PARTICIPATION TROPHY

SHOUTS & MURMURS

- SIMON RICH

I’ll never forget the day we met. You were dressed boldly, in orthopedic Velcro shoes, yellow sweatpants, and an oversized Legend of Zelda T-shirt. You completed the ensemble with a green mesh pinny, which you debonairly or mistakenly wore as a necklace, your head thrust fetchingly through an armhole. I was young then. Fresh out of my bulk-order box. I can see myself now as I must have looked to you on that spring day: a gleaming figurine of indeterminate age and gender, gazing alluringly from my plastic podium, my lithe limbs splayed in a vaguely athletic pose, perhaps running, perhaps swimming, or maybe even doing a non-sports thing, like dancing or debate. In any case, my body glinted in the sun like gold.

Although you had signed up for only one event that Field Day—a relay race in which you ran in the wrong direction—you never questioned my presence in your life. When Ms. Musgrove handed me to you and said, “You tried your best,” you pumped both fists in triumph. I’ll never forget how you caressed me with your gentle, Yoohoo-scented hands. When you held me to your chest, I could feel your heart pounding, and, though I knew that it was partly because your body was so unused to exercise, I sensed that there was also something more powerful at play.