The Trophies We Share

Hello, it's Sunday Morning.

They were announcing the Athlete of the Year. I sat in the back of the crowded auditorium, surrounded by the usual Loyola Polytechnic High School noise: clapping hands, dress shoes scraping the tile, someone whispering a bet about who would win. But I already knew who it would be.

"And now, for Athlete of the Year. For his remarkable achievements on the hard courts of basketball. Leader in assists with 9 per game, leader in points scored with 18 per game, and the player who led Loyola Polytechnic High School to the regional championship game. For his skills, his beautiful game, and for making us believe once again, the recognition for Athlete of the Year goes to the little giant..."

I didn't even hear the applause. I was already on my feet.

Was I jumping? Running? Laughing? Crying?

I can't quite explain what happened. Something took over—a wave, a love so big it needed a body. And even that body couldn't contain it. I made my way to the stage, weaving through rows of stunned students and amused teachers. Like Roberto Benigni at the Oscars, I climbed the steps, beaming with a joy that didn't belong to me, but somehow did.

I hadn't played a single minute of basketball. I couldn't dribble. I hadn't made a shot. But my brother Robert had. And he had just been named Athlete of the Year.

But he wasn't there. On a Friday afternoon, he was off playing hooky. So I took the trophy—to everyone's delight, or laughter, or both.

That day, I wasn't pretending to be someone else. I was being a brother, a believer, a boy who couldn't hold back the joy.

And for a moment, it didn't matter who the award was meant for, because we'd shared almost everything growing up: pencils, shoes, clothes, homework, parents, dreams, sorrows, even secrets. And apparently, trophies too.

And isn't that what joy is, really? Not something we win, but something we share.

That day, I took home the trophy. But I never forgot who earned it, or how good it felt to carry something that wasn't mine alone.

The true trophies aren't the objects we hold. They're the moments we hold on to. Together.

I love you, Robert.

And you, who would you walk on stage for?