Thoughts on "The Lottery"

(15seconds after finishing the story) WOW I literally am at a loss for words right now. I had no clue where that story was going until the 5th paragraph from the end. I really don't know how I feel about this story. All I can say is I haven't had a story evoke this much emotion in quite some time. WOW

Thoughts on "Midair:

I really enjoyed Frank Conroy's story "Midair". I found it to be extremely thought provoking and introspective. The first thing I noticed was Conroy's point of view. The third person POV is really effective in this story. I liked how Conroy seemed to jump from one moment in time to the next. One of my favorite lines in the story is when Conroy describes Sean holding his father's hand, "His hand, wrist, and part of his forearm are enclosed in his father's fist." That line has much detail and I as a reader was able to put myself in Sean's position and really get into the story.

Thoughts on "Used Boy Raisers"

It wasn't until my third time through Grace Paley's "The Used Boy Raisers" that I finally was able to understand the dialogue. I've never been a big stickler on grammar but Paley's disregard for quotation marks really made the first two times reading the story difficult.
Moving on from the quotation mark conundrum I found Paley's story to be very unique and interesting. From the very start I was intrigued at the names she gave her two  husbands, Livid and Pallid. To use livid and pallid as adjectives in one sentence and then make Livid and Pallid their names in the next was really interesting to me. I really enjoy how she did that.
The story's intensity really picks up when Pallid suggest sending the boys to a reading school in one of the Churches. Livid obviously has strong feelings against this and the ensuing dialogue is very intriguing.
I did not feel like the ending wrapped anything up for the reader. I found it to be very open ended. While this technique may work for Paley, I don't really feel like I would be comfortable finishing a story is such fashion.

Growing Up On The Mountain

I didn’t see my father fall off the mountain. My only sense of what was taking place was hearing the snap of his right ankle as he tumbled down the embankment.

Growing up middle class with a penny pinching father didn’t exactly offer my family the opportunity to go on wild extravagant vacations. My dad’s idea of a relaxing weekend was sleeping late till six, possibly six fifteen, getting up and finding something to work on or build. But one thing he did love to do was take our family and go backpacking.  Now when I say backpacking, I’m not talking about this stuff of driving up to a campground and sleeping outside twenty feet from your vehicle and indoor bathrooms and showers. No, what I’m talking about is hiking into the wilderness with a fifty-pound pack on your back carrying all the essentials you’ll need to survive the next four days. For my dad, I think it was a chance to just get away from the daily eight-to-five grind of the work week and spend quality time with the family.

By the time I was eight, I had been on plenty of backpacking excursions throughout the New Mexico wilderness. We always went as a family and sometimes would go with other families as well. But the summer of 1997 was different. This time it was just me and my dad. My older brother was about to begin his senior year in high school and had a part-time job sacking groceries to save up for college. July 4^th weekend was approaching and it was going to be Dad’s only time off all summer.  But with my brother being the lowest man on the totem pole at the grocery store, getting off of work for four days over a holiday was next to impossible. So my mom decided to stay home with my brother and let dad and me go off on our own for a four-day backpack to Hermit’s Peak near Las Vegas, New Mexico.

We left the house on a Thursday afternoon. Our plans were to drive down and stay in a hotel in Las Vegas Thursday night, be at the trailhead at first light on Friday backpack for four days, and leave Monday afternoon.

Friday morning was beautiful, a nice cool 55 degrees, and the sun was creeping over the mountain peaks. Dad had his pack loaded down with the majority of the supplies that we’d need over the next few days, and I had all that I could carry with the tent, the stove, and my sleeping bag. The hike we were going on was a fairly simple trek. We would go five miles up into the mountain the first day, five more miles the second, on the third we would just take day hikes without all the weight in our packs and then come down the ten miles on the last day. Our first three days were amazing. The change in elevation brought forth new life and vegetation that I was unaccustomed to on the High Plains of The Panhandle. There's something almost spiritual that happens when one walks through a 3 mile long meadow of aspen trees. The sound they make is like no other. I will never forget that sound...

On the final day, we packed up camp and headed back down the mountain to the campgrounds. About mid-morning we came to our first river crossing. I went across first and as I was stepping from one protruding rock to another I slipped and fell in. Dad was quick to reach down and pull me up from the frigid waters but not before I had become sufficiently soaked. I was cold and wet and we still had a full day of hiking ahead of us if we were going to get off the mountain before night fall.

Several hours later we came across our next river crossing. This one was even larger than the first, with the river being over twenty yards wide where the trail intersected it. Sensing that  I wasn’t too keen on crossing at this location, my dad decided we should get off the trail, go upstream a ways to find a more narrow point to cross, and then head back down river to get back on the trail. After a few hundred yards, we finally came across a much narrower, calmer part of the river that looked easily crossable. We made it across with no problem and were heading back to the trail. As we headed back we stumbled across another trail heading up the side of the mountain from the river valley on a course that looked like it headed directly towards the trail we were heading home on. So rather than traipse along the riverbank climbing over boulders and ducking under branches Dad decided that’s we’ll follow this new trail until we intersected our original one.

We quickly rose more than 50 feet from the river on this trail that seemed to hug the side of the mountain with a steep embankment on either side. Walking in front of my dad, I never saw what happened next. The recent rains had washed out the trail and made the edge on the downhill side weak. One step on a weak patch of the trail and it easily gave way. As we were going along I suddenly heard a snap and turn around to see my dad tumbling down the embankment.  He finally came to a stop about 20 feet down from the trail. As he looks up at me I can see that his face and arms are cut up and bleeding. He tells me to stay where I am as he assessed the situation. He took the 50-pound pack off of his back and set it to the side and then slowly began the difficult task of crawling back up to the trail. Once back up on the hill side he realizes his ankle is broken and hiking the last five miles down the mountain would be impossible. The first question filled our thoughts.

Should he and I stay together hoping that someone passed by?

After sitting down and looking, at the map we realized the washed out trail we’re on was old and had been discontinued by the forest service. Also we had been out in the wilderness three days and had yet to see another person on the trail. So the only feasible option we had left was to let me continue on and hopefully find someone who could get help.

Before I left Dad had me drag his pack up from down the embankment and help him lay out several items for him while I was gone. The whole time I was obviously distraught, but my Dad just put on a face of confidence and assured me everything would be alright. It’s time for me to go. Dad gives me a whistle, two canteens of water, and the keys to the van. He tells me to take my time going down the trail, blow the whistle constantly to attract any attention and if I don’t find anyone just get to the car and sleep in it overnight.

As soon as I was around the corner and out of eyesight I took off running down the mountain. I knew I couldn’t possibly run the entire five miles to the campgrounds, so I decided to walk the flat, level parts of the trail and run whenever the trail would slope downhill. On the way down the mountain my mind was racing much faster than my feet.

What if it was something more serious than a broken ankle?

What if I didn’t find anyone at the campground?

Would he be mad if I drove the van into town?

My thoughts on "Magic Coins"

From the very beginning Dave Kuhne grabbed my attention with his setting description. I have read very few pieces that were set in an area that I have lived/live in and with the setting of this short story being South Fort Worth/TCU Area I found it even more intriguing. It was fun to compare my mental movie or picture of what Kuhne was describing with the actual locations he would later describe. Another thing I enjoy about this piece is it shows that a great story doesn't always have to be centered around a shocking, extraordinary event.

Inside The Huddle

They hand me a small white paper capsule of smelling salt. I crack it and it turns blood red, the smell of ammonia floods my facemask, my eyes water and my nose is on fire, it’s game time. I’ve been preparing all week for this moment. This moment in time when every worry and concern goes away and my thoughts are only focused on one thing: Man, I love this game!

The Day Before the Game

Practices on Fridays are very short and crisp. The team gets out on the game field in just helmets and we run through personnel substitutions and a 15-minute practice script. Afterwards, Coach Eddie will call us up and in his notoriously ineloquent fashion tell us what he believes the keys to victory are. After a quick shower, we get on the buses and with a motorcycle police escort head to the hotel in Arlington. This bus ride is pretty relaxed, most of the team holding casual conversation with the person next to them. The ride back to Fort Worth tomorrow will be much different. After settling into my room at the hotel, I go downstairs for one of my two favorite meals of the week. As I walk into the banquet hall, the smell of home cookin’ fills the air. Knowing that lineman don’t like to sit around and wait on their food, they schedule us to be the first through the line. Passing the salad up to leave more room on my plate, I head straight for the pans of broccoli, mashed potatoes and buttered corn, steam billowing out from the water-warmers underneath. After piling on what we immature linemen affectionately refer to as colon scrubbers, now it is time for the main course. While I have the option to get lasagna or London broil, I stick to my roots and have my usual two legs and two thighs of fried chicken. Of course no Southern meal could be complete without a little slice of pecan pie.

Now that I have had my fill, it’s time to get down to business and start cutting my focus in and get ready for the game. At TCU we have what we call the “Video Test”. For this all the offensive players squeeze into a conference room; the occasional cough is the only noise breaking the silence. The coaches put up a picture of an offensive formation on the screen with this week’s defense lined up across from it. The quarterback will call a play and then, position by position, individual players will state exactly what their role and responsibility is for that particular play. This video test gives every player in there an opportunity to show his teammates that he is prepared to do his job tomorrow. In my case, I might say something like, “Two foot splits, two point stance,  shuffle setting with my tackle the five, to the backer, to anything outside, alert for any twist or loop calls from my center.”  The video test is great way to build confidence and trust in the offensive unit. After the tensest 45 minutes of my entire week is finally over, it is now time to try and get some sleep.

The Morning of Game Day

I never need the wakeup call to get me up on Saturdays. In fact it’s a relief to finally hear the phone ring after lying wide awake since seven when the sun first starts to creep through the curtains. I call my uncle, who played college football as well. It’s a call I’ve made every game day since my sophomore year in high school. Uncle Joe and I talk about the week of practice and what kind of defense we will be playing against. He always has a way to encourage and reassure me that I am ready and capable of performing well.

My roommate and fellow offensive lineman Jeff and I head down for breakfast, my other favorite meal of the week. The attitude is noticeably different than the casual dinner the night before. Most guys eat in relative silence and watch a highlight tape from the previous game. Afterwards we make our way out to an open area of the hotel’s parking lot and have an extended walk-through. At this walk-through, we will have a defense lined up and run 15 to 20 plays just to get our bodies and minds up and going. The other hotel guests stare at us from their windows; cars driving by often stop and watch. What we consider to be old hat has captivated all those who see it. We’re doing nothing but shuffle around a parking lot and these people can’t take their eyes off of us.

Pre-Game Meal

After what seems like an eternity of sitting in our rooms after walk-through, it is finally time for pre-game meal. We file in silently to the banquet hall; our choices are spaghetti, baked potatoes, or pancakes. I always choose spaghetti. The graduate assistants and hotel staff deliver our plates to us and we eat in absolute silence. Like most of my teammates, I have my headphones in and merely pick at my plate. My appetite nowhere to be found, I listen to the soundtrack from the movie Rudy. The music reminds me of my favorite football movie and makes me reflect on all the things that I sometimes take for granted. Oftentimes during the week of preparation I get caught up in the grind of practice and forget why I play this game. I forget about being a kid in elementary school who would wake up on Saturday mornings and would take forever putting my pads in my pants for a Tiger League game. I forget about the countless hours I would stay up at night in high school envisioning what it would be like to play college football.  Listening to that music is a real gut check and makes me appreciate the opportunity I have and all the time I spend worth it.

Towards the end of the meal I pick up a cluster of grapes and take one off the vine and pass it around the table. My fellow offensive linemen take one and continue to pass it around. This silent communion-like ceremony signifies to all of us as we look into each other’s eyes that I have your back and you have mine.

Coaches get up and will briefly describe our opponent’s schemes, stuff we have already heard in the week leading up, but this is a final time for everyone to get on the same page. Coach Eddie gets up and briefly addresses the team and now it’s time to go.

The Ride to the Stadium

As we get on the bus, I change my IPod to an a cappella worship playlist. Growing up in the church and being a firm believer in Christ, I use this time for meditation and prayer. I know that if it weren’t for the gifts that I’ve received, I would never be where I am now. On a day where so many other things are on my mind this is my chance to stop and focus on what is truly important and thank God for all that he’s done for me.

As we get near the stadium and start to see the first TCU fans tailgating, the excitement starts to take over me. I think about the first time I ever came to a TCU game and saw the players roll in. I whispered to my Dad, “I can’t wait for that to be me!” That memory from so long ago races back to me, and I realize just how fast life can go by and how precious these moments are.

           

The Locker Room

            Everyone gets ready in his own way. Some players like to be loud and rambunctious, letting their excitement and energy flow throughout the locker room. Some like to lie down and simply get their minds off the task ahead and take a nap for half an hour. Still others sit stone-faced, music blaring in their ears with a “thousand-yard stare.” I myself go through phases to get ready. Phase one is getting ready physically. Upon arrival at the stadium, I go directly to the hot whirlpools to loosen up my back and the rest of my body. Then I get taped and stretched by the athletic training staff.

 Phase two is getting ready mentally. For part of my pre-game preparation I walk around on the game field envisioning what it’s going to be like out there. What looks I might get from the defense and what I need to do on certain plays. I also use this time to take in all the sights and sounds, the little things that I might otherwise miss once the game starts. I close my eyes and let my other senses wander for a few moments. The smell is the first thing I notice. The crisp, fresh aroma of the grass floods my nose. The smell of concession food fills the air, especially from the Corn Dog Stand on the North-East Concourse. Next a game day symphony from in and around the stadium floods my ears. The soft tink tink tink of the wind markers hitting the goal posts supplies the rhythm. The dull roar of advertisement planes flying their banners overhead provides the chorus. Finally the occasional solo comes from hearing shouts of encouragement from the fans already trickling in the stadium.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I get emotionally ready. This process, which started days before and has continued to build, will soon come to a climax as I head down the ramp to the field. I look around the locker room at my teammates as we sit anxiously waiting on Coach Eddie to walk in any moment and tell us it’s time. I see it in their faces; they have been preparing themselves too. Maybe some use different techniques, but as I look into their eyes I can see we’re all thinking the same thoughts. We all remember what it was like growing up, before the pressure of Coaches polls and style points. We all remember our love for the game, and deep down that is what fundamentally still drives us. I look at my teammates and realize there is no other group of men I would rather run out in front of 45,000 people with than them. The time has come. Coach walks in the locker room and tells us to line up at the door. Shouts of uncontainable enthusiasm break the silence.

They hand me a small white paper capsule, I crack it, it turns blood red, the smell of ammonia floods my facemask, my eyes water, my nose is on fire, it’s game time. I’ve been preparing all week for this moment. This moment in time where every worry and concern goes away and my thoughts are only focused on one thing: Man, I love this game!