Now Showing: Just Enough

Just enough.

They don't make movies about guys that do just enough.  You make movies about champs, warriors, and against-the-odds over achievers.  The next movie coming to your town will not be called Mediocre.  

But that's been the marquee film playing in the background of my life.  I'm the star.  The director, the scriptwriter.  I work the lighting and produce the film.  It shows everyday, 7 days a week.  And it's free.

The crucial Oscar winning scene comes midway through my high school years.  Playing football up until my sophomore year had never been much of a priority.  I can't ever remember wanting to actually play the game other than watching the Oilers on tv.  I took advantage of meeting new people and friends before school started during 2-a-day practices.  I liked hitting 7th graders when I was in 8th grade.  I did an Arsenio Hall when I tackled a quarterback for my first ever recorded safety.  My step-dad told me at the time someone in the stands said, that kid is intense.  

No one has ever said it since.

By the time high school came around, kids my size were expected to play football.  What the hell else would I have done?  I quit my freshman year.  That's when the quitting started.  Quitting is like a drug to me.  It became easy afterwards.  Not showing up for a commitment   Backing out at the last minute.  Saying yes then not being around to say no was my favorite game.  I can't even remember why I quit.  No one caused a fuss.  When I turned in my equipment, the coach didn't even snicker.  Just another kid.

He doesn't have what it takes, anyways.

When I transferred schools my sophomore year, football again became the way to meet people.  Football guys in Texas were always the most popular kids.  No fringe element existed on the high school football team.  Even awkward, heavy-set kids like me fit in with the random douche bags that groped the pretty girls at lunch.

But by the time became a junior, there was no looking back.  I wrote for the sports column on my high school newspaper, the editor in chief!  I knew the inter workings of the team and the subtleties of the game.  I read the Houston Chronicle avidly during this time.  They were always brutal in their commentaries, as was I.  My senior year I was forbidden to write about the football team because my insight proved to be awkwardly accusing.

And that's about when my step dad made a surprise visit to see me at practice.

Most of my practices showcased a varying degree of mediocrity.  Stumble during drills, get yelled at, hit someone harder, get an obligatory ass-pat or helmet .  The motivation to succeed was never intrinsic.  Mostly, you didn't want to get embarrassed by your peers.  The second end of practice was performing tackling dummies for the varsity.  Perhaps that's why our team never made the playoffs the 4 years I was there, we simply weren't up to par.

Then came the sprints.

There were always 2 guys who continually were last running up the field.  One was me.  I can't imagine what the other guys thought about us.  Fat ass.  Lazy mexican.  I'm sure I would have been the soldier that Jack Nicholson would have easily code redded.  And sure enough, my step-dad was there to witness it all.

And to understand what transpired in the parking lot, that conversation that was buried in my mind until just recently, you have to understand him.  There wasn't a trophy he didn't have, a sport he hadn't mastered. And here, in this moment, he's witnessing his son (who he had been raising for years now) loafing it, waddling through sprints that he himself could have run better than the varsity.

A few weeks later, I didn't have to quit.  A knee injury took me out during the one week when I gave a damn.  There's a metaphor in that experience too.  Do just enough and no one notices you, do too much and someone is going to chop block you into an injury.  I limped my way through the halls that fall with the knowledge I wouldn't have to set foot on that football field ever again.  

No matter what I did afterwards, however, the wound stayed with me.  Perhaps it's why I have to fight the urge to phone in a day at work, or to vedge out in front of a computer screen (haha, like now) or to crumble at the sight of adversity.  There has been an assault on that man for years now.  I understand it is a battle to be waged simply because winning would mean I wouldn't need anyone else to be there for me.  That couldn't be further from the truth.

Still, the fact remains.  Someone once told me that I didn't have what it takes.  Another never answered.  The wound remains.  And the marquee sign neon flickers in anticipation.  The red carpet awaits the return of its star.  The lie is always inviting.