When I was about 10-years-old, I participated in a junior golf championship.
I’m not exactly sure how I qualified for such a thing other than the fact that I lived across the street from a golf club.
Hey, maybe if I lived across from the Lake Placid Olympic Center, I could have played on the men’s ice hockey team and helped beat the Soviets.
Clearly my parents didn’t have that kind of foresight.
So instead, I entered this local golf championship and I must have hit a few balls because at the end of it, I was awarded a Junior Golf Championship ashtray.
Man, I felt so proud. A championship ashtray. Of my own. It didn’t matter that every other kid got one too. I had won something. Completely without merit. But who gives a crap about that?!
I wondered if it ever occurred to anyone that an ashtray might not be the ideal gift for a bunch of 10-year-olds. Of course, this was 1980 and I think back then they were still encouraging everyone to smoke so we could all look cool.
As much as I wanted to look cool (I had the Official Preppy Handbook for gosh sakes), I never could get myself addicted to cigarettes. Not even as a teenager. Some of my friends had a lot more success. I longed to have their kind of deep commitment to nicotine.
But even without a smoking habit, I kept that ashtray for years. I just loved having a trophy. And that’s why my heart filled with maternal joy when my 7-year-old won this….
It’s Dylan’s soccer trophy, despite the fact that she never once stepped onto that soccer field, her foot never touched the ball and she only showed up for the first few games.
Plus it’s clearly not as functional as an ashtray but who cares about all that?!
She loves it.
mama bird notes:
I’m over at The Mouthy Housewives today giving advice to a mother who is anxious about her kid attending sleepaway camp.