The Cool Kids & The Outsider
I desperately wanted into that one group in high school, but popularity's not always what it's cracked up to be.
Hi friend, I’m Alec.
I’m a 3x dad and a 3x agency founder, but really, I’m doing something new and scary.
I’m developing my personal stories to use on stage and in a forthcoming book. I’ve been performing live at The Moth and at stand-up open mic nights around Los Angeles.
This is one of those stories. Hope you enjoy.
Do you remember the cool kid group in high school?
Maybe you instinctually shudder upon hearing that question, reliving the dark moments when you were treated badly.
Or perhaps you think to yourself, "We didn't really have cool kids. Everyone was cool."
If you think that, then you WERE the cool kids, and you need to take a long, hard look in the mirror and reflect on your life because you *may* have some apology emails to write.
RUNNING UP THAT HILL
Way back in the 90s (or what my kids call "the 1900s"), the cool kids from my high school all lived in the same neighborhood.
English Hill.
It even SOUNDS pretentious, right?
Like you'd have to wear a monocle and gesture with a fancy long-stemmed cigarette to say it right.
It is a neighborhood near Redmond (home of Microsoft), a suburb of Seattle.
A fabled place of two-story houses and backyards with pools.
Three car garages.
Those double-front doors that open wide to let large, ornate furniture be carried into the house.
Fancy doorbells.
Walk-in kitchen pantries full of name-brand snacks, and always an air hockey table. ALWAYS.
It was the “wealthy neighborhood.”
Not Bill Gates wealthy. More "my dad is a lawyer" wealthy.
English Hill residents (literally) looked down on the rest of us Morlocks.
The boys of English Hill in my grade were all athletes. Football, soccer, basketball. They made varsity teams as sophomores.
They didn't bother with clubs or ASB. They were jocks.
They were gods among teens.
I was a lowly mortal, hoping for but a glimpse of their Mount Olympus.
GETTING THE CALL UP
One English Hillian(?) had a *full basketball court* in his backyard.
He and his fellow Hill-people(?) hosted a semi-regular event called the "English Hill Invitational" (EHI), an invite-only 3-on-3 basketball weekend tournament.
They'd lower the hoops to 8-feet. Perfect for dunking (if you're a star high school athlete).
They'd invite 30 guys to play on 10 teams, with ten Hill-billies (I can't help myself) serving as captains, drafting from the pool of talent.
Each team had official team colors and custom-printed T-shirts.
There were two days of action: a "regular season" and the playoffs.
Statistics and scores were meticulously taken and the entire event was recorded with a 1990s camcorder. An editor would cut together a highlights reel tape provided to all participants after each tournament.
There was voting for awards like MVP, Flashiest Moves, and Rookie of the Year, and trophies for statistical leaders.
This was high school high society.
This was our MET Gala. Our Oscars. Our Superbowl. All wrapped into one.
I loved basketball and wanted to join in.
But for the first few tournaments, I was never on the guest list.
Until I got the call.
"Can you play in ‘EHI 4’ this weekend?"
Like when you're invited to a wedding that's happening in 8 days. You KNOW you’re not on the A-List, but an aunt declined and/or died.
I didn't care. I wanted to prove that I belonged.
I got to play that one tournament, and I did OK. I won the assists award.
But I never got the call again.
And that stung.
I never really found my footing in high school. I moved to Seattle right before sophomore year, so I was a step behind, socially, for most of those three years.
Not terrible. Not bullied.
Just never an insider.
I had friends, but not the depth I wanted.
Who am I kidding?
I just wasn't popular.
I desperately wanted to be on the A-list, but I was C-list, at best.
THE WAY TO BE
That same core group of 10 English Hill-ians also organized something unusual during our senior year of high school.
Our school's mascot was the Vikings, and our football team was incredible; we went deep into the state playoffs every year.
Every Friday night was a student-section madhouse, and these EHI guys formed a homegrown, in-the-stands male cheerleading squad.
Going shirtless wasn't allowed—or even desirable during cold Seattle nights—so they decided to paint their stomachs, cropping their shirts at the midriff, to spell words across their bellies.
The principal, Vicki Sherwood, would come by to do nipple checks.
NIPPLE CHECKS, PEOPLE.
This wasn't some super-prude private school. This was D3 public school. But it was the 90s, and I suppose the (male) nipple had not yet been freed.
I was always at those games, but again, on the outside.
Whenever we'd score a touchdown, these guys would stand IN FRONT OF THE CHEERLEADERS, do a raucous pyramid, and lead the crowd in a cheer.
Because of those bare bellies, they called themselves (wait for it) the Naked Vikings.
"N-A, K-E-D, Naked is the way to be!
Na-ked (clap clap)
Vi-kings (clap clap)"
(and repeat)
The Naked Viks, for short. You might say it as "naked vicks" but it's "naked vikes."
They'd dress up in themed costumes for games, scouring thrift stores for vintage clothes that they could cut up.
This was high theater at Friday night football games.
I can remember the cheer in my bones.
And the jealousy of not being part of the crew leading it.
Until Homecoming weekend, my senior year.
They wanted to do a big, multi-word phrase painted on their torsos. They went to their A-list friends, their B-list friends, and their C-list friends.
And they completed the phrase (I don't even remember what it was) without me, even adding an exclamation point at the end of the sentence.
I was left out.
One of them thought it would be funny to put an UPSIDE DOWN exclamation point on the front of the sentence because he was in second-year Spanish.
So I got the call up to join the Naked Viks.
I remember wanting to do it, because it was an invitation into this cool club, hoping to be asked to stay.
But just like EHI, it was one-and-done.
THE LEGACY OF NAKEDNESS
I graduated never breaking into that group, which feels petty and immature to write, because I DID have friends.
Friends who were not jocks and not rich but were, rather, some of the smartest people at school.
People who got near-perfect SAT scores and went on to be massively successful. Like, brain surgeon and rocket scientist-level successful.
The Naked Viks became the “inaugural Viks” because they passed down their cut-off shirts to the junior class behind us in a grand end-of-year ceremony.
The club went from a high school near-prank to a timeless tradition.
Year after year, the Naked Viks carried on.
Until they didn't.
In 2013, nearly two decades later, a police task force was formed to investigate the "popular and rowdy student spirit squad known as the Naked Viks," who were accused of hazing hopeful new members.
Supposedly, seven juniors were blindfolded, stripped down, and taken to the freezing cold woods where they were beaten with sticks and PVC pipes and covered with maple syrup, and peed on.
I guess they should have kept the nip checks.
Vicki Sherwood—still principal after all those years—promptly shut the club down.
I've had many years of a happy and fulfilling and successful life, so I don't know why I still feel the pain of not being included in that exclusive club of 17-year-olds.
Except that the sting of rejection strikes deeper than you realize.
And I know that, while my high school peers were likely well-meaning and not bad guys at all, the seeds of hazing were sown in that feeling of exclusivity I felt all those years ago.
And I'm grateful because I learned an early, valuable lesson with relatively little pain:
N-A, K-E-D
Naked is SOMETIMES NOT the way to be.
(clap clap)
An addendum
The student photo above was taken from this 2008 student-edited video about their generation of Naked Viks (class of 2009, before the bad times).
How about You?
This story was prompted by a question Mike Birbiglia often asks his guests on his podcast Working it Out, most recently of Stephen Merchant, co-creator of the original The Office.
The question: “Was there ever a group who didn’t let you in?”
Do you have a story of exclusion from your own life?
At least we both achieved coolness at Pepperdine #winning
Man, it does hurt - deeply - to be rejected and excluded. And it doesn't stop after high school, unfortunately. I recently had a run-in with a 45-year-old man-child who is still trying to be a "cool kid" in high school (now he's just the "cool" teacher). He actually said out loud while on a run with me and some other friends that he couldn't enjoy Hamilton (!) on Broadway in NYC because he couldn't handle the "theatrics" of watching those nerds perform on stage (not making this up). And because I apparently wasn't "cool enough" (whatever that means at 45), I was promptly and unceremoniously rejected by my romantic partner, and in an instant lost a relationship I *thought* was deep and true and enduring (with his younger sister, who, it turns out, is still desperate to fit in with her "cool" older brother, even at 40). All of a sudden I was my 13-year-old self, being rejected by the cool kids and excluded from basketball games and parties, and fighting feeling horrible about myself, like I'm not worthy of love and respect because of some ephemeral quality that I didn't even know I am supposed to have or be pursuing. I thought all that shit was behind us, but apparently some people never grow out of the need to make others feel small so they can feel ok about themselves. It's been rough to deal with that fallout in therapy, but I'm doing the work. And now I have a VERY clear example of how NOT to act as a mature 45-year-old adult. Your story provides yet another cautionary tale about being "cool". Let's commit to being better, and to teaching our kids how to be better.
Thanks for sharing, brother.