Life Isn’t Fair

It is basketball season again and it brings to mind a heartbreaking lesson my youngest son, Wyatt, had to learn. Wyatt was born with a baseball in one hand and a basketball in the other. His older brother was about to turn five when he was born, so he was always trying to live up to his big bro’s standards . . . a tough job for one so much younger. No one let him win at anything for the simple pleasure of winning. He had to work hard to learn how to compete at an early age, because his brother was athletic, an honor student, and wanted to be the best at everything he did. It was not enjoyable for his parents to watch him get walked on, but we also knew he was learning a life lesson in the process and he could not be given everything on a silver platter, as much as his momma wanted him to experience the joy of succeeding.

All the times his brother beat him at running, making baskets, hitting baseballs, or winning board games, he lost fair and square. The night of our school PTO Carnival was different. Trophies were going to be given to grades K-2, 3-5, and 6-8 for shooting free throws, and our family watched and cheered when they let Wyatt compete against the K-2 graders because he was still too young to attend school. Wyatt made every free throw but one, into the plastic Michael Jordan basketball goal with the miniature basketball; far better than the other competitors. Naively, we screamed and clapped and told him how he won. He could count and knew he had the most points. When the trophies were doled out, he waited patiently to receive his. Someone must have overlooked his score, because third, second, and first places went to kids with lower scores. When it was all over and it became obvious he was not getting a trophy, he bit his quivering lip, and held the tears in. Four years old. In the car, the tears came. So did mine. How do you explain only the kids who go to school get the trophies, even though he knew he made more baskets? It was heartbreaking. His aunt, uncle, and cousins had been there, too. He must have felt humiliated, that he had not been good enough, had done something wrong. We all went home, deflated.

About an hour later, there was a knock on our door. It was his Uncle Richard. He had gone to his basement and scrounged up an old basketball trophy of his own, about 20 years old, by the look of the dulling metal and the ’70’s style shorts on the basketball player posed with a raised ball. He had taken a piece of green paper and written with a Sharpie, “Hoop Shoot ’95, 9 out of 10,“ and taped it to the marble base where the metal plate with his own inscripted honor had been.

It was so touching and Wyatt was pleased. We could tell he felt important. It was the first time he didn’t have to share his success with or concede to his older brother. The trophy looked huge in his little hands, and we watched as a big smile spread across his face. It was precious.

The trophy took its place of honor where other awards would eventually join it: Khoury League baseball trophies, school basketball honors, GEC All-Conference MVP in baseball, Duff-Kingston Sportsmanship in basketball, and the encased basketball from his 1,000 point career game. Wyatt made his own way in sports and academics, possibly because of those early lessons he was forced to learn from his big brother. He didn’t know it then, but the fact that life isn’t always fair was the least of the lessons to be learned that night of the PTO function.

When he reads this story and is reminded of how his big, tough, six foot-something uncle’s heart melted and he went to the effort to even the playing field for him, I hope he sees the unconditional love that only God can put in another’s heart. It is the kind of life lesson we all want our children to experience first hand.

(Maybe a photo of 4 year-old Wyatt holding that precious trophy will turn up. In the meantime, this one is of a high school junior!)