Musings From The Shitter: Volume Twenty

Lynx, Laminate, and the Fairest Player

There’s a certain smell to school prize givings. Not a bad smell, exactly…more like a composite atmosphere, a curated blend of over-varnished wood floors plus the faint, throat-catching edge of whatever Lynx body spray is trending with 13-year-olds whose relationship to moderation is still in development, all undercut by the inescapable base note of adult unease.

You can smell it. The awkwardness. The restlessness. The existential question…unspoken but humming like a low-frequency speaker test…of why exactly are we here?

Because prize givings are, in some ways, elaborate performances of value. Of symbolic order. Of hierarchy dressed in community colours. They attempt to summarise a whole season…or year, or whatever unit of youthful effort the school is measuring…into one night’s worth of laminated certificates, misfiring microphones, and rhythmic clapping that can either feel wildly disproportionate or devastatingly hollow depending on who the applause is for and who, crucially, is watching.

I’ve been to a few. As a student, sure…mostly forgettable, though I do remember a peculiar metallic taste in my mouth every time someone else won something I sort of secretly hoped I might be quietly, miraculously called up for. And now, as a parent. Which is different, but not in the way you think…not more noble or selfless or whatever, but somehow denser, emotionally. Heavier. More layered in projection and displacement and a certain aching kind of pride that is less about the child and more about time’s brutal velocity and the parts of yourself you see flickering in their posture or tone or how they walk up to receive a handshake.

Tonight, it was my eldest’s football prize giving. I got there early…not out of over-eagerness but more from a logistical tetris involving work, parking, and a kind of deeply-ingrained anxiety about sitting at the back in case I need to leave early (I never leave early, but the possibility comforts me). I chose to sit by myself, which may sound sad but is actually…for me, at least…a kind of observational luxury. Like pressing pause on your own participation and stepping into a role best described as background human with high-resolution awareness.

I like watching these rooms before they start. The way kids crackle with chaotic energy and parents orbit in slow, hesitant social patterns…pretending to look for seats while mostly scanning for safe people to sit near or familiar eyes to nod at. Everyone’s pretending to be less self-conscious than they are. It’s beautiful. And excruciating. And familiar.

And as a parent, your presence at these events is shaped by all kinds of intersecting scripts: guilt, pride, tiredness, social obligation, love, the hope of being seen loving, and the desire to just get it over with so you can go home and eat something beige. But tonight, I decided…consciously…to be here. Fully. I chose to clap. For everyone.

I made a private pact with myself: that I would clap like every kid was mine. Especially the ones who only get the default, legally required applause. The kind of clapping that sounds like a dropped box of matches. Some kids only ever get that. Some kids get silence. And maybe…just maybe…one loud, weirdly enthusiastic clap might feel like sunlight through a cloud. Or at least like someone noticed.

So I watched. And I clapped.

A parent sat down next to me…the kind of unscripted social collision that can feel either like a tiny act of grace or a mildly awkward obligation. It turned out fine. Conversation about kids, mostly. Growing up. I mentioned (quietly proud) that mine was becoming more independent. She nodded, said she found that terrifying. And we both just let that difference sit there, not needing to resolve it. Which felt oddly adult. Like, capital-A Adult.

Then came the speeches. A genre unto themselves. Awkward teachers misreading the room. Forced jokes. Paper-shuffling. Attempts at gravitas that sound like closing monologues from a school assembly that ran five minutes too long. These moments aren’t boring in a normal sense…they’re boring in a deeply spiritual sense. Like you start to dissociate into the ceiling lights.

But then something happened.

One of the coaches got up and called three boys forward. Not the 1st XI. Not the stars. These were boys from the lowest teams. The quiet runners. The ones who turn up every week, knowing full well they won’t make the A team, or the B team, or any team that gets listed in newsletters. But they still show up. They play. And this coach…bless this coach…decided to name them anyway.

Even though, officially, the school doesn’t give prizes for just showing up.

It was, I think, the most honest moment of the night. Because what that coach said…or did, more accurately…was gently rebel against the entire structure of the evening. He gave voice to something no certificate was ever going to: that commitment, showing up, and giving a shit matters. Even if it doesn’t get laminated.

And then another coach stood up…the quintessential Kiwi bloke. One of those guys who probably builds his own deck on weekends, drinks instant coffee without irony, and wouldn’t use the word “passionate” unless he was describing a ref’s bad call. And yet, his speech was pure gold. Earnest. Unfiltered. Real. Like you could feel the pride behind his deadpan delivery. It wasn't eloquent, but it was human. And that made it perfect.

Then came my daughter’s coach.

Now…at first, I didn’t know it was about her. Honestly. He started talking about this player: someone you could put anywhere on the field…defence, midfield, up front…and she’d give it everything. He said one night after training she was smiling, and when he asked why, she just said, “I just want to play.” He said after one win…win…she cried. And when he asked why, she said, “We played so well.”

And I sat there thinking: What a kid. I clapped. Loud. For whoever that was. Because that’s the kind of kid you want to be clapping for.

And then…he said her name.

My daughter’s.

Fairest Player Award.

I froze. Because all those words…the quiet brilliance, the work ethic, the tears, the joy…they were hers. And I hadn’t even known. And in that moment, it hit me like a punch to the throat: this is who she’s becoming. This is who she is. And I didn’t even see it coming.

That was the real prize. Not the certificate. Not the title. But the moment of being seen. Of knowing that someone…outside your family, outside your home…sees your kid not just as a name on a roll, but as a person. A presence. A force.

So yeah…I hollered. Louder than anyone else in the hall. It might’ve been embarrassing. I don’t care.

Because sometimes a loud cheer is the deepest kind of love.

And maybe that’s the thing we miss about nights like these…we think they’re about performance, about rewards. But really, they’re about recognition. And not just for our own kids. For anyone’s. Because every clap, every holler, is a small defiance against invisibility.

I’ve been thinking lately…and not in a self-help-book kind of way, but in the 3am, lying-awake-staring-at-the-ceiling kind of way…about what it means to show up. Not just physically. But really show up. To sit through the dull parts. To clap for other people’s kids. To notice. To pay attention.

Because attention, when done properly, is love.

And love…the real kind, the kind without condition or scorekeeping…is mostly made up of showing up. Over and over. Even when it’s awkward. Even when it’s boring. Even when it’s not your name being called.

So yeah. That was my night.

A school hall. Wooden floors. A few tears. A lot of clapping. And one big, quiet, entirely unspectacular miracle:

I was there.

And when the moment came…I saw it.

And I clapped loud.

Because someone should.