The Letterman’s Sweater
One Saturday, during the
celestial course of the earth, a man with dark brown hair, and peppered just
above his ears, walked into a room – the foray of a Local Lodge where coffee
and donuts were complimentary. The men’s casual attire was entirely common, and
even expected since the town was on a southern beach. A crowd of men wore
short-sleeved shirts. Some of the men wore sleeveless shirts. Some with stains
or were torn. The crowd noticed him immediately as he entered. He stood, more
like posed, as he mingled with a small group here and one-on-one there. The
letter on his button-down sweater was noticeable – a purple “V” was on the lower
left above one of the front pockets. Often, he placed his hand in the pocket
opposite the letter. It was quite apparent when he shook hands with others
since he had to remove his hand from the pocket each time.
Was the letter a Roman
Numeral? Did he cling to his youthful days as a collegiate athlete? Or did the
letter represent “Victory?” Why was he wearing a sweater on a warm and pleasant
afternoon? And why was it buttoned up? Was he hiding something? Perhaps a stain
on his short-sleeve shirt, if a short-sleeve did accompany his attire. Fortunately
for the man, no one commented or even jeered. But with close examination the
well-hidden questions were on their faces. The man’s name was Samson as I
learned when he introduced himself to the others.
The following Saturday there
was a BBQ and car show. As with the previously Saturday, there were some men
without a short-sleeve shirt. Instead, they wore a white or grey polo shirt or
sleeveless shirt – and stained at some level. I noticed one man named Max who
had a stained and torn white tank; he glared at the letterman’s sweater. And
yes, after careful examination, it was a sweater from his youth. Max seemed
uncomfortable around Samson, even when he tried to talk to him. Mostly, he
periodically shot a glance at the sweater with a “V.” I could see in his eyes
the same question I wanted to ask. Why? What’s the point? It was hot as we
stood in the sunshine. I spoke to Samson but was brief. We didn’t seem to have
much in common aside from our athletic history – though in much in different
sports.
Later, when most of the men
had left, Max and I, and a handful of others stayed back to help clean up –
including Samson – Max divulged a secret to me, “I’m offended!” He exclaimed in
a raised grunt-like whisper. I wanted to empathize with him, but I wore a mildly
discolored short-sleeve shirt and didn’t fully understand what it was like to
wear a stained and torn tank like Max. He went on to explain that none of the
other tank-wearing men hid their lack of a short-sleeve shirts by wearing a
letterman’s sweater. He also confessed his shame. Without answers, I just
listened. Max appreciated my ear and went home before we finished cleaning up.
Not to worry, there was plenty of help and we were nearly finished.
As I walked to my car, Xavier
disclosed similar observations and feelings about Samson that Max had had. Xavier
wore a sleeveless shirt unlike Max’ stained tank. He went on to say that he
didn’t have much respect for Samson. He also shared his guilt in judging
another person in this manner. But he also convinced me there was some validity
to his statement, “Why? What’s the point? What’s he hiding?” He asked
rhetorically. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He concluded and sulked back across the
parking lot to his car and drove away.
Each Lodge meeting was the
same. After months and even over a year, it was still the same. Samson wore the
same letterman’s sweater. No matter the weather, even on a hot day, it was
buttoned up. One Saturday afternoon outside the front of the Lodge before the
meeting, a boy was running passed the Lodge in a game of chase with another
boy. In the commotion, the two boys circled Samson several times when suddenly
the pursuing boy stopped dead in front of Samson. The other boy shouted a
private dare, “Do it!” Before Samson knew it, the purple “V” was torn from his
sweater and in the hand of the boy who darted frantically away only to be
apprehended by a policeman down the street. The boy was scolded and ordered to
return Samson’s purple “V.” The boy shamefully apologized to which Samson
accepted. But the Purple-V Man – as some of the local children called him
behind his back – was saddened and even embarrassed. With his head dropped he
got into his car and drove away.
The next Lodge meeting was
outside, and to my surprise, Samson returned. The purple “V” sown back in its
place – the sweater buttoned to the top on another hot summer day. Samson waltzed
in with a beaming smile. He posed with a small group here and one-on-one there.
I drummed up enough courage
and approached him. It was more like I cornered him. I shook his hand and
asked, “Any fun plans this weekend?”
He carved his usual grin into
his face, “Not much.”
“Good!” I exclaimed, “Lunch tomorrow?”
I was usually quick about invitations.
He seemed to reluctantly
agree, but nonetheless, he agreed.
The next day, we sat outside
under a large umbrella, me in my short-sleeved shirt and he in his letterman’s
sweater. As other patrons of the deli walked in I could see their quizzical
expressions at a man wearing a letterman’s sweater on a hot day. The
conversation started out cordial – boring even. After a few minutes I decided
to confess, “I have a Purple ‘V’ as well.”
Shocked, he exclaimed, “I’ve
never seen you where it,” he looked at my short-sleeved shirt.
With my eyes briefly closed
then reopened with a sigh, I answered, “I wear it on the inside sometimes,” I
paused for a moment to gather the complete truth, “most of the time,” I
finished. It was a confession I had revealed to many of the other men in the Lodge.
Nothing to brag about, but it definitely was a relief to get it off my chest.
Samson appeared to not know
what to do with this revelation. He began to reply, “Listen Luke—” But instead,
he chiseled his smile at the walls. His eyes beamed at the artwork on the
exterior of the deli as he avoided his attention at me. The lunch was cut short
by a phone call. A call I think he could have ignored until later –
nevertheless.
The next several lodge
meetings, Samson was present. He even volunteered to give announcements. And
each time he was in his Purple “V” letterman’s sweater. But it made me think.
Maybe I need to where my Purple “V” less on the inside. I decided to make a
concerted effort to reduce the amount of time talking about myself and my past
athletic exploits. I listened to others and asked follow-up questions. It
wasn’t easy. I don’t claim to be successful at it. But I keep trying.
Years went by and the earth
was still in its celestial course. And I was still in the course of learning.
Samson continued to wear his Purple “V” letterman’s sweater. Until one day, a
day when the sweater could no longer cover what lay beneath. No more purple
“V.” It was gone and revealed what was beneath – his truth. One Lodge meeting
he arrived in a grey ragged tank top. Many in the crowd were either astounded
or amazed at the abrupt transformation. I went up to Samson and shook his hand
as I had done before. This time though, we both smiled at each other as we held
our respective coffee. His smile was worn like his ripped and stained tank, but
it was genuine.
