I feel like I've heard this story before. But last night it was my nightmare to have:
The last time I saw this yellow rope my dad had used it to tie up a stack of old newspapers so they could be easily carried out behind the garage until trash day. Now my mom was wrapping it around his neck.
"That's right, two times around. *gurgle* Good. Heh heh. You've got it."
I was watching, not sure what to do. He'd given me a small knife, a fillet knife I think it's called. For slicing up filet mignon and stuff I guess. But it was strong enough to cut through bone. My father had told me it was an insurance policy. For our family's safety.
"That's right son, it's your mother's responsibility. But if need be you've gotta help. Cuz if she doesn't kill me, I'll kill her. Then you. And then I'll go find your sister."
Two weeks ago my dad came home white as a sheet. For a black dude, that takes some doing. My mom, who on a rare occasion beat him home, had never seen him like that before. That was the first day any of us heard of this man called The Scarecrow.
My dad first spotted him in the rear-view mirror. Slender white man, bare arms, long black butcher's apron over what looked like a black dress. He was sitting, but still looked tall. At least 7'. His black wide-brimmed had been tipped down. But as my father spotted him he raised his head and looked back at him with one blue eye and one blood-red one. My dad pulled over in a panic after spotting him.
"I will kill your family and you can't stop me."
Then he was gone like he'd never been there in the first place.
My dad said he called him The Scarecrow cuz he was tall and creepy as hell, but other than that he didn't know what to call him. My mom and I were freaked out. My sister, on the other hand, didn't believe any of it. Just stress and a wild imagination as far as she was concerned. An interesting assertion for a practical 16 year old girl. But at 17 I wasn't that far removed from believing monsters were under my bed, no matter how much I acted like I didn't.
One week ago was my Dad's birthday and his sister, my Auntie, sent him an antique foot bath and massager. Said it'd been their father's and she wanted him to have it. Auntie was older than him by a few years, so she'd actually gotten to know their dad before he peaced out, unlike my dad. And this was the first time he'd held anything his dad had ever actually owned. He cried like a baby. Real touching, all that.
I walked in on my dad asleep later that night, bare feet in that silly contraption, but fast asleep. Head back, mouth open, snoring like he was choking. I thought to wake him up, but didn't bother. As I turned to go to bed myself, The Scarecrow was looking down at me. Funny, all I could see was the blood-red eye, but I swear he had two.
"Your whole family will die. You will be second."
I looked around, but he was gone as if I'd blinked him away. Maybe I had. For that week I couldn't sleep and my mom kept asking why I looked so tired. "Stress over school" I said. No way I was gonna tell her.
I came home from soccer practice today and my mom was crying. Dad had been sitting in a chair without moving for the last hour, just staring straight ahead. Usually charismatic and energetic, he had just shut down inside. His eyes were open, hands palm down at the edge of the arm rests. Feet flat. Like the statue of Abraham Lincoln in DC. But as I waved my hands in front of his face his expression broke. He looked at me and smiled.
"Hey! You're home! Good. It's time then."
That's when he went out to the garage to grab the yellow rope my mother was wrapping around his neck. She didn't want to do it. She was crying hysterically now, head shaking left to right like it was trying to preemptively wipe the memory away.
"Now, when you start pulling, don't let go!"
She cried her protests in great, heaving sobs, but when he showed her his machete and pointed it at me, she pulled. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed onto her. Together, they rolled to the floor.
I watched, not sure what to do. My knife was a joke compared to his. I didn't even know where on earth he'd gotten the machete. But he made no move to use it as my mom was trying to choke the life out of him. He just lay there and let her do it. She pulled and pulled at that shiny yellow rope so long I was positive it was done. I don't think she knew one way or the other though. Her strength just gave out and she lay there, underneath my father, sobbing.
I rolled him off of her and picked her up to the couch. After a few minutes we heard him cough.
"Span?"
My mother stopped crying and walked over to investigate. I wanted to call the police, but instead I just followed her. My father's chest was rising and falling, but no sound came out of him.
"Span? Are you"
The machete was in her shoulder, right above her clavicle. Or "CLA-vickle" as my sister loved to pronounce it. I hadn't even seen him move. Odd, blood doesn't really spurt from a wound like you would think. So it was hard to take it seriously for a second. The machete was buried half-way into my mother's shoulder. I don't even think she knew at first. Until she met eyes with my father. And saw where his were focused. And followed their path.
Screaming, she stood up so fast she fell backwards. So hard did she fall that she popped the machete right out of the wound and boy, THEN the blood started to flow. There was no more screaming in her. She just lay there in shock as my father stood up, picking up the machete.
"Alright son. It's up to you now."
I looked at my fillet knife. I looked at his machete. Again, it moved inhumanly fast. I was quick so I dodged, but not fast enough. The machete bit into my right arm and pulled out so fast it took a chunk of flesh away. I dropped my knife and fell to the floor. I didn't know what else to do.
"I told you you were second."
My mother couldn't stop him. No one could as far as I knew. And he stood over my mother with the machete aimed right over her heart.
"...And then I'll find your sister, son."
He looked at me, then smiled. It was genuine. All the happiness we'd shared as a family had born the same smile. Like this was just another memory to heap on the pile. The last one, presumably.
He didn't even see me move. My fillet knife was already tearing into his throat before he threw me off. My mother had recovered enough to see what I'd done. She'd scooted herself over to the couch, but it didn't matter. Blood was pouring from my father's throat with such distance it was sprinkling her shoes, ten feet away.
He fell to his knees holding the machete in one hand and his throat in the other. As I stood up he turned to find me. But he had no strength to fight. I don't think he even wanted to. He just looked at me. And smiled. Something gurgled from his throat that sounded like speech. It almost sounded like "Thank you."
I don't know who called 'em, but police and paramedics were everywhere. The chunk missing out of my arm was really starting to hurt, so I can't imagine how my mom's shoulder was. But she was still crying too hard to feel it I guess. My dad was still in the house. The police would analyze the scene before they moved the body. Funny thing the paramedics said, even as he died my dad never let go of the machete.
Hospital policy wouldn't allow us to be in the same room. Due to the nature of the death we both needed to be psychologically evaluated before that could happen. Whatever. I had had so much morphine in me when they explained this that it could have been my still-bleeding father explaining talking in their stead and I would have accepted it all the same. Thankfully, my sister had spent the night at a friend's house and they were nice enough to let her stay there until everything was cleared up...if that was even possible.
Around three in the morning the morphine started to wear off. My pain was acute, but before they drugged me again I wanted to go to the bathroom and relieve some pressure. The light in there was fluorescent white, like light itself having been bleached clean for the sake of sterility. In the mirror I saw the great mess of bandages on my right arm. "So much for the shot put state championships in the spring" I thought.
As I looked up, The Scarecrow was standing behind me. His hat tipped up just enough for me to see his eyes. But this time I saw them both, and smiled.
That's when I woke up. Ugh. Nightmares suck.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Most Painful Story I Never Told
It was hard being a black kid in a black neighborhood that goes to school with white kids. Well, to be more accurate I guess I would say it was confusing. And the confusion made it hard. It didn't have to be, I suppose. But such is life.
During the school year I spent the day speaking one language that felt foreign to me and at night with my friends I did the same. If language is the first step to establishing commonality with others around you I guess I never felt at home. Thankfully I was a natural loner so when I didn't feel like I fit in I just hung by myself.
In seventh grade a kid named Ryan and I became good friends. He was sarcastic and clever with almost as much fever for Nintendo as me. We got along famously. When he suggested going off with him to Christian camp I co-signed immediately. Why not?
Camp Barakel that summer was more fun than I thought it possible to have in eight days. On arrival Ryan and me hooked up with two other guys who thought like we thought and liked what we liked. And since this was the last year before you had to go to high school camp we were the oldest kids there. We ran that camp.
Counselors loved us. All the kids adored us. Our sports teams won every award allowed. We excelled in all of our individual activities. Everywhere we went was where the party followed and I left that camp chomping at the bit for a return.
The next summer Ryan and I picked up another friend of mine, Nick, and off we went. The world, however, is cruel. And for every bit of sky-scraping happiness you must experience a soul-crushing pass through the deepest valley.
The two guys we were gonna hang with from the previous years had opted to attend different weeks. Ryan left four days in due to illness. My camp counselor was a hyper-conservative, overly solemn bag of un-fun. And I was reminded, on a daily basis, that I was different.
I don't think anyone actually meant to make me feel like I wasn't a part of things. I'm pretty sure their hearts were in the right place. But somehow I'd become the ambassador for all things black. Why do black kids talk different? Why do black kids act different? Why don't you sound like the black kids I know?
I went fishing on the second day of camp and caught an 8-inch mystery fish five minutes after dropping my line and without using any bait. Pure luck. Ryan hadn't been there, but had heard about it and asked me about it at supper that night.
"Dude! I heard you caught a fish all quick without using any bait!"
"The attendant didn't know my name. How'd you know it was me?"
"He said the black kid did it. Who else would it be?"
I also happened to be the only kid at camp that week wearing a hoodie in summertime and sunglasses 24/7. But that's not what best distinguished me in the mind of the fishing attendant. I don't think he meant anything by it, but it hurt anyway and I didn't know why.
We were to go home on Sunday morning. It was Thursday. And I felt like all eyes were on me every day. I was so up in my own head I couldn't perform well at athletics or at the individual activities so I have up on them preferring to shoot pool in the Rec Center and read in the bunkhouse when everyone else was out. I hid all this from Nick who seemed to be having a good time. I could see no point to bringing him down with my frustration and uncertainty, but it only left me feeling more alone and isolated than ever.
So I did the only thing I could think to do. I reached out to my neighborhood friends. I tried using the phone, but we had to be chaperoned by a camp counselor and were limited to five minutes a call. So I wrote to them. They would understand what I was going through. I bought a few postcards and wrote to them in the closest thing to the most familiar language I could think of. I put the addresses on 'em and dropped them in the mailbox. There was no way they'd be able to return a letter to me at camp before I left, but it didn't matter. Writing those postcards made me feel better than I had in all the days of camp so far.
The next day at lunch there was an announcement. The head counselor was a tall, goofy looking guy with dark brown hair in a pseudo bowl cut. He stood on the stage at the front and prepped his microphone. It reverbed. He giggled. Someone had attempted to mail a few postcards to Detroit without postage. I already knew. My face burned. I stopped eating. And I sat there hoping I could play cool long enough for him to finish and for me to find a way to sneak out of there.
*laughing* "The letters were sent to...'Yo, whuzzz'!"
*cafeteria laughing*
*LAUGHING* "Hey bro!!"
*CAFETERIA LAUGHING*...
I bolted. There was a third. If I could have just sat through the third and played cool I might, through some miracle, have found a way to make people think it hadn't been me. But I couldn't take it. I hated him. I hated them. I hated everyone. And I had to get out of there before I let that hate get ugly.
I sat on my bunk for forty-five minutes. There were sports tournaments and activities going on after lunch so I had time to be alone and think. I hated because I felt I was being singled out as different and mocked for it. But I didn't think anyone was trying to hurt me. And that hurt more. You can see it coming from the ones that want to harm you, but can never prepare for the ones who do it by mistake.
My counselor, thankfully, got the postcards for me. I couldn't see them the same though. What had once been the albatross of my salvation was now the instrument of my humiliation. I snatched them from him mid-sentence and began ripping them apart into the smallest portions imaginable. The trash was no good since I thought someone might see them again so I made sure that the pieces were small enough so as not to interrupt the septic system. We'd been warned never to put anything foreign into those toilets, but my counselor did nothing to stop me as I tore them up and flushed them. And flushed again. And flushed again.
I never went back to camp Barakel. They even extended me the chance to become a counselor a couple years later but I turned that down too. Nothin' personal. Just wasn't for me anymore.
During the school year I spent the day speaking one language that felt foreign to me and at night with my friends I did the same. If language is the first step to establishing commonality with others around you I guess I never felt at home. Thankfully I was a natural loner so when I didn't feel like I fit in I just hung by myself.
In seventh grade a kid named Ryan and I became good friends. He was sarcastic and clever with almost as much fever for Nintendo as me. We got along famously. When he suggested going off with him to Christian camp I co-signed immediately. Why not?
Camp Barakel that summer was more fun than I thought it possible to have in eight days. On arrival Ryan and me hooked up with two other guys who thought like we thought and liked what we liked. And since this was the last year before you had to go to high school camp we were the oldest kids there. We ran that camp.
Counselors loved us. All the kids adored us. Our sports teams won every award allowed. We excelled in all of our individual activities. Everywhere we went was where the party followed and I left that camp chomping at the bit for a return.
The next summer Ryan and I picked up another friend of mine, Nick, and off we went. The world, however, is cruel. And for every bit of sky-scraping happiness you must experience a soul-crushing pass through the deepest valley.
The two guys we were gonna hang with from the previous years had opted to attend different weeks. Ryan left four days in due to illness. My camp counselor was a hyper-conservative, overly solemn bag of un-fun. And I was reminded, on a daily basis, that I was different.
I don't think anyone actually meant to make me feel like I wasn't a part of things. I'm pretty sure their hearts were in the right place. But somehow I'd become the ambassador for all things black. Why do black kids talk different? Why do black kids act different? Why don't you sound like the black kids I know?
I went fishing on the second day of camp and caught an 8-inch mystery fish five minutes after dropping my line and without using any bait. Pure luck. Ryan hadn't been there, but had heard about it and asked me about it at supper that night.
"Dude! I heard you caught a fish all quick without using any bait!"
"The attendant didn't know my name. How'd you know it was me?"
"He said the black kid did it. Who else would it be?"
I also happened to be the only kid at camp that week wearing a hoodie in summertime and sunglasses 24/7. But that's not what best distinguished me in the mind of the fishing attendant. I don't think he meant anything by it, but it hurt anyway and I didn't know why.
We were to go home on Sunday morning. It was Thursday. And I felt like all eyes were on me every day. I was so up in my own head I couldn't perform well at athletics or at the individual activities so I have up on them preferring to shoot pool in the Rec Center and read in the bunkhouse when everyone else was out. I hid all this from Nick who seemed to be having a good time. I could see no point to bringing him down with my frustration and uncertainty, but it only left me feeling more alone and isolated than ever.
So I did the only thing I could think to do. I reached out to my neighborhood friends. I tried using the phone, but we had to be chaperoned by a camp counselor and were limited to five minutes a call. So I wrote to them. They would understand what I was going through. I bought a few postcards and wrote to them in the closest thing to the most familiar language I could think of. I put the addresses on 'em and dropped them in the mailbox. There was no way they'd be able to return a letter to me at camp before I left, but it didn't matter. Writing those postcards made me feel better than I had in all the days of camp so far.
The next day at lunch there was an announcement. The head counselor was a tall, goofy looking guy with dark brown hair in a pseudo bowl cut. He stood on the stage at the front and prepped his microphone. It reverbed. He giggled. Someone had attempted to mail a few postcards to Detroit without postage. I already knew. My face burned. I stopped eating. And I sat there hoping I could play cool long enough for him to finish and for me to find a way to sneak out of there.
*laughing* "The letters were sent to...'Yo, whuzzz'!"
*cafeteria laughing*
*LAUGHING* "Hey bro!!"
*CAFETERIA LAUGHING*...
I bolted. There was a third. If I could have just sat through the third and played cool I might, through some miracle, have found a way to make people think it hadn't been me. But I couldn't take it. I hated him. I hated them. I hated everyone. And I had to get out of there before I let that hate get ugly.
I sat on my bunk for forty-five minutes. There were sports tournaments and activities going on after lunch so I had time to be alone and think. I hated because I felt I was being singled out as different and mocked for it. But I didn't think anyone was trying to hurt me. And that hurt more. You can see it coming from the ones that want to harm you, but can never prepare for the ones who do it by mistake.
My counselor, thankfully, got the postcards for me. I couldn't see them the same though. What had once been the albatross of my salvation was now the instrument of my humiliation. I snatched them from him mid-sentence and began ripping them apart into the smallest portions imaginable. The trash was no good since I thought someone might see them again so I made sure that the pieces were small enough so as not to interrupt the septic system. We'd been warned never to put anything foreign into those toilets, but my counselor did nothing to stop me as I tore them up and flushed them. And flushed again. And flushed again.
I never went back to camp Barakel. They even extended me the chance to become a counselor a couple years later but I turned that down too. Nothin' personal. Just wasn't for me anymore.
The Day I Learned I Could Do Anything
"How did you DO that?" Bradley asked. I shook my head, shrugging.
"Ah fwohn whoa."
It was dinnertime, the last meal before our final practice of the day, and we were all pretty starved. I wasn't just hungry though. I was trying to get food into my face as quickly as possible. We had an hour or two before our next practice and to prevent vomiting I had to get digesting ASAP. As such I didn't make for good conversation.
Mr. Berthel was our soccer coach. But unlike most coaches his goalkeeper training was intensive. Painful even. Only the vigor of youth could allow me to do some of the relentlessly acrobatic diving that was required to prevent me from smashing my body beyond repair. And that third practice was no different. Fortunately, it was late in the week. Third practices were starting to develop into light scrimmages. Coaches included.
We were lined up on opposite teams which meant that my coach would be shooting on the goal I was assigned to protect. He played soccer in high school and maybe even a little low tier professional ball before going into teaching, but there's no doubt the man had skills. Mr. Berthel could kick a soccer ball with better accuracy than I could throw one. Push ups were punishment for not following his shot to conclusion which, often, was the back of the net I'd been assigned to protect. Eight times out of ten he could put a ball into places I couldn't get to. And he was gonna play Center-Mid, aka Mr. EVERYTHING, for the other team. I was gonna spend a lot of time on the ground.
*********************************************************
I was in eighth grade when Mr. Berthel first called me into his office. He was the Varsity Soccer Coach. This was my second year playing soccer, ever. In seventh grade I was too fat and goofy looking for the coach to play me in the position I wanted, goalkeeper. Instead of being disheartened I played again in eighth grade. I was still fat and goofy looking, but no one else wanted to tend, so the coach let me start at the position. Midway through the year my goals against average hung below 1.0 and I had four shutouts in eight games.
"You could be All-State if you wanted to ya' know."
Mr. Berthel smirks when he's serious. Legs crossed, leaned back, he was the picture og GQ-cool. I wasn't sure if he was kidding or not, but as a kid anything an adult says can hold a kind of power. So if he said it, maybe I could make it true?
There were four slots available to the top goalies in C-Class (Division III) schools: First Team, Second Team, Third Team, and Honorable Mention. There were a lot of schools in the state of Michigan. Quite a few in our class. I was in the middle of playing my first year as a soccer goalkeeper and he was telling me I could rank with the best in the state? Well...it was a nice thought.
I finished the eighth grade soccer season strong and broke all sorts of goalkeeping records. Going into Freshman year I thought I'd be a shoe-in for Varsity. There were three guys in camp: Justin, me, and a new guy. His name was Mike. And he had a lot more years under his belt. And a goalie shirt. Goalie shorts. Cleats (plastic AND metal). And technique. I was at camp taking shots from seniors in a t-shirt, sweat pants, and gym shoes (last years cheap cleats bit the dust in the off-season). Oh, and I was still fat and goofy looking. Justin was returning Varsity. Mike became the JV starter. And I sat the JV bench.
The third game of the season I was given playing time, but as a forward. With two minutes left. When we were ahead 3-1. It was pity play. But I still managed to score the only goal of my high school career.
Six games in tragedy struck. Mike and a forward collided going after the same ball on a breakaway. The ball bounced out of bounds. Mike's leg broke in two places. So now I was the starter. By the end of the season I'd once again gathered a bunch of shutouts, a low goals against average, and a good deal of acclaim. But I was still fat and goofy looking. If I wanted to show myself approved to the coaches, I'd have to go away to soccer camp with everyone else.
Mr. Berthel had suggested I go to soccer camp the season before and I'd scoffed at the idea. I'd been to camp before. There were several dozen reasons I didn't wanna do it again. But as it seemed to be the main reason I was passed over for the starting job in JV the first time around I sucked it up, packed my gnat repellant, and got on the bus.
*********************************************************
The Center-Midfield position handles the ball more than anyone else on the team and is an integral part in setting up the offense or helping on defense. The position requires the most amount of personal stamina as whoever played it would be expected to be anywhere and everywhere at once. Quickly. Mr. Berthel played the position easily, running his own players into the ground and giggling all the way.
In our scrimmage, his team would spend most of game on our side of the field. When Mike was in nets, I'd laugh as Mr. Berthel sent him from one side of the net to the other with shot after shot. When I was, Mike laughed harder as I endured the same punishment. But Mr. Berthel was also not above a good bit of ribbing during play. During corner kicks he'd either stand right behind me and grab my shirt or directly in front of me so I couldn't see where the ball was being kicked. On indirect kicks he'd rocket it right at me, daring me to drop it so someone on his team could punch it in for the score. On direct kicks he's fake shots and pass off to someone with a better line on net. It was miserable. And that was when I wasn't swatting away those stupidass gnats.
The game would often progress until everyone was too tired and hungry to continue. But just before ending this practice, the third practice on the next to last day, he broke away from everyone else. Mr. Berthel didn't just control the ball, he willed it David Copperfield-style. Around one defender, over another, and through the legs of some flat-footed unfortunate. And before I knew it, I was the last one he had to burn.
No one else was even coming to help. Half my team was sitting around midfield, swatting gnats and catching their breath. The rest were just standing around waiting. No one knew the score, but we all felt that the game was just about over. All that was left was for Mr. Berthel to call it. One final score might've done it. So they did little to muster up that last bit of fight. Barring some cursory maneuvers, they let themselves get humiliated.
He was at the eightteen yard line and coming quick. I was on my line and in position to stop him if he shot, but no matter how agile I was his kick was much too strong for me to have time enough to stop it. If he wanted to score, that was the simplest way. But still yet, he kept coming. Twelve yards out he still hadn't shot. He was coming right for me. The gnats were everywhere, but I didn't notice. I couldn't see anything else but him and that ball, rolling, at his feet, hungry for the back of the net. Ten yards out he deked, but I didn't bite. Eight yards out he deked again, but still I didn't bite. It was gonna be him versus me, ball versus net, and the Vegas odds had him at 50 to 1. Still, I stood my ground.
*********************************************************
Soccer camp started in the second week of August. It was an 8-day trip that included a week of grueling 4-a-day practices and an end of camp canoe trip. The summer leading up to it I spent every day caddying, eating tuna fish sandwiches, and working out to music videos on MTV. By the time I got on the bus, I'd dropped from 218 lbs. to 188 and could do a thousand crunches without breaking a sweat. I'd like to say I was preparing for soccer camp, but I was meerly doing an experiment on myself to see how much weight I could lose and still be healthy. But when I showed up for attendance that first morning everyone noticed the difference. I was for damn sure goofy looking, but I was no longer fat.
Maybe I hadn't done all the working out for soccer's sake, but thank goodness I had. Every morning at dawn we were required to go on a three mile run before breakfast for first practice. I never completed it, but doggonit did I try. My body was built for speed and quickness, not endurance. And between the asthma, allergies, gnats, and raw, gaping hunger I think the best I ever did was half-way before turning back.
The second practice was mostly endurance increasing and skill building where everyone did shuttle drills, sprints, and other non-ball work. The third practice, for the first four days of the trip at least, was the first one where everyone would actually put our cleats on that day and do some actual ball work. Fourth practice was usually a wrap up and cool down for the day. Don't think it was easier than the rest though. Since bed-time was imminent and the sun wasn't nearly as hot on us as before, Mr. Berthel would often work us harder then than at any other point of the day.
There were three goalies my first year of soccer camp. Justin, the Senior. Mike, the Junior. And me. Justin had started, alone, the previous year on Varsity so it was a given that he would start that year. Mike was probably going to back him up that year so as to get ready for his Senior season. That left JV all to me. It was nice knowing that I didn't have to fight Mike for the starting spot. But that didn't stop them from training me like I was starting Varsity. I ruined a lot of t-shirts diving into the hard, unforgiving earth that week.
The workouts were grueling, but I still had plenty of energy to get into trouble. I talked a little smack to the offensive upper-classmen on the field, daring them to shoot on me. They did, of course. And it hurt. I stopped more than I let by, but the costs were often much more severe when I did. And Mr. Montgomery, my eighth grade Civics teacher, called me out on a lesson in respect that had me carrying him, piggy-back, halfway around the field. Mr. Montgomery, at the time, was 250lb. I learned respect.
*********************************************************
Mr. Berthel had the ball on his foot. I'd given up ground so that I could have more time to watch him as he made his way towards the net. Moving off my line prevented me from covering the angles like I wanted and put me at a geometric disadvantage. But if he'd wanted to score he'd have already done it. And he was smirking. It was that same smirk that he'd given me before he'd laid down the gauntlet.
"You could be All-State if you wanted to ya' know."
I took it was a suggestion, but it grew into mantra, a focal point of my high school existence. All-State. The best. I could be if I wanted. At the time, I didn't even know that I didn't like soccer. All I knew was that I had the potential to be the best at something. The ball was at his foot and he was smirking. But this time he wasn't going to tell me the facts. I was going to have to learn it for myself.
He deked again like he was gonna blast it, but I didn't move. Both feet were shoulder-width apart, like I'd been taught. My hands up, knees bent, eyes locked. Mr. Berthel loved to "nutmeg" his players by putting the ball between their legs. Success on the field meant a completed pass to himself as he ran around the burned player. Success on net meant a goal. So I kept my feet close enough to cut off that option. But by now he was less than six yards out. The odds were now 100 to 1 against me.
As luck would have it, he shifted near-side, to my right. I followed him to cut off the angle, but at that distance there was still a significant amount of open goal to aim for. In order to get around me he'd have to put it at a ridiculously precise angle. It would be like nicking the eight-ball from a 90 degree angle so as to get it to ride the rail into the corner. Even the pros can't hit that shot with regularity. Which is precisely why Mr. Berthel, smiling wide now, put it exactly in that spot.
*********************************************************
Goalie gloves were expensive. The pair I took to soccer camp were brand new and cost no less than sixty bucks. The fingers were laiden with some type of grippy foam-rubber that allowed me to get a grip on the ball that was superior even to my natural skin. Goalie gloves were also frail. By day two the finger tips had worn down from all the catching, falling, and getting up. But there was no way I could face my father with a beat up pair of goalie gloves that cost him that much money and ask him to get me another pair.
Instead, I taught myself a different technique for gaining control of the ball. Since the foam-rubber padding was stronger in the palms, this is where I learned to catch for the rest of camp. The first few steps were difficult though. Using the palms instead of the fingers led to a painful lesson in "stone hands" that would cause the ball to bounce off of me and back into the fray where I would risk fingers and ribs trying to get it back. Eventually I learned to use my chest as a third hand so I could trap it properly. Any other way and I was gonna be in deep doo doo.
Mr. Berthel's shot was an impossible distance away in the opposite direction. I look back now and see that the ball had left his foot moving quickly towards the opposite end of the goal. A rough estimate put it at about ten feet away from me and gaining distance rapidly. Add to that the fact that I had already shifted my inertia towards the near side of the goal. So not only was I out of position, but my body was already moving another way.
Good luck telling my body that though. Even though I was still sliding right, my right leg had enough purchase to change my direction. So despite the odds, despite the sun, despite the exhaustion clinging to every limb on my body my legs pistoned and my right arm reached across my body while my chest ate the fall. When the dust cleared the ball was resting perfectly underneath my palm less than six inches from the gaping maw of the goal. Depending on the referee, one hand might not necessarily consititute control and it was not uncommon for Mr. Berthel to kick the ball away from us simply because we couldn't stop him. So as soon as I realized I had the ball, my legs went into a flurry to scramble my body around it in a half-fetal position.
*********************************************************
My Senior year was my only year playing as the starting Varsity goalkeeper. I made Varsity the year before, but lost the starting job to Mike after a grueling half-season of competition. Mr. Berthel made us fight it out for the job, but decided that our skill sets were too even for him to lose out the starting job in his Senior year. It was a wise decision. Mike would go on to lead us a few games into the State Playoffs and along the way stopped three penalty kicks in one game from Ali Curtis, a guy who played Olympic Development and would later play professionally in MLS.
What I didn't know and what Mr. Berthel didn't tell me is that he told my Father, too, exactly what he told me about my All-State potential. So it was that much more satisfying when my Dad told me as much, shortly after I was handed my All-State: First Team certificate and medal. I got a bit of attention from colleges afterwards, but none that wanted to give me a scholarship. I could have walked on somewhere I'm sure, but I only wanted to go to U of M. And they didn't even have a Varsity Soccer program.
The lesson Mr. Berthel taught me back then, not only with his endless drills and preparation, but mostly with that one momentous save is that success comes with belief in self. If you're lucky you have parents and friends that love you and care for you and encourage you. If not, you're just on your own. But either way the ability to believe in oneself is a choice. It's very nearly exactly like faith in God, or Vishnu, or Buddha, or Muhammed, or whatever deity, spiritual advisor, or set of spritual principles you ascribe to.
If you work hard enough at it, practiced faith is like like being able to see the Matrix in the walls. It's like reading the stitches on a curveball and having enough time to smile before you swing. It's like seeing the blue stripe on the arrow and catching it instead of striking it in twain like the hundreds of reds before it. It's as if the whole world has slown down except you and The Zone isn't a vacation anymore, but a second home.
I wish I could say I stopped that ball because I had the skill, strength, and preparation to do so. Conventionally, that's what makes sense. But I know better. I got that ball because I believed I could. Great things have been done by lesser men simply because they had the audacity to believe they were greater than the sum of themselves. I'm thankful for their lessons and I will use my gifts accordingly.
"Ah fwohn whoa."
It was dinnertime, the last meal before our final practice of the day, and we were all pretty starved. I wasn't just hungry though. I was trying to get food into my face as quickly as possible. We had an hour or two before our next practice and to prevent vomiting I had to get digesting ASAP. As such I didn't make for good conversation.
Mr. Berthel was our soccer coach. But unlike most coaches his goalkeeper training was intensive. Painful even. Only the vigor of youth could allow me to do some of the relentlessly acrobatic diving that was required to prevent me from smashing my body beyond repair. And that third practice was no different. Fortunately, it was late in the week. Third practices were starting to develop into light scrimmages. Coaches included.
We were lined up on opposite teams which meant that my coach would be shooting on the goal I was assigned to protect. He played soccer in high school and maybe even a little low tier professional ball before going into teaching, but there's no doubt the man had skills. Mr. Berthel could kick a soccer ball with better accuracy than I could throw one. Push ups were punishment for not following his shot to conclusion which, often, was the back of the net I'd been assigned to protect. Eight times out of ten he could put a ball into places I couldn't get to. And he was gonna play Center-Mid, aka Mr. EVERYTHING, for the other team. I was gonna spend a lot of time on the ground.
*********************************************************
I was in eighth grade when Mr. Berthel first called me into his office. He was the Varsity Soccer Coach. This was my second year playing soccer, ever. In seventh grade I was too fat and goofy looking for the coach to play me in the position I wanted, goalkeeper. Instead of being disheartened I played again in eighth grade. I was still fat and goofy looking, but no one else wanted to tend, so the coach let me start at the position. Midway through the year my goals against average hung below 1.0 and I had four shutouts in eight games.
"You could be All-State if you wanted to ya' know."
Mr. Berthel smirks when he's serious. Legs crossed, leaned back, he was the picture og GQ-cool. I wasn't sure if he was kidding or not, but as a kid anything an adult says can hold a kind of power. So if he said it, maybe I could make it true?
There were four slots available to the top goalies in C-Class (Division III) schools: First Team, Second Team, Third Team, and Honorable Mention. There were a lot of schools in the state of Michigan. Quite a few in our class. I was in the middle of playing my first year as a soccer goalkeeper and he was telling me I could rank with the best in the state? Well...it was a nice thought.
I finished the eighth grade soccer season strong and broke all sorts of goalkeeping records. Going into Freshman year I thought I'd be a shoe-in for Varsity. There were three guys in camp: Justin, me, and a new guy. His name was Mike. And he had a lot more years under his belt. And a goalie shirt. Goalie shorts. Cleats (plastic AND metal). And technique. I was at camp taking shots from seniors in a t-shirt, sweat pants, and gym shoes (last years cheap cleats bit the dust in the off-season). Oh, and I was still fat and goofy looking. Justin was returning Varsity. Mike became the JV starter. And I sat the JV bench.
The third game of the season I was given playing time, but as a forward. With two minutes left. When we were ahead 3-1. It was pity play. But I still managed to score the only goal of my high school career.
Six games in tragedy struck. Mike and a forward collided going after the same ball on a breakaway. The ball bounced out of bounds. Mike's leg broke in two places. So now I was the starter. By the end of the season I'd once again gathered a bunch of shutouts, a low goals against average, and a good deal of acclaim. But I was still fat and goofy looking. If I wanted to show myself approved to the coaches, I'd have to go away to soccer camp with everyone else.
Mr. Berthel had suggested I go to soccer camp the season before and I'd scoffed at the idea. I'd been to camp before. There were several dozen reasons I didn't wanna do it again. But as it seemed to be the main reason I was passed over for the starting job in JV the first time around I sucked it up, packed my gnat repellant, and got on the bus.
*********************************************************
The Center-Midfield position handles the ball more than anyone else on the team and is an integral part in setting up the offense or helping on defense. The position requires the most amount of personal stamina as whoever played it would be expected to be anywhere and everywhere at once. Quickly. Mr. Berthel played the position easily, running his own players into the ground and giggling all the way.
In our scrimmage, his team would spend most of game on our side of the field. When Mike was in nets, I'd laugh as Mr. Berthel sent him from one side of the net to the other with shot after shot. When I was, Mike laughed harder as I endured the same punishment. But Mr. Berthel was also not above a good bit of ribbing during play. During corner kicks he'd either stand right behind me and grab my shirt or directly in front of me so I couldn't see where the ball was being kicked. On indirect kicks he'd rocket it right at me, daring me to drop it so someone on his team could punch it in for the score. On direct kicks he's fake shots and pass off to someone with a better line on net. It was miserable. And that was when I wasn't swatting away those stupidass gnats.
The game would often progress until everyone was too tired and hungry to continue. But just before ending this practice, the third practice on the next to last day, he broke away from everyone else. Mr. Berthel didn't just control the ball, he willed it David Copperfield-style. Around one defender, over another, and through the legs of some flat-footed unfortunate. And before I knew it, I was the last one he had to burn.
No one else was even coming to help. Half my team was sitting around midfield, swatting gnats and catching their breath. The rest were just standing around waiting. No one knew the score, but we all felt that the game was just about over. All that was left was for Mr. Berthel to call it. One final score might've done it. So they did little to muster up that last bit of fight. Barring some cursory maneuvers, they let themselves get humiliated.
He was at the eightteen yard line and coming quick. I was on my line and in position to stop him if he shot, but no matter how agile I was his kick was much too strong for me to have time enough to stop it. If he wanted to score, that was the simplest way. But still yet, he kept coming. Twelve yards out he still hadn't shot. He was coming right for me. The gnats were everywhere, but I didn't notice. I couldn't see anything else but him and that ball, rolling, at his feet, hungry for the back of the net. Ten yards out he deked, but I didn't bite. Eight yards out he deked again, but still I didn't bite. It was gonna be him versus me, ball versus net, and the Vegas odds had him at 50 to 1. Still, I stood my ground.
*********************************************************
Soccer camp started in the second week of August. It was an 8-day trip that included a week of grueling 4-a-day practices and an end of camp canoe trip. The summer leading up to it I spent every day caddying, eating tuna fish sandwiches, and working out to music videos on MTV. By the time I got on the bus, I'd dropped from 218 lbs. to 188 and could do a thousand crunches without breaking a sweat. I'd like to say I was preparing for soccer camp, but I was meerly doing an experiment on myself to see how much weight I could lose and still be healthy. But when I showed up for attendance that first morning everyone noticed the difference. I was for damn sure goofy looking, but I was no longer fat.
Maybe I hadn't done all the working out for soccer's sake, but thank goodness I had. Every morning at dawn we were required to go on a three mile run before breakfast for first practice. I never completed it, but doggonit did I try. My body was built for speed and quickness, not endurance. And between the asthma, allergies, gnats, and raw, gaping hunger I think the best I ever did was half-way before turning back.
The second practice was mostly endurance increasing and skill building where everyone did shuttle drills, sprints, and other non-ball work. The third practice, for the first four days of the trip at least, was the first one where everyone would actually put our cleats on that day and do some actual ball work. Fourth practice was usually a wrap up and cool down for the day. Don't think it was easier than the rest though. Since bed-time was imminent and the sun wasn't nearly as hot on us as before, Mr. Berthel would often work us harder then than at any other point of the day.
There were three goalies my first year of soccer camp. Justin, the Senior. Mike, the Junior. And me. Justin had started, alone, the previous year on Varsity so it was a given that he would start that year. Mike was probably going to back him up that year so as to get ready for his Senior season. That left JV all to me. It was nice knowing that I didn't have to fight Mike for the starting spot. But that didn't stop them from training me like I was starting Varsity. I ruined a lot of t-shirts diving into the hard, unforgiving earth that week.
The workouts were grueling, but I still had plenty of energy to get into trouble. I talked a little smack to the offensive upper-classmen on the field, daring them to shoot on me. They did, of course. And it hurt. I stopped more than I let by, but the costs were often much more severe when I did. And Mr. Montgomery, my eighth grade Civics teacher, called me out on a lesson in respect that had me carrying him, piggy-back, halfway around the field. Mr. Montgomery, at the time, was 250lb. I learned respect.
*********************************************************
Mr. Berthel had the ball on his foot. I'd given up ground so that I could have more time to watch him as he made his way towards the net. Moving off my line prevented me from covering the angles like I wanted and put me at a geometric disadvantage. But if he'd wanted to score he'd have already done it. And he was smirking. It was that same smirk that he'd given me before he'd laid down the gauntlet.
"You could be All-State if you wanted to ya' know."
I took it was a suggestion, but it grew into mantra, a focal point of my high school existence. All-State. The best. I could be if I wanted. At the time, I didn't even know that I didn't like soccer. All I knew was that I had the potential to be the best at something. The ball was at his foot and he was smirking. But this time he wasn't going to tell me the facts. I was going to have to learn it for myself.
He deked again like he was gonna blast it, but I didn't move. Both feet were shoulder-width apart, like I'd been taught. My hands up, knees bent, eyes locked. Mr. Berthel loved to "nutmeg" his players by putting the ball between their legs. Success on the field meant a completed pass to himself as he ran around the burned player. Success on net meant a goal. So I kept my feet close enough to cut off that option. But by now he was less than six yards out. The odds were now 100 to 1 against me.
As luck would have it, he shifted near-side, to my right. I followed him to cut off the angle, but at that distance there was still a significant amount of open goal to aim for. In order to get around me he'd have to put it at a ridiculously precise angle. It would be like nicking the eight-ball from a 90 degree angle so as to get it to ride the rail into the corner. Even the pros can't hit that shot with regularity. Which is precisely why Mr. Berthel, smiling wide now, put it exactly in that spot.
*********************************************************
Goalie gloves were expensive. The pair I took to soccer camp were brand new and cost no less than sixty bucks. The fingers were laiden with some type of grippy foam-rubber that allowed me to get a grip on the ball that was superior even to my natural skin. Goalie gloves were also frail. By day two the finger tips had worn down from all the catching, falling, and getting up. But there was no way I could face my father with a beat up pair of goalie gloves that cost him that much money and ask him to get me another pair.
Instead, I taught myself a different technique for gaining control of the ball. Since the foam-rubber padding was stronger in the palms, this is where I learned to catch for the rest of camp. The first few steps were difficult though. Using the palms instead of the fingers led to a painful lesson in "stone hands" that would cause the ball to bounce off of me and back into the fray where I would risk fingers and ribs trying to get it back. Eventually I learned to use my chest as a third hand so I could trap it properly. Any other way and I was gonna be in deep doo doo.
Mr. Berthel's shot was an impossible distance away in the opposite direction. I look back now and see that the ball had left his foot moving quickly towards the opposite end of the goal. A rough estimate put it at about ten feet away from me and gaining distance rapidly. Add to that the fact that I had already shifted my inertia towards the near side of the goal. So not only was I out of position, but my body was already moving another way.
Good luck telling my body that though. Even though I was still sliding right, my right leg had enough purchase to change my direction. So despite the odds, despite the sun, despite the exhaustion clinging to every limb on my body my legs pistoned and my right arm reached across my body while my chest ate the fall. When the dust cleared the ball was resting perfectly underneath my palm less than six inches from the gaping maw of the goal. Depending on the referee, one hand might not necessarily consititute control and it was not uncommon for Mr. Berthel to kick the ball away from us simply because we couldn't stop him. So as soon as I realized I had the ball, my legs went into a flurry to scramble my body around it in a half-fetal position.
*********************************************************
My Senior year was my only year playing as the starting Varsity goalkeeper. I made Varsity the year before, but lost the starting job to Mike after a grueling half-season of competition. Mr. Berthel made us fight it out for the job, but decided that our skill sets were too even for him to lose out the starting job in his Senior year. It was a wise decision. Mike would go on to lead us a few games into the State Playoffs and along the way stopped three penalty kicks in one game from Ali Curtis, a guy who played Olympic Development and would later play professionally in MLS.
What I didn't know and what Mr. Berthel didn't tell me is that he told my Father, too, exactly what he told me about my All-State potential. So it was that much more satisfying when my Dad told me as much, shortly after I was handed my All-State: First Team certificate and medal. I got a bit of attention from colleges afterwards, but none that wanted to give me a scholarship. I could have walked on somewhere I'm sure, but I only wanted to go to U of M. And they didn't even have a Varsity Soccer program.
The lesson Mr. Berthel taught me back then, not only with his endless drills and preparation, but mostly with that one momentous save is that success comes with belief in self. If you're lucky you have parents and friends that love you and care for you and encourage you. If not, you're just on your own. But either way the ability to believe in oneself is a choice. It's very nearly exactly like faith in God, or Vishnu, or Buddha, or Muhammed, or whatever deity, spiritual advisor, or set of spritual principles you ascribe to.
If you work hard enough at it, practiced faith is like like being able to see the Matrix in the walls. It's like reading the stitches on a curveball and having enough time to smile before you swing. It's like seeing the blue stripe on the arrow and catching it instead of striking it in twain like the hundreds of reds before it. It's as if the whole world has slown down except you and The Zone isn't a vacation anymore, but a second home.
I wish I could say I stopped that ball because I had the skill, strength, and preparation to do so. Conventionally, that's what makes sense. But I know better. I got that ball because I believed I could. Great things have been done by lesser men simply because they had the audacity to believe they were greater than the sum of themselves. I'm thankful for their lessons and I will use my gifts accordingly.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Last Time I Used Skype
I was bouncing at a college bar in Ann Arbor at the time. Every night hundreds of hot little college girls would dance the night away to the throb of obnoxious pop music. I would watch them bounce and jiggle for five hours in their little outfits then go home alone. For the life of me I couldn't figure out why I was so damn horny when I got home, but what I DID know was that I was in the mood to get flirty. But that's hard to do at 4 in the morning and everyone you know is asleep.
Vince was a Canadian college student and decidedly male. He was the first person I clicked on in the search I put in for people my age. Only meant to be an experiment at first, we became fast friends. And it was he that informed me of the wealth of Chinese girls that wanted to practice their English with handsome American boys.
Hooray for communist oppression! Them chicks were so down for the flirty chatter it was often I who had to slow things down. Not all were down, but my new persona, "William Tell", was quite crude and charismatically convincing. And if one wasn't interested, just move on. They didn't care. From all accounts they were moving even quickly from one boy to the next.
"May" wanted me to drag her, naked, through the airport using a dog leash. "Jen" needed me to tickle her until she pee'd in the middle of English class at her local university. And "Trish" wanted me to be eloquently appreciative while she used her cam to display her keyboarding skills...but not on her keyboard. All the while I remembered the few Mandarin Chinese lessons my former Pastor had given me extolling the virtues of the elegant and almost painfully diplomatic Chinese culture. All that chatting taught me one thing, Chinese chicks are just as horny as American ones are. They just hid it better. At least, until they met "William".
All the time I shared these adventures with my Skype buddy Vince while we had a good laugh. I asked him all the time about what he was up to, but he always shied away from the subject saying he was too busy with classes to be talking to tons of girls like I was. I figured he was just gay or a good liar and left it at that.
I got a job at the local NPR affiliate for the University I was attending and that killed my Skype-ing adventures. It's one thing to Skype until 7am when you don't need to hit class until 1 in the afternoon. But now I had to report to the new gig at 9am, get to class by 1pm, and report to work around 7 most nights. What few girls I'd given my e-mail to stopped contacting me over time. Vince disappeared altogether.
Three months later I logged into Skype. I just wanted to...I don't know. I just did it. Vince was there though and messaged me immediately. We quickly got caught up and in a moment of excitement he asked to cam with me. My computer was slow and crappy so I RARELY let guys video chat with me, but this was clearly deserving of an exception. He let me know when to turn on the video option and I went to the bathroom while my slowass computer loaded up the cam screen.
I came around my desk from the bathroom at an angle where my LCD screen was showing a negative color scheme of what was actually on display so what I saw on the screen in the video cam looked like a great white-ish blue blob.
"Can you see the cam?"
"Yes, but it looks like it's malfunctioning. All I see is this big white blob..."
"Hee hee!"
The laugh explained it all instantly. I was staring directly into the center of Vince's asshole.
"Vince. Is that your asshole?"
"Hee hee."
"Vince. This is not cool."
"Aw! hee hee hee!"
I'm not gay and I'm secure in my sexuality, but I'm not down for surprise male nudity I explained. He understood and apologized. Vince explained that he was bisexual and had wanted me since the first time we'd talked and that this had been his way of breaking the news. I was flattered. But tired from a long day. I told him it was good to talk to him, but I needed sleep. He asked when I'd talk to him again. Soon, I lied. I think he understood. If not, oh well.
*sign out*
*close program*
*uninstall program*
*delete remaining folder and related files*
*reboot computer*
I hate to lie, but I hate surprises more.
Vince was a Canadian college student and decidedly male. He was the first person I clicked on in the search I put in for people my age. Only meant to be an experiment at first, we became fast friends. And it was he that informed me of the wealth of Chinese girls that wanted to practice their English with handsome American boys.
Hooray for communist oppression! Them chicks were so down for the flirty chatter it was often I who had to slow things down. Not all were down, but my new persona, "William Tell", was quite crude and charismatically convincing. And if one wasn't interested, just move on. They didn't care. From all accounts they were moving even quickly from one boy to the next.
"May" wanted me to drag her, naked, through the airport using a dog leash. "Jen" needed me to tickle her until she pee'd in the middle of English class at her local university. And "Trish" wanted me to be eloquently appreciative while she used her cam to display her keyboarding skills...but not on her keyboard. All the while I remembered the few Mandarin Chinese lessons my former Pastor had given me extolling the virtues of the elegant and almost painfully diplomatic Chinese culture. All that chatting taught me one thing, Chinese chicks are just as horny as American ones are. They just hid it better. At least, until they met "William".
All the time I shared these adventures with my Skype buddy Vince while we had a good laugh. I asked him all the time about what he was up to, but he always shied away from the subject saying he was too busy with classes to be talking to tons of girls like I was. I figured he was just gay or a good liar and left it at that.
I got a job at the local NPR affiliate for the University I was attending and that killed my Skype-ing adventures. It's one thing to Skype until 7am when you don't need to hit class until 1 in the afternoon. But now I had to report to the new gig at 9am, get to class by 1pm, and report to work around 7 most nights. What few girls I'd given my e-mail to stopped contacting me over time. Vince disappeared altogether.
Three months later I logged into Skype. I just wanted to...I don't know. I just did it. Vince was there though and messaged me immediately. We quickly got caught up and in a moment of excitement he asked to cam with me. My computer was slow and crappy so I RARELY let guys video chat with me, but this was clearly deserving of an exception. He let me know when to turn on the video option and I went to the bathroom while my slowass computer loaded up the cam screen.
I came around my desk from the bathroom at an angle where my LCD screen was showing a negative color scheme of what was actually on display so what I saw on the screen in the video cam looked like a great white-ish blue blob.
"Can you see the cam?"
"Yes, but it looks like it's malfunctioning. All I see is this big white blob..."
"Hee hee!"
The laugh explained it all instantly. I was staring directly into the center of Vince's asshole.
"Vince. Is that your asshole?"
"Hee hee."
"Vince. This is not cool."
"Aw! hee hee hee!"
I'm not gay and I'm secure in my sexuality, but I'm not down for surprise male nudity I explained. He understood and apologized. Vince explained that he was bisexual and had wanted me since the first time we'd talked and that this had been his way of breaking the news. I was flattered. But tired from a long day. I told him it was good to talk to him, but I needed sleep. He asked when I'd talk to him again. Soon, I lied. I think he understood. If not, oh well.
*sign out*
*close program*
*uninstall program*
*delete remaining folder and related files*
*reboot computer*
I hate to lie, but I hate surprises more.
Monday, April 12, 2010
My Letter To ESPN's Rick Reilly
Ordinarily I just think to myself "this guy can go **** himself" and ignore his work. But something about writing a pointed and intelligent response to his irresponsible claptrap appealed to me. So here it is:
A victory for women? Kinda condescending considering the entirety of the article seemed to be focused on how his FAMILY prevailed through his wife's and mother's fights against cancer, the subsequent separation from each other and his Masters win.
Tiger may have been a stupid, cheating moron. But he's a stupid, cheating moron that says he's trying to be better. We don't have to believe him, but it's one thing to criticize and another to put forth agenda.
I know you get paid for your opinion, but this article was clearly more an attempt for you to trade on Tiger's fame by linking your name to his via criticism than an honest assessment of Phil Mickelson's rather significant achievement.
You are smart. You have a brilliant command of the language. And you know your stuff. But your constant brow-beating of Tiger Woods is getting really lame. The guy's a dope. But with all the steroids madness in baseball, the one-and-done nonsense of the NBA, and the endless fines and legalities and off-the-field shenanigans of NFL players, you could choose a plethora of battles to fight and appear more knowledgeable and cogent than you do with this Tiger Woods business.
In the end, you'll do as you please. I'm sure I'm not the only one coming at you and, in fact, I'm probably vastly outnumbered by your fans and supporters. But I'm calling bull**** on you for this anyway.
I'm not a fan. Nor am I a frequent reader. Getting people to react is your business, I'm sure. But whereas I thought you were a thoughtful addition to the ESPN writer's staff I now find you an unwelcome distraction from genuine sports reporting.
Enjoy your paychecks. I'm certainly jealous of them. But not of how you earn them. Your writing is the printed version of street-corner hustling. I visited your territory and sampled your product once out of genuine curiosity. I won't be back. And I will be better for it.
I highly doubt he'll respond, which is fine since I won't be reading his stuff any longer. Funny, that was only the second time I read a full article of his. Good to know I won't be wasting my time any further.
A victory for women? Kinda condescending considering the entirety of the article seemed to be focused on how his FAMILY prevailed through his wife's and mother's fights against cancer, the subsequent separation from each other and his Masters win.
Tiger may have been a stupid, cheating moron. But he's a stupid, cheating moron that says he's trying to be better. We don't have to believe him, but it's one thing to criticize and another to put forth agenda.
I know you get paid for your opinion, but this article was clearly more an attempt for you to trade on Tiger's fame by linking your name to his via criticism than an honest assessment of Phil Mickelson's rather significant achievement.
You are smart. You have a brilliant command of the language. And you know your stuff. But your constant brow-beating of Tiger Woods is getting really lame. The guy's a dope. But with all the steroids madness in baseball, the one-and-done nonsense of the NBA, and the endless fines and legalities and off-the-field shenanigans of NFL players, you could choose a plethora of battles to fight and appear more knowledgeable and cogent than you do with this Tiger Woods business.
In the end, you'll do as you please. I'm sure I'm not the only one coming at you and, in fact, I'm probably vastly outnumbered by your fans and supporters. But I'm calling bull**** on you for this anyway.
I'm not a fan. Nor am I a frequent reader. Getting people to react is your business, I'm sure. But whereas I thought you were a thoughtful addition to the ESPN writer's staff I now find you an unwelcome distraction from genuine sports reporting.
Enjoy your paychecks. I'm certainly jealous of them. But not of how you earn them. Your writing is the printed version of street-corner hustling. I visited your territory and sampled your product once out of genuine curiosity. I won't be back. And I will be better for it.
I highly doubt he'll respond, which is fine since I won't be reading his stuff any longer. Funny, that was only the second time I read a full article of his. Good to know I won't be wasting my time any further.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Melodic Menace
Going big with big sounds. That's what takes it over 'cuz the sounds are so big.
-Jay Z
The technology behind sound production has increased a billion fold since its inception. The talent that wields it? Not nearly as much. But no matter how loud or how fast or how enthusiastic the effort, the only thing that makes this high-tech noise work are the talent and charisma of the performers.
Over a week ago I got to see Hollow Drive at a house party. I arrived late having come straight from some work-related responsibility so I'd missed their set. Upon my arrival Markus, the band member who'd invited me down, proceeded to thank me for coming down and bust my chops for being late. I am a radio pseudo-celebrity. It was a risky maneuver for someone who has a band he's trying to promote as things like that can be interpreted as either "bad juju" or "charisma." I chose the latter.
From there, the boys and I got along swimmingly. A little while ago prior to the house party I'd heard them on stage at Hog's Palace opening for Sponge. I was too busy handling several work-related tasks to actually watch them perform, but I was impressed by what I heard. I took the invite based on that judgment. I did not expect to like them too.
Markus, ever the marketing mind, offered to play another set so I could see them do their thing. I did not want them to do it as it was their party and they'd already played. Plus, well, we were at a house party in the sticks. The speakers were earnest efforts, but they were pointing out into the acres of tall grass that surrounded the rather large backyard. Acoustically, it was a nightmare. Rick Rubin would have pulled his last few hairs out just thinking about it.
Undaunted, he gathered the guys together and took the stage...or back porch. Al looked tired, Jerr's voice was blown, Mike was a little off, and Markus was all over the place. With no bassist, the four of them showed me performance without polish. Just some guys that know their instruments coming together to use them in someone's backyard in the boondocks. Their performance was nothing special. The talent behind it damn sure was.
Last night I got to see them once again, but back at Hog's Palace. Jim Brown, Sound Guy slash Booker slash Promoter EXTRAORDINARE, has put together a magical array of sound and light with equal parts high-tech wizardry, wit, and chicken wire. What you see and hear is the very essence of what every band has to offer. In a situation like that you can either excel or be exposed.
When Hollow Drive performs you can be sure of a few things. Drums will be kicked and beaten. Necks will be snapped out of joint. Guitars will be pulled hither and thither, wrought out of tune. And microphones will bleed their electric blood from exhaustion after having been run roughshod like a beleaguered bronco at an old time rodeo show. The boys from Hollow Drive may play their instruments, but they do not play at performing.
Mike is their drummer. The sound check was done. The lights were set. His arms went up...held. And when they came down everything happened at once. Guitars screamed. Drums boomed. Voices screamed off the walls. And all five heads on all five necks (Sam was their replacement bassist) banged up and down in worship to the rhythm. Ladies and gentlemen! Al, Jerr, Markus, Mike, and Sam were in the building.
They jumped and slammed. They yelled and clapped. They flipped and dove. But at every point they rocked. And rocked. And rocked some more. I am not one to lavish compliments as it is simply not worth my time (unless va-jay-jay is on the line), but I had fun watching Hollow Drive. I didn't know their songs that well. I didn't recognize their melodies much either. But when talent and charisma come together in a performance none of that matters. Some of the best shows I ever saw were of bands whose music I'd never heard. And Hollow Drive is among them, in most elite company. I also happen to dig their music though so that's a bonus.
I've gotten to know the fellows and their act decently thus far. And, fortunately for me, I look forward to many more. These guys know what they want and are working towards it. It's nice to see that in a down economy in a state with the highest unemployment in The Union there's still someone out there with balls big enough to keep chasing their dreams.
I wish the boys from Hollow Drive well and I look forward to their next show. And if they keep working at it, and striving for it, and putting out 110% day in and day out these guys might even be half as good as Pop Evil. And the congregation said, Amen.
*********
Before performing, Mike approached me to ask if I would come up on stage and introduce him. Aesthetically, this was impossible. Death Valley Dragline was the headliner.
I wanted to see all the bands perform, but work had taken longer than expected and I hadn't been as diligent as I would have liked so I couldn't get there at the start or stay 'til the finish. Had I been staying for the headliner and gotten Jim's permission I would have loved to have introduced them. As it was, I was taking off immediately after Hollow Drive's set so I had to refuse.
I was crazy ridiculously flattered that the guys bothered to ask. Perhaps there will be another opportunity that will be extended later on, but I ain't lookin' for it. They are an amazing group of performers and I can't wait to see what they can pull off in the future.
-Jay Z
The technology behind sound production has increased a billion fold since its inception. The talent that wields it? Not nearly as much. But no matter how loud or how fast or how enthusiastic the effort, the only thing that makes this high-tech noise work are the talent and charisma of the performers.
Over a week ago I got to see Hollow Drive at a house party. I arrived late having come straight from some work-related responsibility so I'd missed their set. Upon my arrival Markus, the band member who'd invited me down, proceeded to thank me for coming down and bust my chops for being late. I am a radio pseudo-celebrity. It was a risky maneuver for someone who has a band he's trying to promote as things like that can be interpreted as either "bad juju" or "charisma." I chose the latter.
From there, the boys and I got along swimmingly. A little while ago prior to the house party I'd heard them on stage at Hog's Palace opening for Sponge. I was too busy handling several work-related tasks to actually watch them perform, but I was impressed by what I heard. I took the invite based on that judgment. I did not expect to like them too.
Markus, ever the marketing mind, offered to play another set so I could see them do their thing. I did not want them to do it as it was their party and they'd already played. Plus, well, we were at a house party in the sticks. The speakers were earnest efforts, but they were pointing out into the acres of tall grass that surrounded the rather large backyard. Acoustically, it was a nightmare. Rick Rubin would have pulled his last few hairs out just thinking about it.
Undaunted, he gathered the guys together and took the stage...or back porch. Al looked tired, Jerr's voice was blown, Mike was a little off, and Markus was all over the place. With no bassist, the four of them showed me performance without polish. Just some guys that know their instruments coming together to use them in someone's backyard in the boondocks. Their performance was nothing special. The talent behind it damn sure was.
Last night I got to see them once again, but back at Hog's Palace. Jim Brown, Sound Guy slash Booker slash Promoter EXTRAORDINARE, has put together a magical array of sound and light with equal parts high-tech wizardry, wit, and chicken wire. What you see and hear is the very essence of what every band has to offer. In a situation like that you can either excel or be exposed.
When Hollow Drive performs you can be sure of a few things. Drums will be kicked and beaten. Necks will be snapped out of joint. Guitars will be pulled hither and thither, wrought out of tune. And microphones will bleed their electric blood from exhaustion after having been run roughshod like a beleaguered bronco at an old time rodeo show. The boys from Hollow Drive may play their instruments, but they do not play at performing.
Mike is their drummer. The sound check was done. The lights were set. His arms went up...held. And when they came down everything happened at once. Guitars screamed. Drums boomed. Voices screamed off the walls. And all five heads on all five necks (Sam was their replacement bassist) banged up and down in worship to the rhythm. Ladies and gentlemen! Al, Jerr, Markus, Mike, and Sam were in the building.
They jumped and slammed. They yelled and clapped. They flipped and dove. But at every point they rocked. And rocked. And rocked some more. I am not one to lavish compliments as it is simply not worth my time (unless va-jay-jay is on the line), but I had fun watching Hollow Drive. I didn't know their songs that well. I didn't recognize their melodies much either. But when talent and charisma come together in a performance none of that matters. Some of the best shows I ever saw were of bands whose music I'd never heard. And Hollow Drive is among them, in most elite company. I also happen to dig their music though so that's a bonus.
I've gotten to know the fellows and their act decently thus far. And, fortunately for me, I look forward to many more. These guys know what they want and are working towards it. It's nice to see that in a down economy in a state with the highest unemployment in The Union there's still someone out there with balls big enough to keep chasing their dreams.
I wish the boys from Hollow Drive well and I look forward to their next show. And if they keep working at it, and striving for it, and putting out 110% day in and day out these guys might even be half as good as Pop Evil. And the congregation said, Amen.
*********
Before performing, Mike approached me to ask if I would come up on stage and introduce him. Aesthetically, this was impossible. Death Valley Dragline was the headliner.
I wanted to see all the bands perform, but work had taken longer than expected and I hadn't been as diligent as I would have liked so I couldn't get there at the start or stay 'til the finish. Had I been staying for the headliner and gotten Jim's permission I would have loved to have introduced them. As it was, I was taking off immediately after Hollow Drive's set so I had to refuse.
I was crazy ridiculously flattered that the guys bothered to ask. Perhaps there will be another opportunity that will be extended later on, but I ain't lookin' for it. They are an amazing group of performers and I can't wait to see what they can pull off in the future.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee: Part 3
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was my set up kick. American Karate prided itself on kick combos. The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was supposed to finish off a kick combo that made your opponent back up and respect your leg power. If he/she didn't, they'd be eating the mat through their nostrils. However, when combined with my scream I could quickly take my opponent off guard.
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was way too easy to telegraph for a guy as weighted down with muscle as I was (220 lbs). But I was quick enough such that my opponent didn't have time to dodge. All they could do was stand there and absorb it in a block. By then I was already coming with the backfist over their guard. My sensei would actually tell my opponents about it and they'd still get caught. Especially if they screamed.
When I went to throw it against The Cop, I didn't even try to disguise it. I even telegraphed it a little extra by quickly spreading my feet a little before I went for it. However, instead of using my uber-deadly right leg, I used my left. Clearly I wanted this fight over since I didn't even use my ace technique to finish him off.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!!!!!!!!!
My left foot was always more accurate, but not as powerful. But The Cop was prepared. Both arms up on his right side he absorbed the blow. I wanted to come in for the backfist anyway just to see what he would do, but The Cop had his own trick up his sleeve.
The Cop knew I couldn't throw punches for contact. He also knew that I couldn't throw any hand techniques whatsoever unless they were obvious. But what I didn't see coming is the overhand ridgehand blow. Once I planted my left foot forward I was out of position for my right-handed backfist. The Cop never gave me a chance. I saw it coming like a screwball pitch from Willie Hernandez. Legs to chest to shoulder to elbow to wrist to my face. It was coming. Hard.
Inside, quietly, I laughed. We both knew he was using a technique I wasn't allowed to use. We both also knew he was using this technique to beat me. So not only was he beating me, he was bullying me; using the merits of his rank to trump a young upstart. As the hand came down directly on the ridge of my nose I did the only thing I could do. Flinch, yet again.
The blow came down on my face and it did connect. But the fact that I was moving so fast towards the floor saved me a broken nose. Instead, I just hit the mat hard. The Cop had his cheap victory and kept his bitchass gaggle of groupies and I lost. However, Rick pulled me aside afterwards and shook my hand. He knew what was up. Thankfully, so did I.
********************************************************************************
A month later, I threw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee again. I was a freshly christened blue belt. He was a green belt. It was clear from the start that I had him beat. I was harder, better, faster, and stronger than he was. Average Mike was probably your proto-typical accountant-type with a wife, a couple kids, and a hard on for chop-socky flicks. Instead of learning what martial arts was about, he signed up at the closest place he could find where they did a lot of kicking and screaming like in that one Karate Kid movie 'cuz his doctor'd told him he needed to get in shape or have a heart attack and he was too lazy to take up jogging.
Mike and me were the only two guys that ever showed up to the gym in the afternoon. So instead of running a full class with just two guys, Rick decided to point-fight us. Since my last go around with The Cop I was not too eager to take out anymore black belts. For a bunch of macho dudes, they got to be some SERIOUS bitchasses when they lost. All the whining and complaining got to be a bit much so I just avoided it altogether. Rick usually let me go ahead and do what I wanted. Not so much with Mike.
Unlike me, Mike had more profit potential. If he jumped belts fast enough he could probably tell his friends. His friends would come in and start training. In between weight training and workout sessions they'd shoot the sh*t and go out for beers afterwards. With Mike they could create another little hamlet of American Karate culture, the kind that keeps membership fees coming in the door. I was too young to understand this then. So while I wanted to train with Rick, I was instead being made to work with this soft lump of male.
Mike was at least 6'2" and we probably weighed about the same. But where I was refined in the fires of white hot youth he was lingering in the donut aisle. Point-fighting was made for situations like this.
I resented Mike for being soft. I resented Mike for interrupting my training. Most of all, I resented Mike for being average. So...why not just go ahead and make him better.
Trial by fire anyone?
Rick: HAJIME!!!
Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!
The boxer Roberto Duran once described hitting a man so hard it's as if he could feel the man break.
Rick told me several times that when the body is properly conditioned and positioned, the strike doesn't come as an extension of the body as must as you become an extension of the ground.
All I know is...
It wasn't supposed to connect.
When I throw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee, I throw it directly into the man's guard. If he's got a proper side stance it should go right into his blocking left arm. If he's smart and read the telegraphed notice of the oncoming slaughter he brings up both arms to absorb the blow. That's when my backfist is going to be the next thing he sees.
Unfortunately for Mike he was too tall and his block too high. It was a monster of a kick, even by my standards, but I was totally expecting to test his block. Instead, I tested his ribs. I even pulled back on it some towards the end when I realized what was about to happen, but to no avail. The kick connected as if the heavens themselves had come for him. So perfect was the kick I didn't even feel it. I followed through his body like it was so much air.
The response was immediate. Mike couldn't shout or cry out 'cuz he had no breath to give. Instead, he crumbled to the floor. By the looks of his writhing it was as if I'd kicked a black hole into his guts as his entire body seemed determined to fold right into the place of injury.
Laughing, Rick helped Mike to the locker room. His day was done. I went back to kicking the devil out of the heavy bag. Mike and Rick sat up front by the lobby's main office talking for a great while. Realizing I wasn't gonna get anymore training with Rick I skulked into the locker room and changed clothes.
I came out to muffled laughter between Rick and Mike.
"Show him!" Rick bade Mike. Chuckling, Mike lifted his shirt. What appeared to be the front four inches of my foot was painted on the bottom of his rib cage, down perhaps even to the veins.
Back at college that fall I let my membership lapse. I paid off the year, but I barely went back. I don't know why as I'd had a good time learning there. But the campus gym had a heavybag that I used to spend at least an hour a week kicking. At one point I do believe I'd kicked the bag enough times to deaden the nerves that I could kick a tree trunk at full strength and feel no pain. But I never used The Long Muh-WAH-Shee on another human being. It's probably just as well.
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was way too easy to telegraph for a guy as weighted down with muscle as I was (220 lbs). But I was quick enough such that my opponent didn't have time to dodge. All they could do was stand there and absorb it in a block. By then I was already coming with the backfist over their guard. My sensei would actually tell my opponents about it and they'd still get caught. Especially if they screamed.
When I went to throw it against The Cop, I didn't even try to disguise it. I even telegraphed it a little extra by quickly spreading my feet a little before I went for it. However, instead of using my uber-deadly right leg, I used my left. Clearly I wanted this fight over since I didn't even use my ace technique to finish him off.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!!!!!!!!!
My left foot was always more accurate, but not as powerful. But The Cop was prepared. Both arms up on his right side he absorbed the blow. I wanted to come in for the backfist anyway just to see what he would do, but The Cop had his own trick up his sleeve.
The Cop knew I couldn't throw punches for contact. He also knew that I couldn't throw any hand techniques whatsoever unless they were obvious. But what I didn't see coming is the overhand ridgehand blow. Once I planted my left foot forward I was out of position for my right-handed backfist. The Cop never gave me a chance. I saw it coming like a screwball pitch from Willie Hernandez. Legs to chest to shoulder to elbow to wrist to my face. It was coming. Hard.
Inside, quietly, I laughed. We both knew he was using a technique I wasn't allowed to use. We both also knew he was using this technique to beat me. So not only was he beating me, he was bullying me; using the merits of his rank to trump a young upstart. As the hand came down directly on the ridge of my nose I did the only thing I could do. Flinch, yet again.
The blow came down on my face and it did connect. But the fact that I was moving so fast towards the floor saved me a broken nose. Instead, I just hit the mat hard. The Cop had his cheap victory and kept his bitchass gaggle of groupies and I lost. However, Rick pulled me aside afterwards and shook my hand. He knew what was up. Thankfully, so did I.
********************************************************************************
A month later, I threw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee again. I was a freshly christened blue belt. He was a green belt. It was clear from the start that I had him beat. I was harder, better, faster, and stronger than he was. Average Mike was probably your proto-typical accountant-type with a wife, a couple kids, and a hard on for chop-socky flicks. Instead of learning what martial arts was about, he signed up at the closest place he could find where they did a lot of kicking and screaming like in that one Karate Kid movie 'cuz his doctor'd told him he needed to get in shape or have a heart attack and he was too lazy to take up jogging.
Mike and me were the only two guys that ever showed up to the gym in the afternoon. So instead of running a full class with just two guys, Rick decided to point-fight us. Since my last go around with The Cop I was not too eager to take out anymore black belts. For a bunch of macho dudes, they got to be some SERIOUS bitchasses when they lost. All the whining and complaining got to be a bit much so I just avoided it altogether. Rick usually let me go ahead and do what I wanted. Not so much with Mike.
Unlike me, Mike had more profit potential. If he jumped belts fast enough he could probably tell his friends. His friends would come in and start training. In between weight training and workout sessions they'd shoot the sh*t and go out for beers afterwards. With Mike they could create another little hamlet of American Karate culture, the kind that keeps membership fees coming in the door. I was too young to understand this then. So while I wanted to train with Rick, I was instead being made to work with this soft lump of male.
Mike was at least 6'2" and we probably weighed about the same. But where I was refined in the fires of white hot youth he was lingering in the donut aisle. Point-fighting was made for situations like this.
I resented Mike for being soft. I resented Mike for interrupting my training. Most of all, I resented Mike for being average. So...why not just go ahead and make him better.
Trial by fire anyone?
Rick: HAJIME!!!
Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!
The boxer Roberto Duran once described hitting a man so hard it's as if he could feel the man break.
Rick told me several times that when the body is properly conditioned and positioned, the strike doesn't come as an extension of the body as must as you become an extension of the ground.
All I know is...
It wasn't supposed to connect.
When I throw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee, I throw it directly into the man's guard. If he's got a proper side stance it should go right into his blocking left arm. If he's smart and read the telegraphed notice of the oncoming slaughter he brings up both arms to absorb the blow. That's when my backfist is going to be the next thing he sees.
Unfortunately for Mike he was too tall and his block too high. It was a monster of a kick, even by my standards, but I was totally expecting to test his block. Instead, I tested his ribs. I even pulled back on it some towards the end when I realized what was about to happen, but to no avail. The kick connected as if the heavens themselves had come for him. So perfect was the kick I didn't even feel it. I followed through his body like it was so much air.
The response was immediate. Mike couldn't shout or cry out 'cuz he had no breath to give. Instead, he crumbled to the floor. By the looks of his writhing it was as if I'd kicked a black hole into his guts as his entire body seemed determined to fold right into the place of injury.
Laughing, Rick helped Mike to the locker room. His day was done. I went back to kicking the devil out of the heavy bag. Mike and Rick sat up front by the lobby's main office talking for a great while. Realizing I wasn't gonna get anymore training with Rick I skulked into the locker room and changed clothes.
I came out to muffled laughter between Rick and Mike.
"Show him!" Rick bade Mike. Chuckling, Mike lifted his shirt. What appeared to be the front four inches of my foot was painted on the bottom of his rib cage, down perhaps even to the veins.
Back at college that fall I let my membership lapse. I paid off the year, but I barely went back. I don't know why as I'd had a good time learning there. But the campus gym had a heavybag that I used to spend at least an hour a week kicking. At one point I do believe I'd kicked the bag enough times to deaden the nerves that I could kick a tree trunk at full strength and feel no pain. But I never used The Long Muh-WAH-Shee on another human being. It's probably just as well.
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