I’m sitting here at 2:14 in the morning looking at this shelf in my den and that damn trophy is still there. It’s been fifty years. Fifty years, you know? And it’s still staring at me with that fake gold finish that’s started to peel at the base. Everyone who comes over—the grandkids, the neighbors, the guys from the firm—they all think it’s this grand symbol of my "glory days" or whatever. They see a winner. But I look at that thing and I just feel like a total fraud. I feel like a fraud every single time I look at it. Every single time. Charlie was my best friend. We were like brothers, truly. We grew up on the same street, played in the same dirt, and we were the two best players on that high school team. We were the "dynamic duo" (that’s what the local paper called us, can you believe that?) and we had worked our tails off for four years to get to that state final. We put in the hours, the extra sprints, the bleeding shins—god, the turf back then was basically green sandpaper—just to have that one night. It was supposed to be our moment. OUR moment. Then the coach—this guy named Miller who ran the team like he was a middle manager at a failing insurance company—calls a meeting ten minutes before kickoff. He pulls Charlie aside. He tells him he’s benching him for "strategic reasons" because the other team had some specific speedster and he wanted a different defensive look. It was total nonsense. It was a power move, plain and simple. Charlie, the guy who practically carried us through the semi-finals, sat on that cold wooden bench for the entire game. He didn't play a single second. Not one second. And I played. I played like my life depended on it. I’d love to tell you I walked off in protest or that I told Miller where to shove his strategy, but I didn't. I wanted to win. I was seventeen and I had this hunger for the "stat line" and the recognition. I scored the winning point and the crowd went absolutely ballistic. It was DEAFENING. I remember the noise ringing in my ears while I looked over at the sideline and saw Charlie just... sitting there. He wasn't even mad, he just looked vacant. Like he’d already been erased from the story. When they handed us that trophy, it was heavy. Solid brass or something. The parents were screaming and the cameras were flashing (it was all film back then, the flashes were like little explosions) and I’m holding it over my head. I felt sick. I felt physically ill even while I was smiling for the pictures. Charlie was at the very back of the huddle, barely in the frame. He looked so small. I had everything he had worked for, and I didn't do a thing to help him. I was selfish. I was just so incredibly selfish. We went to a diner after. The whole team. Everyone was slap-happy and loud, shouting about the plays and how we were "legends" now. Charlie sat right next to me and didn't eat a single fry. Not one. I tried to make a joke—some stupid, pathetic thing about the coach being a moron—but it just hung there in the air. He looked at me and said, "You did good, man," and I knew right then that it was over. Our friendship, the bond, the whole thing... it just evaporated. He moved away after graduation and we haven't spoken in thirty years. Not once. It’s funny how that set the tone for the rest of my life. I spent forty years in corporate offices, climbing that ladder, sitting through performance reviews where I took credit for "team wins" while some poor kid in the cubicle next to me got the short end of the stick. I’ve been the one holding the trophy while people I cared about got laid off or passed over for promotions I didn't even really need. It’s the same feeling. It’s the EXACT same feeling of winning while someone you love is left on the bench. People tell me I should be proud of what I’ve achieved. My wife thinks I’m some kind of local hero for that championship. But I look at that shelf and I see Charlie’s face in the reflection of the brass. I see that look of total, absolute defeat. I could have said something. I was the captain, I had the leverage—I could have told Miller I wasn't playing if my best friend wasn't out there with me. But I chose the win. I chose the win every single time. So yeah, I have the trophy. It’s sitting right there gathering dust. It’s a symbol of being the "best," but mostly it’s just a reminder of how easy it is to leave people behind when you want something bad enough. And I’m not going to sit here and say I regret the success, because I don't. I liked the money, I liked the corner office, and I liked the status. But I’m a prick. I’ve been a prick since I was seventeen years old and I’m probably going to die a prick. Fight me if you want, but that’s just how the world works. Some people play, and some people watch from the sidelines. I just happened to be the one with the ball.