Earning it

This morning I did an archeological dig. I found what I was looking for and stuffed it into my gym bag. From the stratum in which it was located, I’d date it somewhere in the Paleolithic Age, or my senior year in high school. The dig was in a closet. I throw away almost nothing. The wheels were set into motion earlier this week at the gym. “Look at that fool,” said Clem, jutting his chin toward a young man strutting around in a college football jersey, or replica thereof. “I’ll bet that pansy has never even worn a cup.” That’s when I thought of Clucker. Well, it was the second time in the past month if you count learning of his death. He lived down the street from me in my youth and we attended the same schools. I thought of no good way to mark his passing until Clem voiced his opinion. What I dug out of my closet was a practice jersey from high school days. I believe the last time I wore it I was with Clucker at the Jersey shore. We had both been on football teams together since grade school. As we neared the end of junior high, his parents invested substantial money in orthodontics and forbade him from engaging in any activity that might jeopardize the results. He felt bad enough having to forgo such male activities and, being the typical Philly adolescents, we didn’t help matters any. He was referred to as “Richie” prior to this. I think you have enough input to noodle out the derivation of his subsequent nickname. Game and practice uniforms were the property of the school. Of course, you wanted one, but stealing a game jersey earned you the death penalty or pretty close to it. On the other hand, practice jerseys got a lot more wear and tear and were cheaper. You might be able to slide by with that, which I did. They were good bait for trolling for girls down the shore, especially if they came from our team. It was late in the summer of ’66 and Clucker and I were working the boardwalk in Wildwood. He ducked into a souvenir shop to score a Coke and I leaned on the railing to scope out targets. I was giving this task a lot of attention and didn’t immediately hear him yelling to me. “C’mere. You gotta see this.” He was waving me toward the store. I followed him in. He led me to a table that was mobbed with teenagers scarfing up shirts with numerals on them, like sports uniforms. While it’s commonplace now, it was virtually unheard of then. “Do you believe this shit? This is completely whipped (an idiom of the time). You oughtta have to earn it,” he grumbled, gesturing toward my jersey. Given that he had been robbed of the chance, this really grated upon him. But, I couldn’t disagree. You earn it running up and down the bleachers in the searing heat of late August when everyone else is lounging by the pool. You earn it after school every day working your butt off and getting screamed at while others are hanging out. And, you earn it on frigid Friday nights when even a minor collision feels like it might shatter a frozen bone. So, to commemorate the life and death of Clucker, I exhumed and wore my practice jersey to the gym today. As luck would have it, Clem took note and I awaited the comment. But, he just grinned and gave me the thumbs up. He knew. In a related note, a few years ago, I noticed my son was wearing the t-shirt of the championship swim team he coaches. Wanting to support the team and take some pride in his accomplishment, I offered to buy one. “You don’t buy these,” he admonished. “You earn them.” You reap what you sow.