“I feel like I need to grow up or something,” Ethan Truman groaned.
“I agree, you do need to grow up,” Floyd Green said, lounging back in a chair, reading a Justice League comic. He turned the comic to face Max Holden, who was leaning behind the counter. “You know, I think I’d screw the comic version of Wonder Woman over the real one.”
“There is no real Wonder Woman,” Ethan said. “She’s a fictional character.”
“I mean the movie one. Gadot or whatever her name is. I mean, she’s gorgeous and all, but I think I’d rather the comic. Is that weird?”
“Yes.”
Max said, “Everyone would rather bang the comic version of any character over the movie one. They’re designed to unrealistic ideals. What comic book character looks like any person you know in real life?”
“Dan Collins looks a lot like Sponge Bob Square Pants.”
“Actually, he does. Holy shit.”
Ethan said, “This is what I’m talking about. I need to grow up. I mean, look at me.”
“I’d choose Linda Carter over the comic, though,” Max said.
“Now?” Floyd said.
“I’m wasting my life coming by here all the time, hanging with you clowns,” Ethan said.
“Well, not now,” Max said. Then added, “Well, probably now. Definitely back in the eighties.”
“That goes without saying,” Floyd said.
“I need to find a girl. Settle down,” Ethan said.
“You need to get a real job,” Max said.
“I have a real job.”
The front door’s bell dinged as a man walked in. A white, middleclass, dad-type with the stench of failed athlete dreams. He strode briskly through the rows of t-shirts, clearly with a mission for a specific item.
Floyd said to Ethan, “Sports editor for The Mystic Crier is not a real job.”
“I’m the executive editor.”
“Of a small town paper that covers predominantly local sports.”
“Who are you to talk? You’ve been delivering pizzas for twenty years.”
“I make more than you in a week, and never stepped foot in a college.”
The man walked up to the counter, and Max smiled a large, clearly fake smile, “Welcome to F.N. Best T-Shirts, how may I help you?”
The guy said, “You got those Participation Trophies are for Pussies t-shirts?”
Max pointed toward the store’s back corner.
“Why don’t you settle down with Meg,” Floyd said.
“It’s Maggie. Why can’t you ever get that right? Even when we see her at The Whale’s Tale and she’s wearing a nametag, you get it wrong.”
“She looks like a Meg.”
“I can’t settle down with Maggie. She says weird stuff.”
“Like what? I like Ethan? That is weird.”
“No, stuff like when I call and ask what she’s up to, she answers, about five-foot-five. My grandfather used to use that joke.”
The man handed a t-shirt to Max. “These are hilarious,” the guy said.
Max held the shirt up for a moment, reading it, then folded it and said, “For your kid?”
“My son.”
“How old?”
Floyd and Ethan regarded each other, uneasy with Max’s friendly tone. Floyd grumbled, “Here we go.”
“Ten,” the man said.
“Trying to instill him with that go-get-em attitude?”
“Damn right,” the guy said with a smile.
“Hate to see the pussification of sports at that age.”
“Preaching to the choir, brother.”
Max said, “In fact, I think they need to take it a step further and have personalized trophies for each kid on the winning team. Divvy up the champion trophies by how much each kid contributes. Fuck these freeloading benchwarmers.”
“Huh?”
“Each kid’s dads could be the judges. Sit there with a clipboard and track just how much their kid contributes to each win during the championship season. I’m sure they’d be really fucking honest about it.”
“I don’t….”
“They should have each father watch every game and honestly keep track of just how much their kid played and how many times they touched the ball. Maybe they can bring in like Bill Belichick or something to break down film for them. Tell each father how his idiot kid screwed the pooch on each play. And then each father can be forced to handwrite on each kid’s trophy either champ or loser. Maybe even make some of them writefreeloader on the kid’s trophy, because that’s what he is. A freeloader for letting the better kids do all the work.”
“Well, I mean….”
“Here’s another idea. Seeing as I agree it’s important for kids to learn the difference between winners and losers at any age, they should bring professional athletes in once a month or so, not to teach the kids—who still haven’t developed physically, fully learned the game yet, or are just being forced to play—but instead to beat the kids. Like, badly. Bring J.J. Watt in to hit them full tilt. Bring in Justin Verlander to drill them in the small of the back for crowding the plate. Have Pele do one of those upside down bicycle kicks over their heads. Is Pele even still alive?”
“I don’t….”
“Doesn’t matter. Dead or alive, he’d still probably beat some shitty kid at soccer. They need to show these kids what real athletic ability looks like. Be sure the ninety-nine-point-nine percent that won’t make pro can understand that they just don’t have it. In fact, let’s bring this concept to professional sports. Why do losers, who never even make it into the playoffs, still get paid? Only pay the players that win. In fact, if you think about it, our whole society from the top down is one big participation trophy. You think half—fuck that, seventy percent—of these rich assholes in government and corporations would have gotten into Harvard or Yale or Boston College if their family wasn’t a participant in the gene pool lottery?”
“Well I went to Boston College.”
“Of course you did. We have these shirts in Large, too, by the way. You want one?”
“Um, no, this one is fine.”
Max rang up the order and, with an over-large grin, handed the shirt in the bag to the man. “Thanks for shopping at F.N. Best T-Shirts. And make sure that kid earns this shirt. We have a strict no-returns policy, so if he warms the bench, he’s stuck with this thing.”
“Um, okay, right,” the guy said, chuckling an acknowledging laugh that was tinged with confusion at its edges.
When the front door closed fully behind the man, Ethan said, “Holy shit.”
Max said, “I don’t want you plagiarizing any of that when you’re on that stupid sports station you call.”
“Don’t worry.”
Floyd, not looking up from his comic, said, “Sellout.”
Max said, “Excuse me, pizza guy? I’m a sellout?”
“If you have a problem with the t-shirts, why do you sell them?”
“Because my name’s not Franklin Nathanial Best. I don’t own the shop.”
“Yeah, but you design the shirts.”
“True. And I designed that one with a thermochrome message that appears when the kid sweats.”
“Saying what?” Ethan said.
“My father only loves me if I win.”
“I really do need to grow up.”
