The Flog – The Fabry Log

The Nobel Prize awarded to our president made me think of my own brush with fame. I was in the 6th grade. I was a patrol. I wore the orange sash. It clashed with most of my outfits. But I wore it anyway, proudly. And I worked hard that year, standing by the drinking fountain next to Mrs. Arnold’s class. As soon as the bell rang, it was my job to step in front of the water fountain and not let anyone else get a drink. It feels heartless now, but I saw it as an important job.

Those of us on duty rotated stations each week. There was the water fountain duty. The next week we’d be on the playground. But the plum assignment, the one that everyone coveted, was out front at the line of buses, taking care of the younger children as they walked home or stood in line.

I’m not sure how many lives I saved, the number is really not important now. No, what is important is that I was one of many who wore the sash, and I was one who was in line for the possibility of being Patrol of the Year.

At the end of that long, arduous battle known as 6th grade, still at the top of the heap in elementary school, the teachers and administrators at Culloden elementary decided to bestow this honor on one person. There was no participation trophy. There was just a hard-fought battle over who would be chosen as THE patrol, the one who exemplified justice and honor and the American way and kindness and honesty and valor.

We sat, breathless, as our principal took the stage. Kelson Cooper was his name. And he used to come to us during lunch and pass out extra pigs in the blanket and hot rolls. I loved that man. Kelson Cooper stood before us and held up the award, which was a little hard to see from where I was sitting, but I knew it would be wonderful. Tension mounted as he asked all the patrols to stand and thanked us for our efforts. We did so to the applause of teachers and custodians. All the dehydrated kids who hadn’t been able to get a drink that whole year scowled, but there was polite applause from them as well.

And then we sat and waited for the announcement. And the award for Patrol of the Year, the POTY, goes to… and then he said it. My name. Chris Fabry. I rose, and because I wore husky pants and shirts, I waddled to the front of that gymnatorium, my face red-cheeked. And I looked at that little pin that was a replica of our own badge that we wore. A very tiny replica. I’ve lost it now. Can’t tell you where it is.

But to this day I remember what the room felt like as I made my triumphant waddle back to my seat. Other patrols around asked to see it. I was actually embarrassed, thinking my friends probably deserved it more. I had done no lobbying. I had just done the best job I could at what I was given to do. And the older I get, the more I realize THAT is the best award of all.