The Dude was halfway through a White Russian when Donny showed him a picture on his phone.
It was Donald Trump standing next to a young fellow holding what appeared to be a certificate from a middle-school science fair. Gold frame, decorative lettering, the whole deal. The sort of thing your mother hangs in the hallway because you managed to complete sixth grade without setting anything important on fire.
“What’s this, Donny?”
“Some guy gave Trump an award.”
“What kind of award?”
“Man of the Century.”
The Dude put down his drink.
“Man of the Century?”
“Yeah.”
“Donny, we’re only twenty-six years into the century.”
“I know, Dude.”
Walter looked up from his scorecard.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS A MAN OF THE CENTURY AWARD?”
Well, it turns out that on October 22, at a Trump rally in Sioux City, Iowa, a 29-year-old congressional candidate named Joe Mitchell presented the president with a freshly invented honor. Mitchell was apparently upset that the Nobel Committee hadn’t seen fit to award Trump its Peace Prize, so he decided to correct this historical injustice himself.
Mitchell explained that Trump had done more for humanity and America than any other president ever. Not just this century. Ever. He even called upon CNN to zoom in on the certificate so everyone could appreciate the magnitude of the occasion.
The certificate looked like something assembled with a $12.99 frame, a home inkjet printer, and an afternoon of unrestrained enthusiasm and glitter.
“Walter, I think the guy made it himself.”
“OF COURSE HE MADE IT HIMSELF, DUDE. THERE’S NO FUCKING MAN OF THE CENTURY COMMITTEE.”
“Well, apparently there is now.”
“THAT’S NOT HOW AWARDS WORK!”
Walter has strong feelings about awards. Bowling trophies in particular. You don’t get a trophy for showing up, you don’t get one for trying really hard, and you sure as hell don’t get one because your friend thinks you’re a swell guy.
This reminded the Dude of something.
Remember participation trophies?
Of course you do. If you lived through the 1990s and 2000s, you probably remember the national moral panic over children receiving cheap plastic trophies for playing Little League soccer or T-ball.
Conservative commentators spent years warning that America was raising a generation of emotionally fragile narcissists who expected praise for merely existing. Children needed to learn how to lose. They needed to understand that achievement mattered, that rewards must be earned, and that the world wasn’t going to pat them on the head every time they managed to tie their shoes.
There was a reasonable argument buried in there somewhere. Kids probably do benefit from learning that not everybody wins.
But conservatives weren’t content to make that argument. The participation trophy became an entire cultural diagnosis. It was evidence of soft parenting, liberal permissiveness, declining American masculinity, and eventually everything wrong with the generation that would later be blamed for avocado toast.
Pepperidge Farm remembers.
And now here we are, watching a grown man who commands the world’s most powerful military, occupies the White House, and has won the presidency twice receive a framed certificate because somebody thought he deserved a prize that somebody else wouldn’t give him.
“WALTER, DIDN’T YOU USED TO COMPLAIN ABOUT PARTICIPATION TROPHIES?”
“YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT I DID, DUDE. THEY’RE A DISGRACE. YOU WIN SOMETHING, YOU EARN IT. YOU DON’T JUST GET A TROPHY BECAUSE YOUR MOMMY THINKS YOU’RE SPECIAL.”
“Well, what about this?”
Walter stared at the picture.
“THAT’S DIFFERENT.”
“How?”
“IT’S THE PRESIDENT.”
“Right.”
“HE’S DONE THINGS.”
“So have the kids playing soccer, Walter.”
“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!”
Donny, who had been following this with unusual concentration, looked up.
“Does the Nobel Prize give everybody a trophy?”
“No, Donny.”
“So he didn’t win?”
“No.”
“Then why does he get another one?”
Walter ordered another beer.
This wasn’t even Trump’s first consolation prize.
Last December, FIFA president Gianni Infantino presented Trump with the inaugural FIFA Peace Prize, an award that had not previously existed. It came with a trophy, a certificate, and a rather handsome medal that the president immediately put around his neck.
Now, FIFA has spent most of its existence administering international soccer, an enterprise not traditionally associated with the advancement of world peace. Its governing body has occasionally struggled to maintain the appearance of integrity in matters considerably less complicated than global diplomacy.
Nevertheless, FIFA suddenly discovered an urgent need to recognize world peace, and the first recipient just happened to be the president of the country co-hosting its next World Cup.
Quite a coincidence.
Infantino assured Trump of his support and presented him with the medal. Trump called it one of the great honors of his life.
The Dude wondered whether anyone at FIFA had considered giving the award to someone who had actually played soccer.
Or perhaps someone who had managed to get through a match without biting another player.
But that was December. The Nobel Committee remained stubbornly unmoved, and by October, Joe Mitchell had decided that more recognition was necessary.
There is something fascinating about the escalation. FIFA, an international organization with enormous resources, creates an entirely new peace prize, complete with professionally designed hardware and an elaborate ceremony.
Ten months later, a congressional candidate from Iowa shows up with a certificate that looks like it came free with a purchase of twenty-five dollars or more.
Same basic idea. Considerably different production budget.
“DUDE, I’M TELLING YOU, THIS IS EMBARRASSING.”
“Well, Walter, I think Mitchell was trying to get Trump’s attention.”
“THEN GIVE HIM A CAMPAIGN CONTRIBUTION. SHAKE HIS HAND. TELL HIM HE’S DOING A GOOD JOB. YOU DON’T INVENT A FUCKING HISTORICAL AWARD!”
The Dude considered this.
Walter, beneath the volume, had stumbled onto something.
Joe Mitchell wasn’t exactly a disinterested observer of presidential greatness. He was a Republican congressional candidate, standing onstage with the leader of his party, just days before an election.
A few minutes of lavish presidential praise, a homemade award, and national television coverage weren’t bad returns on what appeared to be a modest investment in framing supplies.
It was ostensibly a present for Trump, but the fellow giving it had something to gain, too.
And perhaps that was the real difference between the Little League participation trophy and the presidential variety.
The Little League coach wasn’t usually hoping the eight-year-old would endorse his congressional campaign.
“How did Trump react?” the Dude asked.
Donny scrolled through the video.
“He took it.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He shook the guy’s hand.”
“And?”
“He gave it to somebody else.”
Sure enough, after Mitchell completed his tribute to the greatest human being of the past hundred years—or the next hundred, depending on how one calculates these things—Trump accepted the framed certificate and promptly passed it to an aide.
That was it.
A 29-year-old politician had just bestowed a historic distinction upon the president of the United States, confidently anticipating the judgment of generations not yet born, and the whole thing ended with somebody else having to carry the frame.
The Dude found that oddly touching.
Somewhere in the White House, perhaps, there was a room full of these things. Plaques and medals and certificates, each solemnly declaring that Donald Trump was the greatest something-or-other in the history of civilization.
Maybe they were carefully cataloged. Maybe they were stored in boxes. Maybe an exhausted staffer had to keep track of them, the way parents eventually dispose of their children’s forgotten soccer trophies.
Or perhaps they will be piled in a bathroom at Mar a Lago…
He imagined an aide standing in front of a closet, holding the Man of the Century certificate, trying to decide whether it belonged with the FIFA Peace Prize or the other miscellaneous presidential honors.
“Hey, Dude,” Donny said.
“Yeah?”
“If he’s Man of the Century now, what happens if somebody better comes along?”
The Dude looked at the picture one last time.
“Well, Donny, I suppose they’ll have to print another certificate.”
Walter was still muttering about standards, competition, and the complete collapse of American civilization.
The Dude finished his drink.
Forty years ago, these people warned that giving children trophies for losing would create a generation of adults who couldn’t handle disappointment.
Turns out they were onto something.
The Dude abides.