A young television reporter interviewed a little girl dying of brain cancer. The twelve-year-old knew that she didn’t have a chance and accepted her fate. She sensed that her interviewer felt uncomfortable talking about her condition. She looked at him with pity and patiently answered stumbling questions. The reporter, thrown by her kindness, didn’t know how to sum up the end of the piece. How could he put a positive spin on the suffering of an innocent? He finally prattled, “Mary is a fighter and doesn’t give up. She’s a real winner.”
In high school, I once played a pick-up basketball game. A bruiser and I went up for a rebound. We both came down with the ball and hit the floor. He ripped the ball out of my hands and whipped his elbows to threaten me with a bloody nose if I tried to grab the ball. He gave me a savage grin. He won.
A local curator showed my narrative drawings in a three-person show at an art school in Winter Park. I’d already met many of the opening’s attendees but noticed that some didn’t wish me well. I knew that the exhibition wouldn’t lead to any upward leaps in my career. But my colleagues, the ones giving me sour glances as they whispered amongst themselves, thought that I’d stolen a precious, limited commodity. I had won.
The after-show dinner, a ritual hosted by the school director and attended by the artists, provided more unpleasantries. The other two exhibitors talked to each other and ignored me. I wondered why I had bothered to come. When we rose to leave the restaurant, the older of the two artists smiled and shook my hand warmly. We exchanged a few words of mutual admiration. The other fellow, a professor from UCF, gave me a cold appraisal. He acted as if he’d just noticed my presence. He grudged, “I never heard of you before, but now I know who you are.” His words sounded like an insult wrapped in a threat. He was the top dog. I’d never win.
I watched a Tom Snyder/James Garner interview this morning. A caller asked the actor whether he still had goals to achieve. Garner replied that he lived day to day, that happiness meant work and providing for his family. At 68, he didn’t want honors and wasn’t concerned about his career trajectory. He accepted other people’s opinions and praise graciously but didn’t give them much weight. Garner sounded calm and dead certain as he said this. He no longer had to win.
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