POSTGAME ORANGES

Youth Soccer, Confusion, Obsession, and the Road to the JUNOs

So…we were nominated for a JUNO.

A little backstory.

I’m in Calgary talking to a dear friend about recognition. They had just worked on an incredible project, and it felt good watching the industry finally pay attention. Recognition i

s a strange thing. For most of my life I’ve lived somewhere between two instincts: the desire to be seen, and the art of not giving a fuck. Somewhere in the conversation I caught myself repeating something I’ve been trying to believe lately. You don’t need anything. You’ve got your people. Focus on what you can control and you’ll be happier. I guess those two therapy sessions really did something. Thank you, Troi Irons. (Watcher – Sorry, It’s Over.)

I say that now, but inside I still wrestle with something much older. My relationship with recognition probably started when I was seven years old.

I grew up playing soccer, and some of my fondest memories are from Earl Bales Park in North York. My mom used to run up and down the sidelines mirroring me as I sprinted up the field with the ball. If I lost possession, she ran back yelling for me to win it back. When we scored, she celebrated like she scored the goal herself. When I scored, I could hear my proud Jamaican mom telling everyone whose son that was. After the games she brought oranges and Gatorade for the whole team. When we won, those oranges tasted so flipping sweet you might slap yo momma.

In the U7 North York Hearts league, I was Pelé. I was scoring three to five goals a game. We went undefeated all season but lost a heartbreaker in the finals. Now it’s time for the team awards. The players are sitting on beach towels in the grass while parents stand around watching. This part is just a formality. Give me the MVP so I can go home and watch X-Men.

My coach stood in front of everyone and said, “The award for Most Improved Player goes to… Densil.” The parents applauded. My little heart experienced confusion for the first time. Most improved? I started the season scoring three goals a game and ended the season scoring five. Be humble, I told myself. You were recognized. Nobody else even got an award.

Then the MVP went to someone else—someone who didn’t score goals and barely made an impact.

The fuck? We’re just letting this happen?

The oranges were bitter and flavourless that day.

The ride home was long and silent. I stared at the tiny Most Improved trophy. Why am I holding this? What more could I have done? I led the team. Maybe I could have scored more or something.

Later we found out the coach had misread the awards and I was actually supposed to receive MVP. But by then it didn’t matter. No one corrected it in the moment, and I wasn’t interested in going backwards.

Keep the MVP in your house.

I’ll keep the tiny MIP trophy for fuel.

No one told me to feel that way, but that moment shaped my relationship with losing. It’s nice to play the game. It’s nice to be on the pitch with your friends. But in soccer—like in the world—there are more spoils when you win.

The postgame oranges taste way sweeter when you win.

So I made a promise to myself: work harder than anyone, stand out more than anyone, and make it impossible for people to make that mistake again.

Next year will be better.

Fast forward a few decades and now I’m in the music industry. The stakes are far more complicated than goals scored. Everything is subjective, and the rules seem to change depending on the season.

The reality is the game itself was not meant to be fair.

Over the years I’ve been adding tablespoons of “The Bitter” into my sweet tea. Eventually the cup ran over. At some point I forgot what the drink used to taste like.

We now have three full-length albums, and when it comes to Black-fronted punk bands we’ve done something none have done before: we’ve been shortlisted for the Polaris Prize twice. Bands we grew up idolizing have shown us love. I remember Sum 41 saying we were “up next for the throne.” Those moments matter, but the road here has been an obstacle course of mishaps.

Years of “no’s.”

Years of “you don’t fit the format.”

Years of “why don’t you make music like—insert wildly popular band.”

Years of: it’s me. I can just outwork this. I will make it impossible to deny us.

But the seven-year-old version of me knows the truth.

I want to win.

Everything else feels like a participant trophy.

I was on a flight from Edmonton to Los Angeles to run some songwriting sessions. Coincidentally it was Grammy Week, and a lot of the Canadian music industry heads down to LA. While it was a polar vortex in my hometown, I was off to L.A. to bask in the glow of the Hollywood Hills. I went to a comedy show. I saw Jay Leno. Just regular stuff down there.

I woke up, ran some errands, and got absorbed in work. When I finally checked my phone I had a dozen missed calls, emails, and a band group chat going off. My brain went straight to crisis mode. How bad is it? What happened? What did we do wrong?

Then I read Simon’s message:

The fuck? Are you serious? What are we going to wear?

Friends were texting me congratulations hours before I even knew what had happened.

I shed a tear. For it to happen this way—with this record—makes it even sweeter.

We did this ourselves. We bankrupted ourselves to fund it. Hundreds of hours of video editing. Thousands of “no’s.” Time away from family. Heartbreak. No label backing. Just us and the community of friends who keep us going.

This band started in Cola’s mom’s basement. We were the band that didn’t quite fit anywhere. The industry never knew where to put us. We struggled placing ourselves. And suddenly the invisible hand of the Canadian music industry was patting us on the back.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like my mom was cheering from the sidelines again. The first call I made was to my mom.

The rest of the day I sat motionless.

Seven-year-old me lost something that day staring at that Most Improved trophy. He stopped enjoying the moment directly in front of him.

But this experience made me slow down and realize something. What we’re doing is actually pretty unprecedented. A band like ours isn’t supposed to reach this level without the systems that normally support it. I can confidently say no other Black-fronted punk band in Canadian history has been shortlisted for the Polaris Prize twice and has an Alternative Album of the Year nomination.

But still—no wins…yet.

Here we are.

I called a friend who was also nominated.

“JUNO nomination? Cool,” he said. “When are you coming over so we can get to work?”

And just like that, life keeps moving.

See you on the Orange Carpet.