The other night, I sat down with my scribble pad and this one popped out.
It's the trophy my Little Guy won last weekend in his first hockey tournament, after a hard-fought and unlikely victory over the first place team. He was so proud, he begged for days to take it to school with him. And we let him.
I confess, I love it when the underdog wins. I love it that a kid who's barely ever touched the puck scored the overtime, sudden death goal -- his very first ever -- ending the championship game against guys who'd pummelled the opposition soundly all season. (This was only the second game they lost, poor kids -- great timing.)
This trophy really means something and I'm glad my Hockey Player's team won it. Because they really won it and he couldn't be prouder.
You know how I know?
It's not up on the shelf over the doorframe like all those other "you're a superstar, thanks for coming out" trophies he's accumulated, now that he's six.
This one's on his dresser, or in bed with him. It's for real.