The Low Man on the Totem Pole

I’m the youngest of three kids.

My older brother, Sotiris, is three years older than me, and my sister, Asemina, is about a year and a half older. I loved following them around and hanging with them and their friend groups as a kid.

As the third born, my parents were maybe a bit burnt out by the time I came along. They didn’t really bother — or maybe didn’t think it was important — to arrange playdates for me with peers my own age when I was young. So when my sister had her girl friends over and they played house, Barbie, dress-up; or made up dance routines … that was my playdate too.

When my brother had his boy friends over and they played video games, listened to music, shot hoops in the driveway, or played catch in the yard… that was my playdate too.

I didn’t think much of it. It was normal. It was what I knew.

Don’t get me wrong — I had plenty of peers my own age at school or on sports teams. But we rarely connected outside of those organized activities until I was old enough to arrange that myself.

So in my younger years, I followed my older siblings and their friends around. And more often than not, I was the low man on the totem pole.

Hoping they’d let me play.

Trying not to be too annoying.

Wishing for the occasional nod of approval.

My sister and her friends — Hannah, Kristina, and Yva — would dress me up in skirts, tube tops, and heels all they wanted. Full face of makeup? No problem, slap it on. Was my timing on the shuffle-ball-change step good enough? I’d practice after they left, alone in my room, just to make sure. I hoped they liked me. I hoped they’d let me play again.

And honestly? It was so much fun.

My brother would have his (our?) friends over, and that was even better. They were older and cooler. They looked more like me. They acted more like me. We actually liked a lot of the same things.

I spent hours watching them play Mario and all types of video games, happily filling in for Collin when he needed to grab a snack (a few slices of American cheese was his go-to), or Devin during a bathroom break — hoping they wouldn’t be too disappointed in the loss of lives when they returned.

They’d let me rebound for them during games of HORSE. If numbers were uneven during a basketball game, one team would even reluctantly have to let me play.

What a day!

I’d attempt most any stunt they dared me to do. I’d eat any disgusting concoction they set in front of me. Occasionally I’d even get to go with my brother to his friends’ houses for casual hangs or parties

At those parties, I’d sit quietly — almost silently — not wanting to rock the boat or make any mistakes and risk being cast aside next time.

But those new adventures outside of my house, at my friends’ — ahem, my brother’s friends’ houses — felt like a whole new world of acceptance. They weren’t just forced to be around me because I lived there. I had made the jump into their home, their world.

I think they were starting to accept me.

I was more than happy to amp up my efforts to solidify this newfound acceptance.

Errand man? You got it.

The store was a ten minute walk away —  I’d be there and back with all of the goods in nine.
Sugar candy for Freeland.
Chocolate for Marcel.
Hostess cupcakes for Devin.
A Sprite (or three) for Collin — and of course I’d grab a pack of American cheese slices just in case.

And don’t get this wrong — these guys were my friends. I was happy to help.

My brother seemed aware of the dynamic and would often check in to make sure I was cool with it all.

Cool with it was an understatement.

I cherished it.

As we all grew up together, I gained more clout with each passing season. I slowly learned to say no. To stick up for myself when needed. And the interesting part? They encouraged it. They gave me advice on how to talk to girls, put in a good word for me, and helped me hone in on the right outfit for the dance.

A dance I would confidently ask Hannah or Kristina or Yva to attend with me.

They’d say no, of course. I was a seventh grader. They were eighth-graders, queens of middle school.

It never bothered me. “No” was the answer I expected. But I felt comfortable asking. I was honing my skills for future interactions.

And even though we never officially walked into the disco gym together, they always honored my request for a dance when I’d come find them — making my night and setting me up well for the time I’d eventually remove the safety net and go swim with the real sharks — girls in my own grade.

By the time I was a freshman in high school, my sister was a sophomore and my brother was a senior. I had established my own friend group by then — and what a group they were (and still are).

Aaron let me have my own ball during shootaround.
Natalie would braid my hair.
Ryan even had a controller with my name on it.

For the first time, I wasn’t the tag-along.

I was just one of the guys.

I look back on those times with love, longing, and appreciation — and with the realization that the only thing better than having a big sister and a big brother… is having four big sisters and five big brothers.

And here’s what I’ve come to understand:

Being the low man on the totem pole teaches you something powerful. It teaches you what it feels like to want in. To hover at the edge of the group. To hope someone says, “Yeah, you can play.”

That’s why Social Sports VT matters.

Because adult life can feel exactly like being the youngest sibling all over again. You move here. Your college friends scatter. Your coworkers go home to their own lives. You’re standing there thinking, “How do I get in?”

You don’t need to be the best player.
You don’t need perfect footwork.
You don’t need to be cool.

You just need a team that says, “We’ve got room.”

And sometimes, the most meaningful thing you can offer someone isn’t advice or status or even a win.

It’s letting them rebound.
It’s handing them the controller.
It’s saving them a dance.

At Social Sports VT, we try to make sure no one stays the low man on the totem pole for long.

There’s always room on the team.