Empty Trophy Cases

(Or, the choice I keep making)

The day after a big loss always feels strange. The sting is still there, but the noise quiets just enough for meaning to sneak in.

Last night was fun, in the way being a Patriots fan during the biggest games always is. I spent my childhood never feeling moments like that, then much of my twenties expecting them, and then, sadly, another drought.

Then came Drake “Drake Maye” Maye.

Many love to hate the Patriots and their fans. We actually love being hated. Being underrated has historically worked for Patriot Nation.

Last night wasn’t one of those nights.

And while fans, and those who maybe bet with their hearts instead of the stats, felt the sharp sting of the loss, watching the recaps and post-game interviews today gave me something better than a win.

I called my fourteen-year-old student athlete.

“Did you see any of the interviews with Maye and Coach Vrabel?”

He hadn’t.

I told him to go watch them. Not the highlights. The interviews. I told him that while he probably has plenty to learn about winning, there always seem to be more lessons in losing.

Losing is never the goal. It’s never fun. But it always offers the same choice.

Get better.
Or don’t.

Either way, it hurts. The only question is which kind of pain to live with.

What I saw in those interviews was the harder choice. Two professional athletes coming off a heartbreaking loss, owning mistakes, speaking honestly, lifting up their teammates, and still allowing pride in the collective effort to exist alongside disappointment (even, grief maybe).

My favorite moment came when a reporter asked Drake Maye if there was a play he wished he could redo.

He didn’t offer a rehearsed answer.

“How about the whole game? “ he said. “I’d just start over and do it all again.”

I know these men have had media training. But I don’t believe training makes someone choke up when they talk about how proud they are of the people they work with. That wasn’t coaching. That was respect. That was love. That was a grown man letting emotion show because something mattered.

There was no way I was letting that moment pass without sharing it with a fourteen-year-old who is still learning what competition really asks of us.

After we hung up, I kept thinking about the same choice in my own life.

Since cancer entered the picture, every day has offered some version of it.

Get better.
Or don’t.

Not always physically. I’ve learned that bodies have limits and timelines none of us fully control. But better in the ways that keep me here longer. Better in how I treat myself. Better in how I show up for the people I love.

For decades, I bullied myself far more harshly than anyone else ever could. Strength meant pushing. Winning meant ignoring pain. Rest meant weakness.

Cancer didn’t ask for my old rules.

It asked for honesty.

And most days, I choose to get better. Not cleaner. Not perfect. Just braver. Kinder. More willing to stay in the work of living.

I don’t know where all of this leads. None of us does.

But I do know that I’d rather endure the ache of growth than the ache of giving up.

I’d rather keep playing. Even if it all leads to empty trophy cases.

Maybe empty cases will make it easier to catch my reflection.