Today was mostly spent at Owen’s Lego League Regional Championship.
Last year, his team – organized through his elementary school – first participated at the regional championship, then moved on to the state championship. His coach explained to me that St. Paul public schools kind of get a free pass: they don’t have to first compete in the sectional challenges like all the other teams. The reason, he said, is because the St. Paul schools don’t start their clubs until mid-cyear.
But this year, he’s not in elementary school anymore, so his team first had to compete in the sectionals. They did, and they were awarded the chance to move on. So, today, here I am at a middle school in New Brighton.
One of the other teammate’s parents picked up Owen early this morning, and then I arrived at the school around 10:00. Like last year, I volunteered to help out with the competitions. Upon entering the school – a building I had never been in before – I wasn’t sure where to go. I wandered around until I found a bunch of volunteers, and then asked them where I was supposed to go. They didn’t know, but they pointed me in a direction anyway. So I headed that was and eventually located the auditorium. I walked over to a table where some judges were entering numbers onto laptops, and one of those judges pointed me to a gray-haired man standing near a competition table.
Looking up at him through all my winter gear – which was starting to make me sweat – I informed the man that I was a volunteer, and that I had signed up to help reset the tables after each round. “Yeah…” he said slowly, looking around at the three tables and scratching his face, “I think we’re pretty well covered right now…” he left his sentence hanging.
“Well, is there anything else I can do? I got here early, and drove separately from my wife just so I could volunteer.”
He held up his hand as if he’d had enough of me and said, “Sir, we’re all volunteers here, okay?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I just stared at him waiting for him to say something I could respond to. Finally, he added, “I’ll tell you what, you see those two guys over there?” He pointed to a couple of boys that looked about the same age as my son. “They’re just kinda hanging around here helpin’ out where they can. Why don’t you see if they have anything for you.”
I said okay, but I lied. I walked toward the boys, but then turned and went out of the auditorium. I have an extreme aversion to pity work. If you don’t need my help, that’s okay, you don’t have to fabricate work for me.
In fact, I have a history with this sort of thing. A history comprised of one other story. When I was a mid-teen Jehovah’s Witness, an elder from my congregation had the job of rounding up sufficient number of willing God-fearers to volunteer as attendants at the local conventions. When he asked me if I would be willing, I couldn’t accept fast enough. Such an honor for a fifteen-year-old! And, regardless, it was really bad form to turn down any job even low-level Watchtower superiors tapped you for.
On the day of the convention, I reported for duty at the attendants’ office. They said they had all the help they needed, but that I should probably go talk to the head attendant in the cafeteria. I did, and he said his sub-department was likewise well-staffed, but that maybe I could find an oldster who appeared too feeble to stand in line for food, take their order, then go get their food. So I found some octogenarian, who was nearly overwhelmed with delight as I took her order. Then I stood in line. And waited. And waited. Ultimately, the attendant-in-charge-of-all-things-cafeteria strode over to me and said, “What are you doing?”
A smidge befuddled, I explained I was doing exactly what he told me to do.
“No,” he clarified, “Don’t wait in line. That’ll take too long. Just go behind the counter and get her meal.”
So I did. But then the attendant-in-charge-of-all-things-food poked me on the shoulder and said, “What are you doing?” In what certainly must have been obvious to everyone but me, it turns out that volunteers who are hectically gathering and dispensing packaged food to a thousand hungry Witnesses do not want someone who doesn’t know where anything is wandering in their zone, especially if he’s not wearing gloves or an apron.
Six months later, the elder again asked me if I was willing to volunteer. I told him no, and once he reeled back in his disdained amazement, he requested a reason. “Because,” I explained flatly, “you didn’t really need me last time, so I think there were too many attendants.”
Anyway, six hours later, Owen’s team first won a trophy for winning the best score in the morning trials, then won a second trophy for lasting to the final heat of the head-to-head competitions and garnering the top score in that, too.
But did they pass on to state? No, they didn’t. It turns out that a team can get the top score in the two most prestigious events of the day and still not be considered one of the best teams in the competition.