I first saw him during halftime of a basketball game in my ninth grade year. He ran out onto the court with a large push broom in hand and began sweeping the entire floor. He was focused and determined while using a carefully structured sweeping routine. There was a sense of duty in his movements but it was immediately apparent that he was different somehow. Nobody in the gym bleachers seemed to notice him to much and the coaches didn’t seem concerned. When we started play again he ran to the corner of the gym and knelt down with a towel around his shoulders, alert and poised to jump up at a moments notice and do whatever may be asked of him. At games end we walked out of the gym toward the locker room. He was standing in the locker room doorway, holding it open for us as if we were celebrities. After we all made it into the locker room I heard my coach say, “thanks Bags!”
Everyone called him Bags. A grown man then in his twenties or thirties, Bags had some sort of mental retardation. Nobody seemed to know how badly Bags was affected by his condition. As a matter of fact nobody knew much about Bags at all. Bags not officially employed and he never got paid for his efforts but he was a pillar of consistency and never missed a sporting event. Some would claim there had to be two or three different Bags and there were times when people would swear he was in three different places at the same time. He swept the basketball courts, cleaned the footballs and ran after foul balls during baseball. He helped move the hurdles at track meets and carried towels at swimming events. Bags was everywhere, all the time. He had unfettered access into any facility in the small town of Chico and nobody would blink an eye. He was Bags.
I never knew for certain why he was called Bags. He rode a bike everywhere and always had a plastic bag hanging from the handlebars. He also wore the same pair of worn out, oversized jeans. Bags….
During my high school years I had the occasional conversation with Bags. He kept close tabs on the statistics of his favorite players and I was lucky enough to be one of them. He was always polite and took a certain pride in successfully anticipating my next need so he could satisfy it in advance. He seemed thrilled to be in my company and would often tell others he and I were friends. Bags never took advantage of a situation and never asked for special consideration. In fact, unlike others, Bags never appeared to be needy for attention or social acceptance and he was not negatively affected by those who would dismiss him. Truth be told, he seemed to display a fairly keen grasp of social nuances in group dynamics. Every coach new him and loved him. He had uniform shirts from every team in town and proudly wore them.
Shortly before leaving for college, I ran into one of my old coaches in a store and we chatted briefly. As we talked, Bags walked into the store with an older woman. I gestured over toward Bags and told the coach I was going to miss him after I left. It was then my old coach revealed to me the story behind the mystery that was Bags:
As a young boy, Bags, whose real name I cannot remember, needed medical attention at a local hospital. During his hospital stay, a mistake on the part of medical staff resulted in a sodium depletion issue that became critical and caused permanent brain damage. After litigation, a stipend was established to provide this young boy with his basic needs for the remainder of his life. His condition was considered irreversible.
Bags grew up in a world of turmoil, surrounded by pity from some and scorn from others. When he was old enough to be considered a man physically, his mother sat him down and told him that it was time for him to become a productive member of society and that he would need to find a way to contribute. His mother had already established to the community that Bags was not to be considered a charity case or a poster child for some feel good fundraiser. Bags had to find his own place in the fabric of his society.
Bags slowly started helping out at high school sporting events when he could. He would eventually achieve full acceptance by the residents of the close knit community where he lived and a career was born. He became the epitome of dependability. He worked his ass off his whole life, never earned a penny and was happy. He had a bike and a bag.
I left for college and never saw Bags again. It is likely he passed some time ago. He earned my respect and I’m sure he earned the respect of countless other young men and woman who would have the good fortune to know Bags.
Today, as I look at the repulsive, self centered, entitled people who run around squawking and squeaking about their mythical made up rights and their grievances and I want to puke. These pathetic, soft, ego driven, self loving molecular groupings disgrace our country and our culture. Adversity to these people is a foreign concept and they would most likely collapse under the weight of their own self pity if they ever had to deal with any. They couldn’t hold Bag’s lunch.
I look back and thank God that there was a “Bags” in my life. A young boy, who had his brain drained of life supporting sodium and became crippled, grew up to be a man any parent and the community could be proud of. Looking back, Bags helped me to develop a perspective and balance when life didn’t go exactly the way I wanted, or just as importantly, when it did.
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