Back in the 1990s, there was a quarterback for the New York Giants named Dave Brown. I remember watching him play. He was one of the best quarterbacks I’ve ever seen throw a ball. When Dave was on, he was really on. And when he was in this state, he seemingly transformed the football into a missile. Such accuracy and elegance. And speed! Boy, I remember watching those games when Dave was playing well. It was like nothing could stop him.
While Dave Brown was an incredible quarterback for the Giants when he was on, there were unfortunate times when he wasn’t. And when he wasn’t, he was an awful quarterback. During those instances, he was terrible for the team and as I recall, they really didn’t know what to do with the guy. Dave Brown was extraordinarily talented, but his problem was, he lacked consistency. Which, of course, cost him his career. It’s a shame because I believe everyone who watched him play, saw his talent – we really couldn’t miss it. We all hoped that he actually was as great as great could get. That inconsistency thing though – he simply wasn’t great all the time and consistent greatness is what the NFL demands.
I’ve played tennis since I was a young boy. During my early years, my mother sent me to tennis lessons at the town park and afterward, during the years that followed, I continued on with my lessons at a few other locations. I was an awful player. Sure, I’d get a hit here or there, but overall, I was terrible. Which begs the question – why in the world did I join the varsity tennis team when I was in only eighth grade? Not even in high school yet – my friend Russell’s mother talked me into it. She was in the midst of trying to persuade Russell into joining the team and, apparently, in order to do so, he needed a friend to come along. I decided to rescue him and I signed up alongside my good buddy. I even remained with the team after Russell quit a few weeks in. As least I was consistent with showing up.
The reason I bring Dave Brown’s name and ability into this post is because I think I’m a lot like him. Since my teen years, I’ve continued to play tennis and while I’ve learned a lot and have enjoyed my fair share of killer shots, I’ve yet been able to win a match to save my life. Not because I’m not talented, which I am. I’m talented like Dave Brown was. It’s because I’ve got no consistency. I choke. I get nervous and I screw things up when they matter most. But I’ll repeat, I have made some killer shots. Shots so good they’d earn the “Ooohs” and “Aaahs” of everyone watching. And that very same audience would continue to watch as I got clobbered for the rest of whatever game I was playing. Now that I’m middle age and being honest, I can reveal that I haven’t played in years – because of the aforementioned reasons. I still remember how terrible I was and I chalk it up to tennis being one of those things I probably should have avoided since the beginning. Like golf, it’s a game that messes with the head. And apparently, I’m not great at having my head messed with.
I’d like to share a quick tennis story with you. It’s about the time I joined the high school varsity team as a middle schooler. What audacity I had, thinking I could go off and play against those guys who had already hit puberty. Yes, Russell’s mother talked me into it and yes, Russell quit a few weeks after the season began, but while we were together, Russell and me, we enjoyed ourselves. Every day, we’d leave the middle school after classes had finished, walk through the sports fields, all the way to the elementary school, where Russell’s mother worked as a teacher’s aide for none other than my very own first grade teacher, Mrs. Bubley. We’d enter the classroom, where we’d be greeted by a two cans of soda and two very large cookies that were purchased from the Italian deli up the road. Mrs. McKee’s way of bribing two boys who weren’t necessarily interested in playing tennis, as their first choice of activities, anyway. Her bribes worked and we continued drinking the soda and eating the cookies, that is, until Russell decided he didn’t want either anymore and stopped showing up. From that point on, I walked straight from the middle school to the tennis courts, where I’d lose every match I ever played.
During the season, I practiced my game and took tips from the boys who were older than me. Their tips did help and I managed to win a few games, but really, I wasn’t proficient by any meaning of the word. I attended every practice and went to each and every meet. I even joined in the “away” meets where I’d play against boys from other school on their courts. While I haven’t the foggiest memory of most matches, I do happen to recall one in particular. It was an away meet. I remember the coaches placing me against another boy who was about the same age as I was. We were set aside on a court away from the others and were left to our own devices. Since the boy was so young, I thought I had a chance. I didn’t. He handily beat me, which was fine. At least I was able to keep my record of 0-0-0-0.
When the season ended, the entire team was to gather one evening in a high school classroom for an exciting event called “awards night.” Awards night was basically the culmination of everything that occurred on every field, court, or mat during the entire season. It was when all the sport teams gathered to discuss their wins and losses and to congratulate each other on their successes and proud moments. But more importantly, it was the night when the coaches awarded the players with their varsity letters. After all, these were high school teams and if a player participated in enough games, that player earned a letter. I’d participated in all of the games, so I was quite excited about purchasing my school jacket to which I’d sew my letter. As of yet, no one in my family had earned a letter, something I’d readily change.
A man named Mr. Martino was our coach. He was sort of a nice guy. A bit cocky and had that swagger high school teachers exhibited in those days. A lifer who I’m sure retired years ago. Mr. Martino scrolled through the list of players that awards night. He stood in front of the classroom behind the teacher’s desk and called out each individual’s name, who was to walk up to the front, shake hands with him, graciously accept the letter, and return to his desk. It was a moving ceremony, really. The players were overjoyed by their achievements and varsity letters were held up to lower rib areas to show where they’d soon be situated. I was impressed.
The strange thing was…after the final name was called, I realized that I sat alone as the only student who hadn’t received anything. And it wasn’t only me who realized this, the other players did as well and when one of them mustered up the courage to shout, “Hey, what about Jay?,” the others joined in as well. Out of all the wonderful occurrences I experienced that night, those players showing such concern for my well being was the most special. And it’s something I remember to this day.
Under pressure, Mr. Martino looked up and said, “Oh yeah. Jay, c’mon up.” I didn’t waste any time striding forth to that desk to take a firm hold of the only letter left. I placed my fingers on it, pressed them into that soft green and white material, smiled at the coach, and gave him a huge, “Thank you!” After that, I returned to my desk to revel in all the glory the universe would offer me that night. I had done it. I had actually been the first, as far as I knew then, middle schooler to have earned a real, genuine, authentic, and extremely cool looking varsity letter for playing a high school sport. As you could imagine, I sat firmly on cloud nine. The other players appreciated the sentiment as well and showed as much when they clapped for me. They all knew I didn’t really earn the thing for winning any games, but they were glad I got something for my efforts and commitment.
After a few moments, the coach indicated that the show was over and all of us were to head on home. As everyone else was almost gone from the classroom, I stood from my seat and, before I exited too, walked up to the desk to thank Mr. Martino for what he had given me. I said, “Thanks coach. This means the world to me.” He replied, “Oh yeah, let me have that back,” and ripped the letter from my hands. He slid it in his folder and walked out.
And that was that. To this day, I’m not sure a middle schooler has ever received a varsity letter.
