Got the T-Shirt

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This one's for Old San Juan.

Every time my sister goes on vacation or a business trip, she always brings back a T-shirt for me.

Canada, Atlantic City, California, I’ve got a whole wardrobe of gift T-shirts. I really appreciate my sister's thoughtfulness and it’s pretty cool to walk around advertising all these funky locations.

On Saturday morning, I was heading to my supermarket when I passed a couple on Bay Ridge Place.

“We were in Old San Juan,” the man said to me. “It’s beautiful.”

For a second there, I wasn’t sure what he was talking about until I realized I was wearing an Old San Juan T-shirt that my sister had gotten for me during a trip to Puerto Rico.

“My sister was there,” I said. “Maybe it’s time for me to pay a visit.”

We chatted a little longer and went our separate ways. It’s one of these casual encounters that I am learning to appreciate more.

I used to take these occurrences for granted, but I see now in this harsh world in which we live, a pleasant meeting is something to treasure.

And then I turned the corner and saw this dude walking toward me with a message on his t-shirt.

“Not everybody gets a trophy,” it read.

Presumably this was referring participation trophies, which are given out to kids regardless of how well they do in a particular competition.

While I always thought this was a recent development, one of the first known mentions of participation trophies cropped up in a 1922 newspaper article about an Ohio high school basketball tournament.

To be honest, I’m not overly fond of participation trophies myself, but I don’t think it’s worth announcing that fact on a T-shirt.

And seeing that shirt, I had a flashback to a guy I knew at my old gym near City Hall, who used proudly to tell me he’d make his son throw out every participation trophy the kid brought home from school.

And my back went up.

Language Lesson

I’ve got a trophy for you, I thought as the dude walked by. World’s Biggest Jerk-Off.

All right, that’s harsh, especially in light of my chat with lovely couple just moments earlier.

I soldiered on to my supermarket, headed straight the deli counter where I ordered a pound of mushroom salad.

However, the woman behind the counter kept pointing to the wrong item and I suspect this was due to a language issue.

Finally, she got it, and I heard myself grousing under my breath about how she should get a better command of English if she’s going to serve people.

Then I stepped back and took a good look at my thoughts. And I didn’t like what I saw at all.

What’s the point of being so disagreeable—especially now when cruelty is celebrated and people like this woman are hauled off to detention camps and deported?

I was so annoyed at that guy with his trophy hating t-shirt, yet here I was angling for the Bonehead of the Year award.

I decided to have some fun. I took out my phone and googled the Spanish word for mushroom—de hongos—which I rather lamely tried to pronounce.

“We also say el champiñón,” she told me. (I didn’t even try that one.)

Immediately I felt so good, and I tried asking for some grilled chicken only I blanked on the Spanish word for chicken—pollo—which is amazing given how many chicken burritos I’ve had in my life.

“Let me have dos pieces of…chicken,” I said.

She laughed, took care of my order and I responded with a hearty “muchas gracias.”

I walked away feeling so good. I had taken the higher path, and it was nice feeling. And if I plan on going to Old San Juan I might as well brush up on my Espanol.

I’m not looking for a trophy, but I wouldn’t say no to a commemorative t-shirt.

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