Flashback Friday: The Long-Term Significance of High School Athletic Success
I don’t often feel things like compassion or empathy, but every once in a while, those emotions will come out of nowhere and hit me like a minor fender bender in dead-stop traffic. Last January, on the evening of my 25th birthday, was one of those instances. I was celebrating at Buffalo Wild Wings with my (now ex) girlfriend, three of my buddies, and their respective girlfriends?- an eightsome if you will, and that’s exactly what we did that night: ate some wings and crushed some draft beers.
One of my boys in attendance (for the sake of anonymity, I’ll call him Trevor) had just started dating his girlfriend (I’ll loosely refer to her as Trevor’s Girl) and it was apparent that she was still attempting to get a feel for him. It was also crystal clear that he was extremely nervous and desperately trying, but failing to impress her. His first mistake was ordering a snack size of Sweet BBQ (least spiciest sauce on the menu) wings and a side salad (self explanatory), but I’ll digress, because his next series of mistakes was so embarrassing and detrimental that it’s ultimately why I decided to write this in the first place.
Trevor is one of the nicest guys I know, so I would never intentionally disrespect him in any way, but his girlfriend’s lack of interest in him was about as palpable as his lack of sex appeal. With that said, he had always been a gigantic loser with repulsive facial features and almost no redeeming qualities, so his romantic shortcomings were the least bit surprising to me. But even so, there was an air of mystery that filled the dining area of Buffalo Wild Wings on that winter night, and all eyes were fixed on a particular duo in our dinner party…
I’m not the type of person to judge others based on their physical appearance, but Trevor’s Girl was disproportionately more attractive than him to the point where it was almost comedic to even look at them sitting next to each other. She was more out of his league than Danny Almonte in 2001, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how a guy with less upside than Enron in 2002 managed to pull a girl who was hotter than Station nightclub in 2003. It was my first time seeing a 3.5 score a dime since my step dad condescendingly gave me ten cents for making the honor roll.
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I wasn’t the only one mystified by the mismatch?—?our table was drawing attention from all across the restaurant and people were visibly distracted by the disparity: the family sitting at the booth in front of us continuously turned their heads to gawk at the couple, and I felt like I was with Abraham Lincoln the way we were being scoped out by the booth behind us.
As someone who achieved local celebrity status at a fairly young age, I was used to being visually violated in public places, but Trevor was a stranger to the limelight and he simply couldn’t perform under pressure. The daunting combination of first date jitters and severe social anxiety had my poor pal sweating like a priest at a Pop Warner pool party.
On the contrary, my other buddies, Colby and Tanner were absolutely fucking killing it with their ladies. Colby was my best friend since 9th grade and one of the starting fullbacks for the varsity football team most of his senior year, so his ability to score was no secret to anyone. He was also my wingman/pong partner at high school parties for 4 years straight, and then we turned 22 and mutually decided to move out of our hometown to seek employment opportunities. Similarly, Tanner was the 5’10” stallion who co-led our high school basketball team to the sectional quarter finals in 2011, so I already expected his game to be on point.
Trevor was the quintessential nerd/loser of our friend group and that’s just the way it always had been. While we hit the gym and built muscle mass, he hit academic milestones and built model airplanes. While we drove around and egged the houses of girls who rejected us, he stayed home and practiced coding. While we anonymously commented on popular sports blogs, he studied for AP exams and applied to colleges. And while we stayed in our hometown after graduation and continued to dominate flip cup tables at local parties, he was cooped up in his dorm room at Princeton, solving complex math equations.
I’d never admit this to anyone, but Trevor’s Girl made several different advances toward me that night, ranging from subtle (wishing me happy birthday, smiling at my jokes, etc.) to blatantly obvious (laughing at my jokes). In her defense, I was at the peak of my game and probably could’ve generated audible chuckles at a mime convention. Some examples of my hijinks:
– Told the guy sitting next to us that I liked his Brown’s jersey, then asked him if it came in Men’s
– Threw the orange slice from my Blue Moon at Trevor’s face and said “suck on that, you little fruit”
– Played the National Anthem on my phone when our food arrived and forced everyone in the vicinity of our table to stand and salute my American Flag tattoo
– Started a “fuck boneless wings” chant that polarized the entire restaurant
Maybe it was just the Aquarius in me, but I could sense the sexual tension frantically brewing inside of Trevor’s Girl like a claustrophobic K-cup. I’ve always prided myself on my unwavering loyalty as a lover and friend, but as soon as I laid eyes on Trevor’s Girl, I knew I was ready to risk it all for a chance with her. Frankly, she was red hot and to be perfectly blunt, I was so wrapped up in her beauty that I temporarily forgot I had a girlfriend of my own.
Fueled by my unfailing intuition and over 60 fluid ounces of citrus-infused Belgian wheat ale, I decided I was going to pull out the best tricks from the warm, leather sleeves of my letterman jacket; I just had to wait for the right moment…
Naturally, our table’s conversation turned to the glory days of high school sports, as does most conversations between a group of guys in their mid-twenties who celebrate events at chain restaurants. Without revealing my eagerness to impress, I initiated the discussion by reminiscing about my 2010 conference title in wrestling?—?a timeless tale that my friends and loved ones have been enjoying on a weekly basis for the last eight years. It was Trevor’s Girl’s first time hearing the story, so I made sure to fervently recount my championship match with as much detail as possible, including the immaculate ankle pick I hit in the third period and the thundering roar of the half-filled auxiliary gymnasium as my hand was raised.
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Admittedly, Trevor’s Girl did an excellent job at maintaining a stone face and disguising her arousal throughout my memoir. Undeterred by her battle tactics, I kept my composure and confidently passed the mic to Colby, who stole the spotlight with a monologue about the night he rushed for a pair of two-point conversions in a narrow loss to our cross-town rival. Shortly after, pupils dilated as Tanner recapped the monumental game-winning free throw he had in a pre-season exhibition game against one of the top teams in our township.
While the athletes of the table had the women on flood watch, Trevor silently sat back in his chair with the charisma of a cardboard cutout, doing nothing but nodding along to the trilogy of our triumphs like a socially awkward bobblehead doll. I’ve never been one to make assumptions, but I assumed Trevor’s Girl was uncomfortably waiting in anticipation for him to mention something, anything that would assure her that he was once a successful sports star like his current companions, but to no avail, he remained reserved.
While my vixen of a victim was visibly vulnerable, I knew it was time to put the final nail in the coffin of her relationship with my fragile friend. And if my 2010 conference title was a hammer, then my 2011 conference title was a more expensive hammer: battling back from what seemed to be a season-ending mono diagnosis, I defied the odds and went back-to-back with an electrifying 4–1 victory in front of a raucous crowd of my fellow competitors and our immediate family members.
Knowing the current prize at stake was almost as appealing as the pair of first place plaques that are still mounted to my bedroom wall, I made sure to spice up the sequel story for Trevor’s Girl and tell the tale of my 2011 championship journey with just the right combination of embellished facts and cold, hard fabrication. Between anticipatory breaths and awe-inspired gasps, you could hear a pin drop as I scrupulously spawned suspense and teased Trevor’s trophy with twists and turns. The plot thickened right before her eyes and just as I was about to reach the climax of my chronicle, Trevor’s Girl coincidentally felt the urge to pee for the third time that night and got up to use the restroom.
A victim of circumstance, the flow of my folktale was completely disrupted and to be honest, I was a bit rattled. In the midst of my discombobulation, Trevor’s Girl returned to the table and completely caught me off guard with a suggestion that I could’ve never predicted in a million years: “Babe, why don’t you tell everyone what you’ve been up to lately?”
I almost instinctively responded with, “let me finish my story first, babe,” but then I realized the “babe” she was referring to wasn’t me at all. In fact, it was the furthest thing from me: it was her boyfriend, Trevor.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t question my ability to woo Trevor’s Girl. Was she adept at acting apathetic about my adolescent athletic achievements, or was impressing her harder than a pubescent preteen perusing a premium Pornhub page? Despite succumbing to a moment of weakness, I remained steadfast, because I knew in my heart of hearts that Trevor would do the dirty work for me and dig his own grave?—?and that he did, that he did:
With all fourteen of our eyes finally fixated on his feeble face, he coyly muttered something about “winning” a “road’s scholarship” and then briefly babbled about his recent European excursions and master’s degree from Oxford. You could feel the collective boredom diffusing from all angles as he sheepishly yapped about his ski trip to the Swiss Alps, and if yawns were toxic, Buffalo Wild Wings would’ve looked like Jonestown.
Trevor had a shot to show he had some semblance of athletic prowess with his skiing story, but instead, he foolishly admitted to almost going down a double black diamond, but pussying out at the last second. And in that moment, as Trevor’s Girl came to realize her “man” was the type of guy to climb a mountain and turn around, instead of soaring down that snow-covered hill, I knew the competition for her heart was over and I won by a landslide.
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Just when I thought his lack of self awareness couldn’t get any worse, Trevor finished up his agonizing anecdote and proceeded to ramble even more about his post-grad pursuits?—?it was almost like he was purposely avoiding his high school heydays altogether. The secondhand embarrassment I felt was crippling, and as soon as he mentioned his Mensa membership, I couldn’t tolerate it anymore and limped off to the men’s room.
Blinded by his own delusion, Trevor was completely oblivious to the fact that his stories were so cringeworthy and humiliating that people were fleeing to the restroom just to escape the pain. Between his debilitating drivel and his girl’s games, I desperately needed a recovery session and ego boost.
After a few seconds of standing in front of the mirror, my confidence levels rapidly returned to Everest elevations and my face lit up like a Himalayan salt lamp as I longingly gazed at my own reflection. Similar to Trevor’s sad Swiss debacle, I had a blue cheese stain on my shirt, but that was the only thing stopping me from looking flawless.
With my bravado back to baseline and my BAC far above sea level, I elegantly stumbled back to the table, where I was forced to catch the tail end of Trevor’s diet TED talk. My eyes rolled harder than a rambunctious rave girl, as his lady feigned a prideful smile and pretended to be impressed by his “accomplishments.” I felt like I was witnessing some kind of makeshift Make-A-Wish when the other girls joined in to praise him out of sympathy?—?it made me wish I never even bothered to invite the poor soul to my birthday bash. But with my loyalty on the line, I too managed to muster up a phony face and give Trevor the affirmation he so desperately desired. As a man of humility and honor, it was the least I could do for a friend in need.
Much like Sir Lancelot dying in the heat of battle, the night swiftly came to an end, but it was one that I would never forget. As my girlfriend wrapped up her weekly ritual of taking care of the check, and I finished up inhaling the last smidgen of meat from the bones of my Blazin’ (spiciest sauce on the menu) wings, I locked eyes with my good friend Trevor, and for a moment, albeit a short one, I felt something that I hadn’t felt in a long, long time: I genuinely felt pity for his girlfriend for having to be associated with such a pathetic, delusional loser.
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(I’m Barstool Sports newest hire. You can follow me on Twitter @kbnoswag)