The Letterman's Sweater - a short story

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.