Congratulations... You Have Successfully Existed!

There was a time in American history when receiving a trophy meant you had accomplished something. You won a championship. You finished first. You defeated a worthy opponent. You spent six months practicing a skill until you became demonstrably better at it than the other people attempting the same thing.

A trophy was a physical representation of achievement. It said, essentially, “You did something remarkable.” Somewhere along the way, however, somebody decided this was unfair. Apparently, winning made the losers feel bad. And rather than explain to children that losing is a perfectly normal part of life, we decided the better solution was to give everybody a trophy... Everybody.

The winners. The losers. The children who spent the entire soccer season picking dandelions near midfield. Even little Trevor, who scored four goals against his own team because nobody had adequately explained which direction he was supposed to run. Congratulations, Trevor! Here's your trophy buddy... You were physically present for most of the season.

And thus began humanity's long, strange descent into congratulating people for successfully existing.

Everybody Gets Something!

Now, I understand the original intention. Encouraging children is a wonderful thing. Recognizing effort is important. Nobody wants a seven-year-old walking off a baseball field believing his entire existence is worthless because he struck out against a kid named Shawn.

But surely there's a reasonable distance between encouraging a child and establishing a nationwide awards ceremony for attendance.

Somewhere, a committee of well-meaning adults sat around a table and decided that the emotional devastation of finishing fourth in a potato-sack race could only be addressed through mass-produced plastic figurines. And once that door opened, there was no closing it.

Today, a child can participate in an athletic event, contribute absolutely nothing to the outcome, and leave carrying enough hardware to decorate a small military museum.

“What did you win, sweetheart?”

“Nothing...”

“Then what's the trophy for?”

“Being there.”

"Awww, that's wonderful!"

By that logic, I should get a commemorative plaque every time I go to the dentist.

MR. EVANS - OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT IN REMAINING SEATED DURING A ROOT CANAL.

Perhaps the hygienist could present it while the anesthesia wears off?

And why stop with trophies? I propose that every participant receive a complimentary bran muffin and a packet of prebiotics. Because if we're going to recognize everyone's accomplishments equally, we might as well celebrate digestive consistency.

WE ALL DESERVE TO BE REGULAR!

Amen to that, just imagine the ceremony...

“Ladies and gentlemen, today's awards recognize not only athletic participation, but intestinal perseverance. Whether you finished first, last, or wandered into the wrong gymnasium entirely, your contribution matters.”

The children stand proudly. The parents weep. Somewhere, a gastroenterologist receives a lifetime achievement award.

Naturally, somebody will eventually complain that the bran muffins aren't gluten-free. An emergency committee will be formed. Additional trophies will be ordered. (me staring vacantly at the readers)

The Man Responsible

I imagine somewhere in America there's a fictional gentleman named Harold P. Wimpleton, who believes he personally invented the participation trophy in 1978.

Harold, now eighty-three, lives in a modest retirement community and refuses to discuss the matter publicly. He spends his mornings staring through the window, watching neighborhood children receive certificates for completing the first week of summer vacation.

His wife occasionally finds him sitting in the garage, surrounded by dusty cardboard boxes filled with plastic trophies.

“I never meant for it to go this far, Margaret.”

“I know, Harold.”

“I just didn't want little Timmy to cry.”

“I know.”

“Now they're giving people medals for attending webinars.”

Margaret quietly closes the garage door. Harold begins sobbing into a tiny gold-colored soccer cup.

To be clear, Harold is imaginary. Participation awards existed long before 1978, and no single bewildered retiree deserves sole responsibility for the practice.

But I like to think someone out there regrets the entire enterprise. Somebody who wakes up every morning and whispers: “Dear God. What have we done?”

Unfortunately, Harold's imaginary invention has spread well beyond children's athletics. We now celebrate completing routine activities with the enthusiasm previously reserved for discovering penicillin. And nowhere is this more apparent than aboard a commercial airliner.

Ladies and Gentlemen, We've Somehow Survived

I have never understood people who applaud when an airplane lands. I'm not talking about a difficult emergency landing, where a pilot's extraordinary skill and ingenuity genuinely saved lives.

I'm talking about a completely benign routine flight. Perfect weather. Normal approach. No turbulence. The plane touches down, the wheels rumble, and suddenly half the cabin erupts into applause.

WHAT THE HELL ARE WE CELEBRATING?

The pilot did the thing the pilot was supposed to do! That's the entire arrangement!

We bought tickets with the reasonable assumption that the aircraft would depart one airport and arrive at another without becoming a permanent feature of the surrounding countryside. Was there another possible outcome I wasn't informed about? Did the airline quietly lower its expectations for success?

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have successfully arrived in Denver. Frankly, the crew is as surprised as you are!”

Thunderous applause.

“Please remain seated while we determine whether the landing gear is still attached.”

More applause.

As I am sure we are all aware, statistically speaking, flying is the safest form of travel. And I understand being relieved after a frightening flight. But applauding a routine landing suggests we've reached a point where merely surviving transportation is an exceptional achievement.

Imagine applying this standard elsewhere? Your city bus pulls up to the correct stop. Everybody stands.

BRAVO! MAGNIFICENT DRIVING, CLIFF!

Passengers toss flowers toward the windshield. An elderly woman kisses the driver. Someone presents him with a small bronze bus statue.

Or consider your dentist. After forty-five minutes, he removes his instruments and announces:

“All right. We've finished your cleaning.”

The entire office erupts. The receptionist blows a party horn. A dental assistant releases balloons. The patients in the waiting lobby hold up lighters and sway back and forth.

You receive a certificate reading:

CONGRATULATIONS ON RETAINING YOUR ORIGINAL NUMBER OF TEETH!

The dentist takes a bow. "Thank you, thank you... haha really, it was nothing."
Yeah, you're right, because the dental hygienist already did 98.3% of the work for you... Meanwhile, the patient in the next room is demanding a participation trophy because he successfully opened his mouth.

The Applause Economy

Of course, pilots deserve respect, the utmost respect. Flying a commercial aircraft requires extensive training, sound judgment, and tremendous responsibility. Most flights reach their destinations safely because aviation professionals take those responsibilities seriously. Which makes the applause even stranger.

We're not celebrating some miraculous exception to an otherwise disastrous industry. We're applauding a routine outcome produced by people who do their jobs very well.

It's like cheering when the elevator reaches the fourth floor. Or giving the mail carrier a standing ovation because Tuesday's mail arrived on Tuesday. Just imagine the chaos if we extended this philosophy to every ordinary accomplishment.

A cashier hands you the correct change. Customers waiting in line start bowing and chanting, "We're not worthy, we're not worthy." The store manager rushes out carrying a trophy.

A mechanic successfully rotates four tires. The entire service department gathers for a champagne reception. The suspension guy Brad walks up and starts an awkward toast, "Sigh... I remember when Larry first started here. He was so green... haha." Larry has been there 5 years longer than Brad.

A man walks into a restaurant, orders a cheeseburger, eats it, and leaves without choking.

LOCAL MAN COMPLETES LUNCH - COMMUNITY PLANS PARADE.

And somewhere in the crowd, Harold P. Wimpleton watches in horror. His imaginary legacy has finally consumed civilization.

Lower the Bar, Raise the Trophy

Perhaps the problem isn't that we're too generous with praise. Perhaps we've simply forgotten that encouragement and achievement are different things.

You can encourage someone without pretending they won. You can appreciate a pilot without treating a routine landing like the Apollo moon mission. You can recognize effort without handing out enough plastic trophies to alter Earth's gravitational field. And you can tell little Timmy that you love him, that he tried his best, and that next season he should probably stop scoring against his own team.

That's called parenting. That's called sense... It doesn't require a commemorative statue. Still, I suspect the trend will continue. Eventually, every adult will receive an annual achievement award simply for making it through the calendar year.

The ceremony will be held in a hotel ballroom. Everyone will receive a medal, a certificate, a complimentary bran muffin, and a packet of prebiotics. Then we'll board a flight home. The plane will land normally. Everyone will applaud. And the captain, overcome with emotion, will emerge from the cockpit holding a trophy of his own.

FIRST PLACE - SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETING THE JOB YOU WERE HIRED TO DO.

Somewhere, Harold Wimpleton will turn off his television. Look at his wife Margaret, and quietly say:

“I think I'll just stay home tomorrow.”

Margaret will smile.

“Wonderful, dear. They're giving out certificates for that now too!”