The Golden Shoe

Yep, actual trophy. It’s moved cross-country with me (twice), been dropped hundreds of times (zoom in on the corners), and used as a bracelet holder for decades.

In first grade, I won a trophy at St. Mark’s parish for being the fastest kid in my grade. Not the fastest girl, not the fastest boy—the fastest little human. The race was a gritty asphalt sprint around the church parking lot, because nothing screams childhood like scraped knees with embedded tar fragments.

When I crossed the finish line after smoking everyone, my dad erupted in what would become his trademark roar. “That’s my baby girl!” He shouted it at every triumph I had from then on, from more races to that time I beat all the boys in the boys-only Pitch Hit and Run competition, to my first marathon trophy, and eventually even when I landed my first job. Depending on how they read Dad’s “That’s my baby girl!” proclamation, the other spectators likely couldn’t tell if he was announcing a champion or witnessing my kidnapping. For me, Dad’s enthusiasm filled me with pride and made me giggle when I was a little girl. In later years, I welled up with that same pride while smiling and shaking my head in amazement at just how consistently enthusiastic he’s been for my triumphs my entire life.

The trophy I received for our parish race was small but glorious. A white marble base, topped with a golden running shoe so shiny it looked like Midas had gold-plated it. I clutched it like an Oscar as I strutted toward our station wagon, beaming.

And then I saw my little sister, Julie, crying.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, expecting to look down and see a bloody knee blackened with bits of asphalt.

Through her sobs, she managed, “I really wanted a trophy.”

Oy. Cue instant guilt. Here I was basking in the glory of beating every pint-sized parishioner in sight, and my little sister was shattered. So, in a move both noble and idiotic, I handed her my hard-won Golden Shoe, saying, “Here. You can have mine. You ran a good race, too.”

Julie lit up and clutched the shoe trophy against her chest like she was embracing one of her Baby Tender Love dolls. Meanwhile, I felt the faint ache of regret despite being happy that my act of kindness dried her tears.

Dad, who had witnessed the entire exchange, was not impressed. Later, he sat me down.

“Née, Julie didn’t earn that trophy. You did. It’s yours.”

“It’s okay, Dad. She really wanted it. I don’t need it.”

“Née, sometimes people are sad. That doesn’t mean it’s your job to fix them. You ran an exceptional race. You deserve that trophy.”

This was a solid point that cut deep. Dad went on to share more life lessons, but I was a bit preoccupied with lots of uncomfortable feelings surfacing about the fact that Julie had run straight to our room and placed my Golden Shoe on her side of the dresser—right next to our twin piggy banks. [Side note: Those pigs’ underbellies had half-dollar-sized holes with black stopper plugs to hold all the change inside until you were desperate enough to raid your piggy bank—usually to purchase a red, white, and blue bomb pop or a dreamsicle from “the ding ding man.” If at any point the stoppers were shoved up inside the pig, we knew someone had messed with our stash. My first introduction to home security.]

By the end of the conversation, I knew my dad had made a good point—good enough that I went and talked to my sister about taking my trophy back. She didn't cry or throw a fit. On some level, she understood the point Dad made to me better than I did.

I do remember learning that day that you can’t fix every sadness with self-sacrifice. And that real, sweaty, asphalt-scorched competition actually matters.

Which is why today’s “everyone gets a ribbon” culture drives me bananas. We reward every kid for every effort—the best effort or the shittiest effort. Kids get trophies for just showing up these days. I understand that we want to acknowledge kids’ existence and make sure they feel seen, but I miss what good ‘ol competition instills in the youth. I don't mean competition to the point of dominance and egotism, but the kind of competition where you're tested to give your all, and where you get to stand proud in your moment of conviction and grit, and celebrate the gifts and talents that are uniquely yours. I wish kids these days had more opportunities like that.

A friend’s kid recently showed me the ribbon he got for being a “great hip-hop dancer.” He demonstrated his moves for me, and all I could think was, You are the worst hip-hop dancer I’ve ever seen. Even his mom knew it, but she’d bought into the modern mantra of “at least he tries” and gave me a wink and a shrug.

“Trying” in my day meant waking at 5 AM for the first of two-a-day runs during cross-country season, slogging past the Lipton tea plant in Independence in the pitch dark so we could get faster, stronger, better. Trophies weren’t pity prizes. They were proof you’d bled, sweated, and occasionally lost toenails for the cause.

Julie, by the way, went on to run cross country in college. Her sprint times blew mine out of the water. While I muscled through longer-distance running and marathons, she became the fastest person in our family.

If she wanted my trophy today, she wouldn’t cry. She’d look me dead in the eye and say, “I’ll race you for it.”