Dear Diary: Super Bowl Trophy

By Staff Writer Leland Yu

Introduction

As anticipation quietly builds, one symbol of victory comes to life long before it reaches the field. Crafted in silence and shaped by human hands, the Vince Lombardi Trophy begins its life inside a Tiffany & Co. warehouse, unaware of the chaos, pressure, and glory it represents. 

October 2, 2025 @ 9:15 a.m.

“…I’m taking the Seahawks this year.”

The words echo around me before I even realize I exist, voices drifting over me as light spills across my silver sheets. I lie flat beneath bright workshop lights, as the hum of metal tools fill the room. I am not formed yet, but I can hear them. All day, they talk about games, rivals, and some sort of record that a seahawk has that I don’t understand. Hands hover all over my surface as eyes follow every inch. I don’t know what I’m here for yet, but the weight of their words tell me that this moment marks the beginning of something important.

November 31, 2025 @ 1:41 p.m.

Heat engulfs me, swallowing everything. The silver that shapes me glows, softens, and yields under the intense temperature. Around me, the artisans speak casually, as more information about myself drifts into existence with their voices. They talk about symmetry, and how the football shape at the top of my design must tilt forward at the right angle. They start debating about the winner, the word “champion” repeating over and over again. I then realize that I must be made for a champion. The idea of embodying perfection slowly seeps into me, urging me to exist without any flaws — to be a champion myself. 

January 15, 2026 @ 10:21 a.m.

I am packed into a custom, foam-lined case, snug, confined, and cut off from light and air. I feel a sudden lurch as the truck starts moving. Hours stretch, as every bump and vibration makes me twist and slide. An unexpected jolt throws me sideways and the case shifts just enough for me to slide out of the cargo bed. Cold air hits me like frozen knives. I shiver as my metal scrapes against the asphalt. Pain strikes along my exterior as I look down; a dent that’s deep and jagged, marring my perfect silver curves. I feel broken, betrayed by my own surface. How am I supposed to be a champion if my perfect silver is damaged? Before I can think any further, a hand grips me tightly, lifting me off the ground. I cannot see where I’m going. All I know is that the world I am supposed to enter is as far as it’s ever been. 

February 2 @ 5:30 p.m.

How did it come to this? 

I sit in a dim, unfamiliar room, far from the roar of champions that I’m meant for. Dust coats everything and the air is heavy and still. Behind me, I hear a crackle as a television screen flickers on. The reflection of moving images of faces, uniforms, running, and helmets clashing flash across my face. I don’t understand it, but I feel the intensity of every moment. I see figures sprint down the fields, fall, rise again, and keep fighting. Something inside me clicks. I feel the fire in me stir, remembering that it isn’t over. 

February 3 @ 5:00 a.m.

I see a window, a slice of light in the dark, cramped room. I slowly squirm toward it. I catch onto the sill, and let gravity take over. I land in a pile of mud, gagging at the thick, sour odor. My silver gleams no more, the brown gunk clinging onto me. I push onward anyway, sliding across sidewalks, dodging puddles, just like the figures on the television screen. After hours of sliding, scraping, and shifting, I feel the ground leave me from below, as hands lift me up. I am cleaned, packed, and secured in a new crate, with a lock this time. 

February 8 @  3:30-7:45 p.m.

Light floods in as my crate opens. Sounds rush over me, a living roar that vibrates through my frame. Watching the players run back and forth, rise up from every tackle, I can’t help but reflect on my own journey. I see effort and endurance in every play, courage in every struggle. The game ends. I am lifted from my case and brought into a room to record the winning team’s name on the exterior of my base: The Seattle Seahawks. I then get carried outside where the crowd roars and the winning team cheers. As their hands raise me to the lights, I no longer feel defined by perfection, but by everything I endured to arrive here. I realize that being a champion isn’t about perfection and flawlessness, it’s about resilience and embracing every scrape, dent, and misstep along the way.