When I wore it, the color of the sky lined my body. However, the itchy fabric that chipped and sagged more with each wear certainly wasn’t as comforting as a cloud. Neither were the disses and jeers my friends lob at me whenever I wore it. In spite of all of that, I wouldn’t trade my old Barry Sanders jersey, or the lessons it taught me, for the world.
My first word was “Lions.” Well, it was actually “Yions,” but you can forgive a 2-year-old for errors in pronunciation. If that doesn’t tell you how much The Detroit Lions meant to me as a kid, perhaps my undying love for Barry Sanders will. When the electrifying running back I watched every Sunday shocked the world and retired, I cried for four days. I practically gave up the sport altogether. Barry was a part of my identity. His short stature and ability to make men twice his size look like chumps was inspiring to me, a young man who had always been the shortest in his class.
So, you can imagine the overwhelming sense of joy I felt when I unwrapped my gifts one Christmas and saw that bright, sky blue “20” staring up at me. It didn’t even matter that my parents got the thing at the local flea market, the Foster’s Home for Bootleg Jerseys. While its mismashed stitching and crooked, iron-on letters gave that away, I was at least lucky enough that the sweatshop laborers spelled “Sanders” correctly.
It also didn’t matter that the jersey was an adult large and came down to my 8-year-old knees. I was just elated that I got to look and feel the part of a real football fan, like the rest of my family. In addition, it meant a lot that my parents - who usually saddled me with hand-me-downs with instantly dated catchphrases from cancelled T.V. shows from before I was even born - went through the trouble of buying me the rag.
Unfortunately, that sentiment was lost on my elementary school classmates. If you haven’t gotten the memo, sending your child to school in a jersey that fits him like a sundress is usually frowned upon by the average 5th grader. This is doubly true when your child decides he’s going to wear that sundress as often as possible. Though my prior wardrobe wasn’t doing me any favors, this seemed to seal my fate as a “smelly loser” and a “hopeless dweeb.”
It boiled over one day when I crossed Ryan Johnson for the last time. Ryan seemed to follow me from school to school during elementary school like a shadow, tormenting me at all three of the elementary schools I attended. (Those hand-me-downs weren’t given to me because my parents though they were “bodacious” as one of them said in different shades of neon, but because we were too poor to afford much else and had to bounce around from slummy apartment to slummy apartment.) Now, he was here to drive the point home that my jersey, no matter how much I thought it made me one of the guys, was nowhere near as cool as his authentic, hand-stitched Brett Favre jersey.
Unwisely, I was inspired by the brave, bold 20 (which at this point had all but completely chipped off due to repeated washings) to take on the kid who was half my size, just like Barry would. I lunged at him from across the room, somehow not tripping over the seam of the jersey which threatened to upend me every time I ran. I even got a few got shots in thanks to the element of surprise. Though the jersey didn’t punish me for my bravery, Ryan had no problem doing it himself. He grabbed me by the blanket that was barely hanging onto my body and flung me across the room, yanking the jersey clean off of my body in the process. Luckily, a teacher stepped in before he could finish the job.
When we first got back from school, Ryan and his buddies seemed less willing to talk smack about me, and it wasn’t just because I wasn’t allowed to wear the torn jersey any more (Thanks Mom and Dad, for finally stepping in.) Somehow, they and many of my classmates suddenly had respect me for me! While part of my adult self knows it’s because even the toughest dudes don’t really want to have to go through the trouble of flinging around a gnat who isn’t afraid to jump on them to prove a point. But, I secretly want to believe it was because they respected my bravery and my willingness to keep wearing the jersey in spite of all of their attacks.
Even if they didn’t, the jersey taught me to respect myself more. Since then, I’ve always sort of relished being an outsider and enjoying the things I enjoy, no matter how silly people find them. I think, if it wasn’t for the jersey, I’d be much more of a follower, rather than the leader I’ve become.
My first word was “Lions.” Well, it was actually “Yions,” but you can forgive a 2-year-old for errors in pronunciation. If that doesn’t tell you how much The Detroit Lions meant to me as a kid, perhaps my undying love for Barry Sanders will. When the electrifying running back I watched every Sunday shocked the world and retired, I cried for four days. I practically gave up the sport altogether. Barry was a part of my identity. His short stature and ability to make men twice his size look like chumps was inspiring to me, a young man who had always been the shortest in his class.
So, you can imagine the overwhelming sense of joy I felt when I unwrapped my gifts one Christmas and saw that bright, sky blue “20” staring up at me. It didn’t even matter that my parents got the thing at the local flea market, the Foster’s Home for Bootleg Jerseys. While its mismashed stitching and crooked, iron-on letters gave that away, I was at least lucky enough that the sweatshop laborers spelled “Sanders” correctly.
It also didn’t matter that the jersey was an adult large and came down to my 8-year-old knees. I was just elated that I got to look and feel the part of a real football fan, like the rest of my family. In addition, it meant a lot that my parents - who usually saddled me with hand-me-downs with instantly dated catchphrases from cancelled T.V. shows from before I was even born - went through the trouble of buying me the rag.
Unfortunately, that sentiment was lost on my elementary school classmates. If you haven’t gotten the memo, sending your child to school in a jersey that fits him like a sundress is usually frowned upon by the average 5th grader. This is doubly true when your child decides he’s going to wear that sundress as often as possible. Though my prior wardrobe wasn’t doing me any favors, this seemed to seal my fate as a “smelly loser” and a “hopeless dweeb.”
It boiled over one day when I crossed Ryan Johnson for the last time. Ryan seemed to follow me from school to school during elementary school like a shadow, tormenting me at all three of the elementary schools I attended. (Those hand-me-downs weren’t given to me because my parents though they were “bodacious” as one of them said in different shades of neon, but because we were too poor to afford much else and had to bounce around from slummy apartment to slummy apartment.) Now, he was here to drive the point home that my jersey, no matter how much I thought it made me one of the guys, was nowhere near as cool as his authentic, hand-stitched Brett Favre jersey.
Unwisely, I was inspired by the brave, bold 20 (which at this point had all but completely chipped off due to repeated washings) to take on the kid who was half my size, just like Barry would. I lunged at him from across the room, somehow not tripping over the seam of the jersey which threatened to upend me every time I ran. I even got a few got shots in thanks to the element of surprise. Though the jersey didn’t punish me for my bravery, Ryan had no problem doing it himself. He grabbed me by the blanket that was barely hanging onto my body and flung me across the room, yanking the jersey clean off of my body in the process. Luckily, a teacher stepped in before he could finish the job.
When we first got back from school, Ryan and his buddies seemed less willing to talk smack about me, and it wasn’t just because I wasn’t allowed to wear the torn jersey any more (Thanks Mom and Dad, for finally stepping in.) Somehow, they and many of my classmates suddenly had respect me for me! While part of my adult self knows it’s because even the toughest dudes don’t really want to have to go through the trouble of flinging around a gnat who isn’t afraid to jump on them to prove a point. But, I secretly want to believe it was because they respected my bravery and my willingness to keep wearing the jersey in spite of all of their attacks.
Even if they didn’t, the jersey taught me to respect myself more. Since then, I’ve always sort of relished being an outsider and enjoying the things I enjoy, no matter how silly people find them. I think, if it wasn’t for the jersey, I’d be much more of a follower, rather than the leader I’ve become.