Towering is the potential for ugliness in a silent auction. Elitists of society hover over the tables with pens in hand, ready to guard their final bet. A slender businessman by trade now becomes a fundamentally sound AC Green ready to box-out the entire lane for a rebound. Really, it’s ridiculous. That slender guy, I mean. What he did to my childlike enthusiasm to purchase prime Dodger tickets at an almost insultingly low price has made me a sore sport…let me explain why.
Last night I was in attendance at a scholarship fundraiser. One of our assistant coaches in our soccer program started in a scholarship in memory of his father who passed away a few years ago. Each year our team’s seniors write an essay, pitching themselves for the scholarship, and each year a very worthy recipient receives a $1,000 scholarship for continuing education. Each year it’s a joy to see the recipient cement himself into Palos Verdes soccer history. It really is a joy, and it’s special to have a scholarship marking the greatness of high school potential into the real world.
I didn’t even bring my checkbook to this event, because I knew I wouldn’t be bidding on anything. Like I can go toe to toe with a Palos Verdes lawyer financially. For God’s sake, I’m a teacher (that’s not just a saying). Maybe someday I’ll remove the chip from my shoulder, but when money and power pervade the air, it turns me off like the girl who starts crying when a baby spits up on her because it ruined her dress. But as the night wore on, I noticed that there was only one bid, at $50, for four tickets that were valued at $85 a seat. And oh yeah, the Dodgers are in the middle of a pennant race. Surely, this was a mistake I thought to myself. And then I thought to myself, “Stop calling myself Shirley.” (This is what I do to keep myself sane and entertained at these event, if I don’t have Bruce, our head coach who will still don the denim jacket from the 80’s because it is comfortable, to latch onto. Well, there are a couple parents of former players who I can talk to. They are great people, and it explains why their kids are so great. Unfortunately, most of the people at this event are unrecognizable, and somewhat indistinguishable from each other. Narrow-mindedly, my view is those in the upper echelon of green tend to look like each other, and I can’t tell the difference…but I realize I am still in the parenthetical right now and better jump out of it, back to the Dodger tickets….) As I walk around the table with the other donated items—jewelry, paintings, spa packages, wine baskets, crystal, etc.—crazily enough I convince myself to get into the race.
It takes forever for me to work up enough courage to put my name down on the sheet. I’m not even sure how to follow the protocol that states, “Bid in $10 increments.” Does that mean the next bid has to be $60, or can I be defiant of my means and my profession and jack the bid up to $100 to show I mean business. But then I remember, that a $100 bid would be laughable in the eyes of the tall folk surrounding me. Little did I know, $100 would be the winning bid…
Time passes on. Bruschetta and Coors Light out of a can put my mind at ease. I look around, I’m the only one who drinks Coors Light out of a can (as a beer snob, I will rarely stoop to this level, but tonight I do it in defiance or what everyone else is drinking, and frankly, it’s not that bad, plus the “light” label makes me think I can keep my Adonis body one night more). The most recent recipient of the scholarship, Kevin Hoffman, is represented by his parents tonight, and his dad graciously continues to make sure I have a silver can in hand. And he even throws away my empty. If it weren’t for parents like Larry, I would lose my mind. I have two great parents of my own that didn’t let money corrupt them. Larry and Teresa are God-sends, and proof that there are great people everywhere you go, regardless of any label that someone guarded like myself could put on them. I’ve worked with both of their kids, two of the nicest, most respectful, most loving kids you’ll ever meet. And I am entirely convinced it comes from a the humble, humorous, unassuming, grateful parents that they have. I would go straight to these two to lead classes if I could convince the country that one must possess a license to raise kids, just as one must possess one to drive a car, teach a class, or construct a building.
Hanging out with the Hoffmans are the parents of Daniel Bies—Daniel being one of the quietest kids we ever coached. We couldn’t get him to talk, but it didn’t matter because his intelligent play helped win us back to back CIF championships. Suddenly after his senior year was over, Daniel became a social butterfly. He fooled us all, even his parents. We admit this to each other every year when we meet at the fundraiser. His parents are also my allies—they are good people. They show up to this every year, and their son graduated two years ago. They truly embody the family spirit of our program that continues to grow through love. I feel bad about my stance, because there are such wonderful parents that have allowed us to work with their kids and establish meaningful relationships. But I’ll always remain guarded. I’ve seen too much shit—stuff you wouldn’t believe. Or if you’re familiar, you do believe it, and you understand why I am so guarded. People who are successful in the professional lives have done something right along the way. A good number of people in places like Palos Verdes have used their intellect for success, and with success came money and some form of control. Sometimes they fail to realize that not everything is for purchase, not everything is to be influenced. I’d imagine it to be just as the day the first child leaves for college. Terrifying that day must any parent, but specifically the parent who is heavy-handed. Not just heavy-handed for the power trip, but heavy-handed for a perceived best benefit for the child. It’s understandable. We all want the best for those we love. But in the secondary educational realm, teaching and coaching are my specialties, not theirs. And that’s where the conflict has always lied.
Regardless, there are very good people here who care deeply not just about their kids, but the people such as myself who interact with their kids—and for these people I am eternally grateful, and I am eternally sorry that the actions of a corrupt few keep me on continuous alert and suspicion…
I go back to the table, grab a pen, and psych myself up to put my name down…that is until I actually read the name that is there before invisible mine. It’s Chuck Swanson. I heard this name all through high school. He and his brother are Palos Verdes soccer legends. And I just re-met Chuck about thirty minutes ago. He still looks very young for an ’85 grad—this is good to see. It is also nice to meet his twelve-year-old son, Nicolas, who later tells me that I must try pineapple under the chocolate fountain, and he is right. It is a delicious combination. Unfortunately this is not the party I can be dared to stick my tongue right underneath, as I did at our faculty Christmas party three years ago. Such a move tonight would probably be career suicide, but it’s also good to keep people on edge. I am slightly amused earlier in the night when one high tider let his guard down when the power briefly went out and he screamed, “Kathy, stop touching me there.” I immediately lost respect for him and his timeless in the dark joke when he repeats the same statement just ten seconds later. Yes, we heard you the first time—you can’t reset and reuse your jokes a la Costanza.
I have a hard time putting my name down on that sheet, literally. The pen hardly works, and it makes my handwriting look worse than usual. I take it as a harbinger. I feel horrible putting my name right beneath Chuck’s, because I know he will be taking his son if he gets the tickets. To top it off, Nicolas walks right by the table as I put my name down. Horrible stuff, and then I realize again why I am so turned off by money—it can symbolize, or attempt to, one man’s power over another. And this concept has never made idealistic sense to me, and it never will. Later I would feel much better when Rich, our JV coach and whose dad the scholarship is named after, tells me that I could collude with Chuck, and we could each take two tickets—it is a fantastic idea. But it wasn’t meant to be, as Chuck later bows out when the bid reaches a few more increments.
Inexplicably, my name is still most recent on the list with fifteen minutes left for bidding. Ten minutes later, this was not the case. Someone with the last name Trujillo has bid seventy, and an indecipherable name bids eighty right after that. Swanson, I assume is done, but I’d still be willing to cut him the split deal if he comes around. I am a softy, but a recent trip to Yankee Stadium, the first trip there of my life, made me feel like a kid again. I walked into the stadium that I had seen so many times on TV, and I was eight years old, running up stairs, taking pictures at every viewpoint, savoring every moment. I think of Nicolas. Rich announces there are two minutes left, and I bid ninety. This was my rookie mistake. Lurking nearby is a life nemesis I’ve never met. I never got his full name, the lines were blurred on the paper. It is anguish, that does this when the bidding ends. He sees me make my move, and it is too early. He makes his, at one hundred dollars, with thirty seconds left. I’m ready to go in and put the last bid, but he slowly writes his name. I stand close enough to see that he actually writes his bid and name twice, just retracing all of his strokes the second time, to waste the waning seconds. It is a veteran move, but it is cheap. He knows I am standing right behind him as he pivots his body around his left hip, to shield me off on his right side. He even has someone stand next to him on his left, so no one can get around that way. Dirty, dirty pool. Excuse me for judging here, and becoming emotional, but here is a man who can afford any Dodger tickets he wants—I know this. Rich’s past is as a very successful business man. He left the profession because he wanted to teach and coach—very noble of him. All these people are linked with his past, and they have a lot of money. I wish this prick would have just blown me out of the water and put a $200 bid down earlier. I could have bowed out to my profession. Instead, he smirks as the bell signals the bidding’s closing. Bruce senses I’m upset at this, and mentions it later jokingly. I say, “It’s no joke. I’m damn upset.” If you missed it, he smirks as the bell signals the bidding’s closing. He smirks at me with a 10 percent “I’m sorry you didn’t win” lip structure, the other 90 percent lip curl suggests, “I own you.”
I am reminded that I don’t belong in this realm. To some, I am just a peon assistant varsity soccer coach. It is slightly more impressive that I teach high school English, but the disdain is still the same. I say my goodbyes to the beautiful families Hoffman and Bies, say goodbye to the Heffernan’s, the namesake of the scholarship, say a few last words to Bruce, and laugh on my way out. I think of my neighbors who have given me tickets to the Dodger games twice this year. They are two mid-twenties partiers who work for the LA Kings in ticket sales, struggling to get ahead like the rest of us. I always buy them a case of beer in gratitude. They say it’s not necessary, but I think it keeps the relationship thriving. They understand how I much appreciate the tickets. They are not my best friends, but we are connected. I can leave my door open to them, and they can leave their door open for me. I live in an apartment a block for the beach. During the summer when I am on vacation, I go to the beach every day and bodysurf. I try to be like the dolphins, our marine guardians and friends. I live a blessed life. I think about my ex who got me Dodger tickets after the high school baseball team I coach had a first round exit in the playoffs, and I was crushed. She bought the tickets the lift my spirits. She paid a hefty price for the seats, it did not matter to her, she just wanted to make me happy, taking me to a place I love. For that alone, she is forever a great person. Perhaps if this guy knew me more, and how much I crave pennant-stretch Dodger baseball, he wouldn’t have smirked, I don’t know. But I think people such as himself compelled the Orwells of the world to write in disdain of “man’s dominion over man.”
I think I’ll just get out the checkbook and contribute directly to the scholarship.
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