-marathon and Little playing a 10 week season of soccer, I was wondering if we’d be standing at the end.

I ran my race yesterday, and as soon as I crossed the finish line, a volunteer place a medal around my neck. When I picked him up after the race, Little saw my medal and asked me if I won first place. I laughed and said no. Then why did you get a medal?, he wanted to know. Because 13 miles is really hard to run, and everyone gets a medal, I said. Then he asked me if he could have it. “I don’t have any medals,” he whined. We earn our rewards, I admonished him, you don’t want something you didn’t earn.

Perhaps the adult should give the child the medal.

Not this adult, though.

This evening we gathered to celebrate the end of the soccer season for The Tiger’s, my little’s team. I was their coach, and that is neither here nor there for this post. But I admit I struggled with the notion of handing out a trophy to every child. After all, they’re only six and seven. And everyone gets a trophy? Even the child who spent all the practices and games picking grass? Or the one who constantly ran off the field  in tears every time he got bested by another player?

Seriously? 

This past Spring my little’s coach for tee-ball struggled with the same issue. The saying has become, it seems, that if everybody is special, than nobody is.

What are we saying when everyone gets a trophy? How do we value hard work and striving for your best if at the end of the day, everyone gets rewarded no matter what? Still, he caved, and Little came home with a trophy nearly the size of himself. It barely left his side for a week. I mean, he slept with the dang thing. Here it is riding in the car on the way to school:

There has been a lot written criticizing the philosophy of giving every child a reward for simply being part of a team. Many have mused that Millenials now have a sense of entitlement, so to speak, from being rewarded for every little thing at such a young age.

I don’t know about the Millenials, but everything else I’ve been on board with.

Until Little wanted my medal.

My medal doesn’t tell me that I’m special. Ok, I’m 35 and have more complex cognitive faculties than the average six year old (or at least I hope I do), but hear me out. Even if I didn’t get a medal, I would still run. I don’t participate for the medal, and I never have. Were I to become competitive in the sport, that may be different. But I’m not. I simply enjoy it (except for when I don’t), and I would continue to run regardless. I’m proud of my labor on my own – I don’t need a physical affirmation to tell me I accomplished something. I have five medals now, only one being a medal for an actual placement for my age group. I don’t need them, but I value them. Because they remind me, each of them, of something specific about that particular race and my hard work. They remind me of things I’ve been capable of in the past, and encourage me to try again in the future. Even if my performance wasn’t the best of all whom I competed against, it still is hard work. Hell, half the battle is just showing up. As Yoda says with patience and wisdom: “Do or do not. There is no try.”

Why should it be different for my child? Or for the child who pulled grass and will more than likely not participate in organized sports again? Or for that woman I passed who was carrying 100 pounds more than necessary, and huffed and puffed with every step and took over four hours to cross the finish line? I should have given her my medal out of sheer admiration.

When Little asked me for my medal and I told him no, it wasn’t because I’m desperately attached to it or thought it necessary to teach him the value of earning a reward (although there is a place for that, too). It was because I knew what was in store for him the next day at his own celebration.

Tonight the kids were so excited when they saw the tiny box that held their reward inside. They had no idea what they were getting. As I opened the box, I told them I was so proud to be their coach that I got them pencils to celebrate the end of the season. “Pencils?!”  they shrieked. “Not just any pencils,” I said “These pencils have an eraser on top… that looks just like a soccer ball! Oooooooh!” I had added lots of enthusiasm at the end there, in case you couldn’t tell.

Tyler looked at me suspiciously and asked, “Well, are they at least sharpened?!”  Devin held up his hand: “I love pencils!” And Nathaniel simply shrugged and said, “I don’t care what we get. I just had fun playing.”

So maybe a trophy or a medal exists more like a keepsake. For whatever reason, the honorable mention ribbon is out and the shiny trophy/medal/dogtag is in. The damn thing was only $4, so it wasn’t an extravagant gesture. And I know that when Little looks at it, he will remember not that he was rewarded for his average prowess or that he was special just like everyone else, but that he got to play a new sport and had fun while learning; became part of a team and made new friends; listened to critique and attempted to improve; hustled on the field and practiced off of it; and, perhaps most important of all, he did more than try. He did.

Just like his mama.