Summer is where the soul lives.
The truck can't see me, crash.
Not a good idea after all.
Music: life isn't complete without it.
Lock it up. Another Monopoly win.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Free Writing
I have no clue what to write about, so I'll just go with sports - since that is just about the only thing I can write about and it be somewhat interesting. I think what makes sports, particularly baseball, a great sports to watch (but also write about) is the human drama that is throughout the whole game. Like the Razorback game last night, it was just filled with drama and conflict, which brings stories alive. I could not find a person that was sitting down during the end of the game after Brett Eibner hit a two-run shot to tie the game in the bottom of the ninth. You just can't make stuff up like that. It's just the human element of sports that makes them so great - the competition, the redemptive qualities. It just makes writing so much easier and interesting. Oh dang. I just got a forwarded text message from someone. I had no clue that these were going around. I guess the people that didn't get enough of the annoying e-mail chains are at it again. Who really thinks that is a good idea? Really? Do I need to send this two 10 other people so I'm not eaten by a shark or something? It's so random, not unlike this wall of test. But hey, at least I have good music. Back to the chain e-mails - I wonder who really thought that was a good idea. Do people really still pass those around? I don't think I've checked an e-mail other than my univeristy e-mail in more than a month. This was the most random things I've ever put together.
Song: Night/Day by Mae
This song is streaming on their Web site, http://www.whatismae.com/
Song: Night/Day by Mae
This song is streaming on their Web site, http://www.whatismae.com/
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Quest Narrative
I think I'll try the quest narrative style. It seems pretty similar to other styles I've tried in the past. I'd like to try another style, but I'm not so sure I could pull it off.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Reverse the Curse
It took 86 years. But they finally did it. The Red Sox won the World Series.
As a 16-year-old, I hadn't lived long enough to really know what it was like for your favorite team to go that long without a championship, to undergo a "curse."
But it felt real all the same.
With my Red Sox hat on, my dad - a long time New York Yankee fan - and I watched the game together in near silence. We couldn't believe what we were seeing. After three straight games over the Cardinals, the Red Sox would do what many in their life time had not seen: the Red Sox winning a championship.
I thought about all the people in Boston that would be happy to finally be able to see the team win after perhaps 60 years of watching the game.
The room was dark and the T.V. was the only source of light in the whole household.
I'll always remember these words from the announcer: "The Red Sox are your World Series champions."
As a 16-year-old, I hadn't lived long enough to really know what it was like for your favorite team to go that long without a championship, to undergo a "curse."
But it felt real all the same.
With my Red Sox hat on, my dad - a long time New York Yankee fan - and I watched the game together in near silence. We couldn't believe what we were seeing. After three straight games over the Cardinals, the Red Sox would do what many in their life time had not seen: the Red Sox winning a championship.
I thought about all the people in Boston that would be happy to finally be able to see the team win after perhaps 60 years of watching the game.
The room was dark and the T.V. was the only source of light in the whole household.
I'll always remember these words from the announcer: "The Red Sox are your World Series champions."
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sleepless Spring Break
It's much too early to think, much less be awake. Or even know your own name.
It's 6:00 a.m., and it is suppose to be spring break. With the soft sound of television turning on, it is the sign of another school day and work day for the household.
Talk of bank situations on CBS news gloomily slow bring my mind to thought, but it's too early to think. I try to go to sleep. It's no use.
Coming home use to consistent of just seeing my parents. But with a 17-year-old cousin and an eight-year-old nephew now moved in, it is a little different. They begin to get ready for an 8 a.m. start to their day.
Thoughts come to mind of habitual tardiness while in high school. While taking one of the few parking spaces left, I would walk to school wondering how showing up late had happened again.
I would tell myself that it wouldn't happen again. But it did. And I thought my 8:30 a.m. classes were early.
Fighting the thought, I try to go to sleep. However, the day is already in full effect. The brightness of lights pear into my room like an unwelcome guest. The sound of running water attempt to drown out the conversations in the hallway.
The distractions are soon forgotten.
But a question still lingers while failing back to sleep: Who thought it was a good idea to not match spring breaks within the state?
I wake up and put my glasses on to look at the clock, displaying 10:00 a.m. Well, at least I didn't have to go to school today.
It's 6:00 a.m., and it is suppose to be spring break. With the soft sound of television turning on, it is the sign of another school day and work day for the household.
Talk of bank situations on CBS news gloomily slow bring my mind to thought, but it's too early to think. I try to go to sleep. It's no use.
Coming home use to consistent of just seeing my parents. But with a 17-year-old cousin and an eight-year-old nephew now moved in, it is a little different. They begin to get ready for an 8 a.m. start to their day.
Thoughts come to mind of habitual tardiness while in high school. While taking one of the few parking spaces left, I would walk to school wondering how showing up late had happened again.
I would tell myself that it wouldn't happen again. But it did. And I thought my 8:30 a.m. classes were early.
Fighting the thought, I try to go to sleep. However, the day is already in full effect. The brightness of lights pear into my room like an unwelcome guest. The sound of running water attempt to drown out the conversations in the hallway.
The distractions are soon forgotten.
But a question still lingers while failing back to sleep: Who thought it was a good idea to not match spring breaks within the state?
I wake up and put my glasses on to look at the clock, displaying 10:00 a.m. Well, at least I didn't have to go to school today.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A scene from Major League
A rough, rugged voice announces a pitching change on the mound. “Get me Vaughn,” the manager said, signaling to the bullpen with two extended fingers.
The catcher responds puzzled, “You want Vaughn?”
The mustached man replies, “I know he hasn’t done very well lately. But I have a hunch he is due.”
The manager rubbed the baseball so furiously the ball could have turned to dust within his thick fingers. Two doors in the outfield open, and a thunderous applause rings throughout the stadium as Rick “Wild Thing” Vaughn enters the game.
He calmly walks to the mound that he is no stranger to, feeling the coolness of the night as the whole stadium sings “Wild Thing.”
Vaughn picks up his pace as the mound draws nearer. Breath in. Breath out.
“OK, Ricky,” the manager said sternly. “Haywood likes the hard stuff out over the plate. Bust him in and don’t give up on anything.”
Vaughn eerily stares at the runner on third base as fans continue to chant his name, the noise almost at a deafening level.
“You listening to me Rick?” the manger said. “Yeah,” Vaughn said with a glazed appearance.
The mangers looks Vaughn in the eyes, “Alright,” he said. “You're my man. Go get him kid.”
With a calming smirk, the catcher is the last person to leave the mound conference. “This is the out you have been waiting your whole life for.”
Vaughn racks the mound frantically with his right foot, preparing to face the batter with two outs. It’s the same batter who had hit two home runs off him.
He deliverers a warm up pitch over the plate and is ready. But he is interrupted by the third baseman.
He takes the ball.
“Let’s cut the crap out, Vaughn,” he said. “I only have one thing to say to you: Strike him out.”
He hands the ball back into Vaughn’s unshaken palms.
“So a surprise move to bring in the Wild Thing, who has been shelled in two outings against the Yankees,” the radio announcer said.
The public address announcer introduces the first baseman, Will Haywood. With his back to the mound, Vaughn slaps his glove and faces the plate. His thick rimmed glasses stare at the batter as his cleats dig into the dirt.
Vaughn knew that everyone in the stadium knew what was coming: a heavy dose of fastballs. But he didn’t know if his stuff was good enough that night as he stretched for the first pitch.
The man towers above the catcher with his muscular build.
The catcher calls for a breaking ball. But Vaughn shakes him off. The catcher then stuck his index finger down. With wide eyes, Vaughn nods his head before the finger is fully extended.
The pitch is delivered, and it is an up-and-in fastball that is swung on and missed. Vaughn confidently catches the ball.
“That sucker was moving,” the catcher said to the batter. The catcher signals for another fast ball. But Vaughn doesn’t even bother to nod. The pitch is high, but Haywood swings late. He kicks the dirt with disgust.
Vaughn catches the ball glowing with confidence. He knows he is on top of the world.
“Man, with all these pitches, maybe we should try something different,” the catcher said.
Another fast ball is called for. Another high and tight fast ball is swung upon. And it’s missed. Strike three.
The catcher responds puzzled, “You want Vaughn?”
The mustached man replies, “I know he hasn’t done very well lately. But I have a hunch he is due.”
The manager rubbed the baseball so furiously the ball could have turned to dust within his thick fingers. Two doors in the outfield open, and a thunderous applause rings throughout the stadium as Rick “Wild Thing” Vaughn enters the game.
He calmly walks to the mound that he is no stranger to, feeling the coolness of the night as the whole stadium sings “Wild Thing.”
Vaughn picks up his pace as the mound draws nearer. Breath in. Breath out.
“OK, Ricky,” the manager said sternly. “Haywood likes the hard stuff out over the plate. Bust him in and don’t give up on anything.”
Vaughn eerily stares at the runner on third base as fans continue to chant his name, the noise almost at a deafening level.
“You listening to me Rick?” the manger said. “Yeah,” Vaughn said with a glazed appearance.
The mangers looks Vaughn in the eyes, “Alright,” he said. “You're my man. Go get him kid.”
With a calming smirk, the catcher is the last person to leave the mound conference. “This is the out you have been waiting your whole life for.”
Vaughn racks the mound frantically with his right foot, preparing to face the batter with two outs. It’s the same batter who had hit two home runs off him.
He deliverers a warm up pitch over the plate and is ready. But he is interrupted by the third baseman.
He takes the ball.
“Let’s cut the crap out, Vaughn,” he said. “I only have one thing to say to you: Strike him out.”
He hands the ball back into Vaughn’s unshaken palms.
“So a surprise move to bring in the Wild Thing, who has been shelled in two outings against the Yankees,” the radio announcer said.
The public address announcer introduces the first baseman, Will Haywood. With his back to the mound, Vaughn slaps his glove and faces the plate. His thick rimmed glasses stare at the batter as his cleats dig into the dirt.
Vaughn knew that everyone in the stadium knew what was coming: a heavy dose of fastballs. But he didn’t know if his stuff was good enough that night as he stretched for the first pitch.
The man towers above the catcher with his muscular build.
The catcher calls for a breaking ball. But Vaughn shakes him off. The catcher then stuck his index finger down. With wide eyes, Vaughn nods his head before the finger is fully extended.
The pitch is delivered, and it is an up-and-in fastball that is swung on and missed. Vaughn confidently catches the ball.
“That sucker was moving,” the catcher said to the batter. The catcher signals for another fast ball. But Vaughn doesn’t even bother to nod. The pitch is high, but Haywood swings late. He kicks the dirt with disgust.
Vaughn catches the ball glowing with confidence. He knows he is on top of the world.
“Man, with all these pitches, maybe we should try something different,” the catcher said.
Another fast ball is called for. Another high and tight fast ball is swung upon. And it’s missed. Strike three.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
My one shot at basketball glory
It has happened to the majority of people I know. And when it happens, people tend to laugh. It’s just human nature: People find it funny when other people trip. Others tend to find embarrassing things funny - and rightly so. It just makes sense to get that laugh in now before it happens to you. But not too many people I know have tripped over a chair while attempting to jump it in front of half the school.
No one wants to be that guy. You know the guy. The one everyone laughs at during the pep rally because he totally made a fool of himself. Well, I was once that guy. Randomly selected to play basketball musical chairs, I got a chance to show the world - or at least the majority of the school - that I, the school sports writer, had game. I had the opportunity of a lifetime to show that I could in fact ball. But all opportunities are not capitalized upon.
I stroll to center court with the whole junior class chanting my name. I felt like I was atop the basketball world. I could totally take Michael Jordan on in a pick up game right now. Well, maybe not. If I had only knew what was to come.
With four other challengers, I measured up my chances. That chick has no shot. That dude can’t make a lay-up. That guy cannot write his own name coherently much less dribble a basketball. And that girl shall not get in the way of my claim to fame. I pull up for a six-foot jumper and get the ball and sit down. I secure a lay-up and get a seat. One more round until the finals. Another lay-up is made, and I’m in the finals.
I make my shot with plenty of time. But as I approach the final chair, it isn’t facing my side of the court. And my opponent is making a run for that same chair. Running full speed, I attempt to jump over the chair and secure basketball stardom. But I didn’t quite make it, falling flat on my back to a roaring mix of laughter and applause. I didn’t live that moment down for weeks. But learning to laugh at myself was a greater memory I’ll never forget.
No one wants to be that guy. You know the guy. The one everyone laughs at during the pep rally because he totally made a fool of himself. Well, I was once that guy. Randomly selected to play basketball musical chairs, I got a chance to show the world - or at least the majority of the school - that I, the school sports writer, had game. I had the opportunity of a lifetime to show that I could in fact ball. But all opportunities are not capitalized upon.
I stroll to center court with the whole junior class chanting my name. I felt like I was atop the basketball world. I could totally take Michael Jordan on in a pick up game right now. Well, maybe not. If I had only knew what was to come.
With four other challengers, I measured up my chances. That chick has no shot. That dude can’t make a lay-up. That guy cannot write his own name coherently much less dribble a basketball. And that girl shall not get in the way of my claim to fame. I pull up for a six-foot jumper and get the ball and sit down. I secure a lay-up and get a seat. One more round until the finals. Another lay-up is made, and I’m in the finals.
I make my shot with plenty of time. But as I approach the final chair, it isn’t facing my side of the court. And my opponent is making a run for that same chair. Running full speed, I attempt to jump over the chair and secure basketball stardom. But I didn’t quite make it, falling flat on my back to a roaring mix of laughter and applause. I didn’t live that moment down for weeks. But learning to laugh at myself was a greater memory I’ll never forget.
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