In honor of my cousin Jamie’s 34th birthday, I would like to dedicate this blog to her and how in one quick utterance, she prevented me from being cool for the rest of my life.
The story goes like this:
Back in grade school, there wasn’t much to do on the weekends. You could have sleepovers, go to the mall, or go to the movies. Outside of those three options (at least in my sheltered little world) there was not much else to do unless you wanted to spend time with your parents. And at the ripe old age of 12, that is the last thing that anyone wanted to do. At the beginning of September, however, and for the next three months there came an option that if you chose it and if you did it right, you could stake your place in the world of popularity for the rest of your life.
The Althoff Catholic High School football games.
Being a small Catholic high school in Belleville, IL, Althoff did not have the funds to have their own football stadium. As a matter of fact, all three high schools in Belleville were forced to share one local field which just happened to be about a mile down the road from my house. On any given weekend night in September through November, you were more than likely able to drive by the small stadium and catch a glimpse of the scoreboard and of the overhead lights. In fact, if the wind was blowing the right way on one of those nights, I could even open my bedroom window in my parent’s house on Route 13 and sometimes hear quite clearly the sound of the announcer belting out “Touchdown.”
The inside of the dilapidated old stadium (which is still in use) consisted of the typical four sides to sit on, but where you sat was not really an option as the seating chart had been clearly defined through some sort of edict of yesteryear. On one side sat the visiting team’s fans which was usually fairly scarce unless two of the three high schools that shared the stadium were playing against each other. On the other side sat the home team’s fans which, during the Althoff games, consisted of faculty, the player’s family and friends, and on the very far end, the student section. At the end zone by the entrance gate, you would commonly find various stragglers and people who just wanted to catch a high school football game for the evening. The seats behind the other end zone, however, were the seats to have. For a grade school kid, sitting in that section was a big deal. That was the section where you wanted to be. That was the section that housed – the popular kids.
I don’t know what made this the popular kid section or what even made these kids popular, but as if nature had decreed it, these were the majority of the kids that went on to the various Belleville high schools and were in the “popular” crowd. Was it money? Looks? Pedigree? The fact that even though the Midwest autumns sometimes got freezing cold, none of them in the section would dare wear a heavy coat and would instead stand there in their uber popular nylon Nike jackets with their teeth chattering until a couple of fillings came out? I really have no idea. What I do know is that back then being able to sit in this section was a big deal. If you were there as an 8th grader, your ticket was as good as punched for the popular crowd during your freshman year of high school - and everybody wanted to be there.
I wanted to be there.
Sure, there were other ways to be popular, but this was the only one that I was aware of at that point in my life. I was in 7th grade and knew from going to a few games with my parents that the far endzone looked like a lot of fun (we would usually sit with the stragglers). I would often pass it on my way to the concession stand in the hopes that somebody would think “hey, that guy looks pretty fun. Let’s invite him up to our land of cool and see how he fits in.” Unfortunately, as I passed I would see guys that I played basketball or baseball against, but because my acumen at both sports was somewhat forgettable, I was never noticed. It also didn’t help that I was in the 7th grade. Sure, there were 7th graders up there, but they were being groomed by the 8th graders to rule the end zone for the next season. This was a time honored tradition and the hand-picked 7th graders that got to go up there were a select few. I was not so select.
One Saturday night, however, I decided that I wanted to be in that crowd. I had to be in that crowd. If I was ever going to make a mark for myself, now was the time. My parents weren’t going to the game, but they were never opposed to dropping me off at the stadium to watch. My dad would always listen to the games on the radio, so whenever they were over, either he or my mom would drive the short distance up the street, pick me up at our predetermined designated location, and drive me home (these were the days before cell phones so a predetermined location was a necessity). Anyway, before the game I got into the coolest clothes that I had. I put on my stone washed jeans, my Notre Dame sweatshirt, my Notre Dame hat, my Althoff jacket, and my Converse basketball shoes (which were forbidden to be worn anywhere other than the gym floor for fear of losing their traction). I was looking cool (so I thought) and ready to go. The only thing I needed was a little bit of courage and an “in” to the cool section - and I had it in my cousin Jamie.
Jamie and I are only three months apart in age, but because she had a late birthday and I had an early one (in academic standards), she was a year ahead of me in school. She also had an advantage over me because whereas she went to Cathedral grade school which excelled in many grade school sports (another shoe-in for popularity), I went to St. Mary’s which excelled in getting our asses handed to us by schools like Cathedral. At this point in time, Jamie was in 8th grade and hung out not only with popular kids, but in the popular section at the football games. I had seen her there during past games on my way to the concession stand, but the last thing I had wanted to do was to flag her down like a dork from the walkway and bring unwanted attention to myself. I wanted to be invited into the section, not brought up out of pity.
Well, maybe I shouldn’t speak too soon on that.
On that night, I purposely got there early and walked around “the section” while keeping an eye out for Jamie. The section never filled up very quickly so it would be easy to spot her, and if she got there early enough and I made myself noticeably visible (I was 6’2” and built like a beanpole so I was fairly easily spotted) maybe she would see me and start talking to me. Sure enough, Jamie got there and immediately went over to the popular section to begin talking with her friends and I casually walked back in forth in front until she saw me.
According to my plan and reliance on Jamie being a kind soul, as soon as she spotted me she invited me up to come sit by her. Now what the popular kids didn’t realize was that being invited up was a huge deal. They had pretty much always been there or been expected to be there so it was as commonplace as brushing their teeth to them. But to someone like me - a gangly, gawky 7th grader with not a cool bone in his body - this was a huge deal. Jamie politely introduced me to all of her friends, but I was so nervous (and cold because it was a chilly night but as I said before, no one would be caught dead wearing a heavy coat) that I couldn’t have told you their names five seconds after I was introduced.
As the conversation progressed, I was starting to feel a little better. They were all talking and I was nodding my head for fear of opening my mouth to say something stupid which would get me immediately evicted from my seat of prominence. New people would come by, ignore me, and begin their conversations with the other popular kids. I tried to listen to what they were saying about who was dating whom and who just got what cool thing, but I didn’t know any of the names and chose to remain silent. I wasn’t being openly involved, but I wasn’t being shunned either. This was a good start and I was on my way to certain popularity.
That’s when it happened.
I guess I should mention at this point that it cost money to go to the games. It cost money to get in and it cost money for sodas and snacks. Actually, I was getting to the point in my life where I was constantly asking my parents for money for whatever in the hell it was that I spent money on in the 7th grade. As a result, my parents got me a job. It wasn’t a hard job and certainly didn’t break any child labor laws, but it did put a little bit of money in my pocket. The job consisted of going across the street to our neighbor’s house every other Saturday after I saw a UPS truck make a delivery, and help unload boxes, put together orders, and stamp about 500 books with a due date for the next order. Our neighbor was an Avon representative and both my sister Melissa and I were grateful for the few dollars that she would pay us for helping her out.
Well, apparently being in the 7th grade and having a job was the talk of the family. Seeing as nothing ever has been or ever will be able to be kept a secret on my Dad’s side of the family, I don’t know why I was surprised. In fact, I didn’t even think it was that big of a deal until Jamie brought it up at the football game.
Now, anyone who knows Jamie knows that she has a big mouth. God love her, but she will say whatever is on her mind whenever she wants to say it. And, the meaner that little thing is that she wants to say, the more evil her smile gets prior to saying it. I didn’t know this back then, but that night I learned the smile and will never forget it.
I’m not sure how the conversation started or even how it got to that point, but the basic gist was that Jamie told me that she’d heard I got a job. Me, being proud of the fact that I was gainfully employed and thinking that it might impress her very cute friends, went right along with her and began describing what I did. It was at this point as Jamie and her friends listened that Jamie began to get that evil smile on her face. I didn’t know what it was about so I kept going on with my story. When I had finished and was beaming with pride at how grown up and cool I sounded, I noticed that Jamie’s smile had gotten even bigger. I still didn’t know what was was going on until she looked directly at me and said quite clearly while raising her voice so as to be heard by everyone within a 20 foot radius, “so, you’re an Avon Lady?”
Being as calm and cool as I have always been, my face and ears reddened and I stumbled over my own tongue as I tried to disqualify what I did as being an Avon Lady. Unfortunately, no matter how much I protested and how much I fought, all of the girls that were listening began referring to me as “Avon Lady.” In fact, anyone within earshot was now calling me Avon Lady. People who hadn’t even heard the story about what I did for a job and had only heard Jamie’s announcement were calling me Avon Lady. Scott had ceased to exist, DJ Awesomsauce was twenty years from coming to fruition, and I was known for the rest of that night and all future games that I dared show my face to that season as Avon Lady.
Thanks a ton Jamie.
I’m not sure if I ever became “popular.” I know that I wasn’t invited to all of the cool parties in high school, but I did have a ton of fun hanging out with the friends that I did have. I did receive a vote (or several, for that matter) of confidence by being elected first to Junior class president and then to Student Council President, but I think that was just because I had a great ass. And, in hindsight, maybe it was the best thing for me. Had I joined the ranks with the popular end zone kids, my life may not have turned out like it did. I’m not saying that it would be better or worse, but it might be different and I’m not so sure that I would like that. I like my life and the way it turned out. In fact, I love it.
So Jamie, what I’m trying to say twenty years later, is that I forgive you for ruining my life at the time and making me cry myself to sleep every time that I think about it. I forgive you for making me feel like an outcast and for making me quit that job therefore starting a never ending trend in my life of quitting things as soon they get too difficult. I forgive you for figuratively stomping on what little self confidence I may have had as a fledgling youth and crushing all of my hopes and dreams of being accepted not by just the popular kids, but by everyone. And lastly, I forgive you for being as evilly brilliant as you are. It took me years to figure out that being mean to someone can be way more fun than simply telling a joke while you had that figured out by the 8th grade.
Bravo, Jamie. Bravo.
And happy birthday.
Thanks for reading
Love,
The Avon Lady
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