Napoleon Bonaparte once said, “Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever.” While Napoleon’s glory ultimately gave way to his exile, he does make an excellent point. How much is receiving recognition worth? Does it depend on the situation, or should one live life with a “go big or go home” attitude?
Napoleon’s quote reminded me of a memory from my college football days. Now before you question my truthfulness—especially since a quick Google search reveals that Binghamton University has never had a football team—I should point out that I’m referring to a co-ed, recreational football league. In other words, two-hand touch; not “real” college football.
Without spoiling too much of the story before I get into this blog, I’ll give you a quick preview.
During my freshman year, our co-rec football team was particularly amazing; and I was a key player. So much so, that when we made it to the playoffs, I was faced with a tough decision. Should I go for the short-term glory to (hopefully) be the team’s hero, or should I focus on the longer term and end up with obscurity? This conflict brings me to the life lesson I learned: when facing a difficult situation, choosing the option that brings you the least amount of regret may very well be the better choice. That’s one way to avoid committing a “flagrant foul” in life.
Here’s what happened…
Tackling your problems
For me, college was a huge leap in independence. I went from living under the protective eyes of my parents to a mostly-look-the-other-way Resident Assistant (RA) who supervised our floor. As long as we didn’t commit a flagrant foul of being too noisy or disrupting the RA’s pre-med studies, she didn’t really care what we did.
Once I got over a brief bout of homesickness (yup, that seems to be a recurring theme in my adolescence), I quickly figured out how to balance my academic endeavors with my social life. While my freshman year of college was tough but fun, there was one constant that was missing in my world – athletics. For the first time since I could throw or kick a ball, I wasn’t on a sports team. Enter my temporary savior, Binghamton’s co-recreational (“co-rec”) football league.
The short version of how co-rec football worked is this: each of the on-campus housing communities played against the other buildings in their dorm clusters. The season culminated with playoffs between the top teams from each dorm, ending with a school-wide dorm champion. I won’t blame the extreme excitement of co-rec football on Binghamton’s lack of a strong athletic program. But I will say we had a lot of displaced school spirit that couldn’t be channeled into the joy of studying at the Glenn G. Bartle Library.
One other important item to note, co-rec rules stipulated that a female must be the quarterback. It just so happened, that my dad and I loved playing football together throughout my childhood. So much so, that by college, I was quite skilled as a quarterback. Naturally, I volunteered for the role.
After our first practice, when the sophomore fraternity boys who lived down the hall witnessed my football prowess, my life was forever changed. Well, at least it was during my first co-rec season.
Country road, take Mahomes
As one of the only quarterbacks who had both accuracy and range, I was an integral part of our team’s success. In co-rec circles, I became known as Hinman College’s rookie sensation. Sadly, this was before the internet. So, there are no records of my “celebrity.” Ehem, very minor celebrity.
But thanks to co-rec football, I went from being an awkward, ugly-duckling freshman to someone whom the beefy fraternity boys sought out whenever we weren’t in class. I didn’t care that it was only to run practice routes with them or to discuss game strategy. Attractive, cool guys were seeking me out! My self-confidence surged. I felt validated, seen, or whatever buzz word you want to insert here that says I was getting a lot of positive attention from others.
Co-rec football may very well have been the pinnacle of my late adolescence.
But no need to worry that I let the attention go to my head. Given the constant presence a of the girls who were dating my fraternity boy teammates, I wisely kept my focus on the football field. I had no plans of committing any flagrant fouls on their turf.
If nothing else, my fraternity boy teammates probably viewed me as their kid sister. And for those twelve weeks of the season, those guys treated me like royalty.
Naturally, I was chuffed to bits. (That’s a British phrase for being thrilled.)
Scrambled legs
I recall one game where I was scrambling for a first down, an opposing male player accidentally knocked me down. As I dusted myself off, harsh words and insults were slung in my honor. A fight nearly broke out, clearing my team’s sidelines until it was determined that I wasn’t injured.
Aching ribs or not, I was beaming with pride.
I wished co-rec football would last forever. But alas, in sports, the whole point of competition is to determine a champion. The 1992 Binghamton co-rec football league was no different.
I’ll skip the play-by-play for the season—not only would it bore you, but also because I don’t remember much at this point. What I do recall was that we easily advanced to the semi-finals.
And then Napoleon’s quote about glory and obscurity came into play.
You see, during the regular season, I’d somehow been able to make all of our team’s games. I have vague recollections of running from one end of the campus to the field by our dorms, just barely making it in time for kickoff. I also recall occasionally leaving a class early or going to some classes a few minutes late to ensure a victory. (To any students reading this: do as I say, not as I do.)
Unfortunately for me, the big semifinal game against a neighboring dorm was scheduled to occur at the same time as when I had a big presentation in one of my small group discussions. These classes were led by Teaching Assistants, and they took attendance. Unlike the big lecture hall classes, discussion classes were much harder to skip.
Missing a class here or there wasn’t a big deal. But missing a presentation meant committing a flagrant foul—as in possibly failing the class. How would I explain that to my parents?
Unfair catch
To say I was heartbroken by this conflict would be an understatement.
Here I was, riding high as the exalted quarterback. I was on the precipice of leading our team to co-rec football greatness. We had the talent, we had the size (thanks to those tall fraternity boys), and we had the spirit. Without sounding overly dramatic, our ability to win was resting on my shoulders.
What was I to do?
Should I bail on the presentation, risking a potential flagrant foul of failing the class so I could play in the semifinals? Could I somehow postpone the presentation? Or do I go to my class but sink our chances of winning? This was a conundrum I had never experienced before.
I was truly torn between going for the glory and living in obscurity.
No thanks, I’ll pass
As I thought about my options, I’ll admit that I seriously toyed with the idea of postponing the presentation. I knew several of my more competitive teammates were highly supportive of that choice. I’d even gone so far as to make a list of potential excuses. But what if those excuses weren’t airtight and I got caught in a lie? That surely would be a flagrant foul in the Teaching Assistant’s mind, possibly enough for me to fail the class. Was playing in the game worth the risk?
While searching for my answer, I got to thinking about all the amazing goals I’d scored in soccer when I was little. How I won the sixth grade District Field Day softball throw. While the trophies and medals were on display in my bedroom back in Wappingers Falls, who else remembered my heroics other than my family members? No one. That’s who.
It was with this sinking realization that I learned the hard truth about the transitory nature of fame and success.
Leading my team to a co-rec football victory would bring me fleeting glory. But that’s about it. Being the winning co-rec quarterback probably wasn’t going to get me into a graduate program or land me a job. Good grades, however, would.
And so, practical Steph won out. I went to class and gave my presentation.
Still, I felt awful trudging off to class as my teammates headed to likely defeat. (Not to sound overly conceited, but our backup quarterback’s wobbly passes weren’t going to get the job done.)
I suppose I did condemn myself to obscurity. At least it was by my own choice.
But I’ll admit, there’s a part of me that hopes this blog post somehow goes viral. If so, then glory will finally be mine.
Have you had any childhood experiences that taught you important life lessons like mine? Please share your stories with me in the comments section.
