Oh, do I yearn for the good ole’ days. And oh, do I love being reminded of them. Like right now.
At this very moment, I am sitting in a tranquil park, watching an adolescent boy hit ground balls to his younger brother, providing positive encouragement the whole time. How often do we see something like this anymore?
Kids these days would rather sit in their basement playing video games or glued to their computer, browsing facebook profiles (believe me, I know from having a sister). The days of kids spending endless summer afternoons under the burning sun, playing pickup baseball games are in the past. Very rarely do I ever see kids with baseball mitts anymore.
But as I watch this pair of youngsters — even though the younger one hasn’t caught a single fly ball yet — I think there may be hope for today’s youth, if just an ounce or two.
I think one of the main reasons why I can’t get along with my sister is our disconnect when it comes to afternoon activities. Even though the Internet’s been around since I was a kid, I didn’t really start using it until later in high school. I didn’t have an AIM screename until my junior year.
Instead, I spent endless afternoons outside, playing baseball, football, basketball, soccer — you name it. That’s just what us kids did. The outdoors was our playground. Today’s adolescents, however, if not involved in after-school activities, rely on the Internet to entertain them.
Hence, the ridiculous number of overweight children in our society.
I wish I saw more kids like the two brothers in front of me this morning outside, playing catch, shooting some hoops, tossing a football.
But I know that in today’s high-technology world, that’s about as likely as cows learning to fly.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
July 14: Talking to Mom again
"When I graduated, I got a job at a state employment agency where I tried to help people find jobs. It was one of those government programs that really didn't do much at all."
Then she got a job as a welfare worker. She thought she'd be able to help people and she think she did in some aspects, but it wasn't easy. She had to go out to houses, where the people on welfare weren't happy to see the workers (they thought they were snoopers). She had one group of clients in South Philly and another in Southwest Philly.
She remembers visiting an Italian family with five or six kids in South Philly. "They were very poor, but very nice, very gracious to me."
She did the welfare gig for nine months, then she quit.
After that she spent a summer in Berkley, Calif., with some friends. This was after she had met Jamie, her first boyfriend. They would hitchhike into San Francisco, sit in at some classes, hang out, and she had a boyfriend with a motorcycle. "I didn't like him, I liked the motorcycle." They would take trips out to the ocean.
One time her friend, Angie, came to San Francisco, and they hitchhiked into the city for an exhibition where they saw a waterbed for the first time. On the way back, they needed one more ride, and a "Hell's Angel" pulled up. They didn't want to go with him. They ignored him. He looked mean. But he persisted, and he turned out to be the nicest guy.
Mom said she wouldn't hitchhike now. "I just think there are more creepy people around."
The other thing Mom remembers about Berkley was getting a terrible sunburn, and screaming when a man she was dancing with touched the area where she was burned.
One of the woman Mom was living with, Janice, had a cat with a urinary infection, which made it pee green on a beige carpet. That made them lose their security deposit.
They also went to Oakland during the beginnings of the Black Panther Movement and listed to a speech by Eldridge Clever. They also were tear-gassed in a park during a Black Panthers rally in Berkley. "I could feel a little bit of the effects, not that much, but I wasn't in direct line of the attack."
Speaking of marches, Mom and Jamie went to a peach march in Washington, D.C., which was very exciting.
In the fall of 1968 she came back to Philly and moved into an apartment in West Philly. She worked at a mental hospital in North Philly. The program she was involved in tried to get the patients out of the hospital and into the community. The staff would get together with the patients and have community meetings. "I remember some of the guys there, they were actively hallucinating all of the time."
One of the guys, Mom said, had been placed in the hospital for basically no reason, for having a little too much to drink one day. "I remember finding a place for him and visiting him at his new place." He went to live in a house with an older African American woman. "And he was so happy, he had a life again... I remembered his name for a long time.
"So I didn't keep that job for very long either."
Then she got a job as a preschool teacher with low-income kids in the bottom of a church in North Philly. "And it turned out to be a nightmare of a job for me." She was taken advantage of by the kids. She wasn't eating much. "So it was kind of a bad year."
One good thing, however, was that she had a friend that was close to a family called the Zippins. They lived down near the Art Museum in a small house. She would cook with the Mom, Sue, or just hang out and talk with her. "Actually, Don smoked a lot of marijuana."
She met them through her friend, Sarah. There was another friend of Sarah's with an old Cadillac convertible. She stayed at the preschool job for about nine months. And she had a terrible experience when she tore a boy's shirt, which almost got her fired.
So, done with that job, "Sarah and I decided to go to Mexico that summer (1970 she thinks)." They flew across the country to California. Then they went down the coast to Mexico and took a bus. There were huge water bugs on the buses. Which was just part of the adventure.
At one point she began talking to a man named Victor. But Sarah spoke Spanish more fluently, so she began speaking to Victor -- and they eventually got married.
They ran into a man named Gordon, who had a trailer attached to his truck, and he invited them to go down to Guadalajara, Mexico. One night they stopped at a restaurant, which made Mom very sick.
In Mexico City they stayed at a place for international students, which was pretty crummy. At the Anthropology Museum a guy followed Mom around and asked Mom and Sarah to a bar, where Mom experienced straight Tequila for the first time. She didn't see him again.
They visited the Aztec Ruins. They checked out some other historical places as well.
After Mexico, Mom went back to California and then to Colorado, where she enrolled in graduate school. Once she arrived, she realized she would need her teacher's certificate in order to become a school teacher. Instead, she enrolled in vocation rehabilitating counseling.
She learned a lot about disabilities. She had a few psychology classes. Not much significant happened.
For Thanksgiving that year, Mom went to her friend's house, where there were many extended family members. It was just a different experience from living in a city her entire life. Lots of cowboys. Lots of Westerners.
At the end of the program, she did a program at Fort Logan Medical Center in Denver. She lived with the parents of her roommate from Northern Colorado. They were very strict Baptists. She enjoyed talking with the husband, Wendell. Mom had the basement to herself — it was a great space.
One time Wendall's wife wanted to talk to Mom. She thought Mom was coming onto her husband. "I don't know if she and I ever were friends again."
At Fort Logan, she was part of a team effort to talk about patients. And that was when she met David Gruner, who was part of a group learning about transactional analysis, a type of therapy. Mom started seeing David, which led to Mom getting an apartment in downtown Denver. It was close to David's communal house, made up of a group of hippies.
Then the two of them moved into a convent next to a great Mexican family with several kids. Mom got a job working in a church, which was a helpline. People would call in with emergencies. "And I didn't really like it. I think I took it because I couldn't find anything else."
Toward the end of Mom's time there, she had the car accident in which she broke her neck. She was in the hospital for a few days, then she couldn't work anymore.
So that summer of '71 David and Mom drove to Ann Arbor because he got into the school of Social Work. They got a duplex on Montgomery Street, which is off of Washington. Mom bought a car with insurance money because it hadn't been her fault when she'd suffered the neck accident. "It was this gremlin, it was a ridiculous car, I don't know why I bought it." It had a cut-off back, kind of a poorly made station wagon. But it was heavy, which made Mom feel more secure after the accident, which had occurred when she was driving a Volkswagon Bug.
Mom, the vagabond, was in Ann Arbor, and little did she know it, but she was there to stay.
Then she got a job as a welfare worker. She thought she'd be able to help people and she think she did in some aspects, but it wasn't easy. She had to go out to houses, where the people on welfare weren't happy to see the workers (they thought they were snoopers). She had one group of clients in South Philly and another in Southwest Philly.
She remembers visiting an Italian family with five or six kids in South Philly. "They were very poor, but very nice, very gracious to me."
She did the welfare gig for nine months, then she quit.
After that she spent a summer in Berkley, Calif., with some friends. This was after she had met Jamie, her first boyfriend. They would hitchhike into San Francisco, sit in at some classes, hang out, and she had a boyfriend with a motorcycle. "I didn't like him, I liked the motorcycle." They would take trips out to the ocean.
One time her friend, Angie, came to San Francisco, and they hitchhiked into the city for an exhibition where they saw a waterbed for the first time. On the way back, they needed one more ride, and a "Hell's Angel" pulled up. They didn't want to go with him. They ignored him. He looked mean. But he persisted, and he turned out to be the nicest guy.
Mom said she wouldn't hitchhike now. "I just think there are more creepy people around."
The other thing Mom remembers about Berkley was getting a terrible sunburn, and screaming when a man she was dancing with touched the area where she was burned.
One of the woman Mom was living with, Janice, had a cat with a urinary infection, which made it pee green on a beige carpet. That made them lose their security deposit.
They also went to Oakland during the beginnings of the Black Panther Movement and listed to a speech by Eldridge Clever. They also were tear-gassed in a park during a Black Panthers rally in Berkley. "I could feel a little bit of the effects, not that much, but I wasn't in direct line of the attack."
Speaking of marches, Mom and Jamie went to a peach march in Washington, D.C., which was very exciting.
In the fall of 1968 she came back to Philly and moved into an apartment in West Philly. She worked at a mental hospital in North Philly. The program she was involved in tried to get the patients out of the hospital and into the community. The staff would get together with the patients and have community meetings. "I remember some of the guys there, they were actively hallucinating all of the time."
One of the guys, Mom said, had been placed in the hospital for basically no reason, for having a little too much to drink one day. "I remember finding a place for him and visiting him at his new place." He went to live in a house with an older African American woman. "And he was so happy, he had a life again... I remembered his name for a long time.
"So I didn't keep that job for very long either."
Then she got a job as a preschool teacher with low-income kids in the bottom of a church in North Philly. "And it turned out to be a nightmare of a job for me." She was taken advantage of by the kids. She wasn't eating much. "So it was kind of a bad year."
One good thing, however, was that she had a friend that was close to a family called the Zippins. They lived down near the Art Museum in a small house. She would cook with the Mom, Sue, or just hang out and talk with her. "Actually, Don smoked a lot of marijuana."
She met them through her friend, Sarah. There was another friend of Sarah's with an old Cadillac convertible. She stayed at the preschool job for about nine months. And she had a terrible experience when she tore a boy's shirt, which almost got her fired.
So, done with that job, "Sarah and I decided to go to Mexico that summer (1970 she thinks)." They flew across the country to California. Then they went down the coast to Mexico and took a bus. There were huge water bugs on the buses. Which was just part of the adventure.
At one point she began talking to a man named Victor. But Sarah spoke Spanish more fluently, so she began speaking to Victor -- and they eventually got married.
They ran into a man named Gordon, who had a trailer attached to his truck, and he invited them to go down to Guadalajara, Mexico. One night they stopped at a restaurant, which made Mom very sick.
In Mexico City they stayed at a place for international students, which was pretty crummy. At the Anthropology Museum a guy followed Mom around and asked Mom and Sarah to a bar, where Mom experienced straight Tequila for the first time. She didn't see him again.
They visited the Aztec Ruins. They checked out some other historical places as well.
After Mexico, Mom went back to California and then to Colorado, where she enrolled in graduate school. Once she arrived, she realized she would need her teacher's certificate in order to become a school teacher. Instead, she enrolled in vocation rehabilitating counseling.
She learned a lot about disabilities. She had a few psychology classes. Not much significant happened.
For Thanksgiving that year, Mom went to her friend's house, where there were many extended family members. It was just a different experience from living in a city her entire life. Lots of cowboys. Lots of Westerners.
At the end of the program, she did a program at Fort Logan Medical Center in Denver. She lived with the parents of her roommate from Northern Colorado. They were very strict Baptists. She enjoyed talking with the husband, Wendell. Mom had the basement to herself — it was a great space.
One time Wendall's wife wanted to talk to Mom. She thought Mom was coming onto her husband. "I don't know if she and I ever were friends again."
At Fort Logan, she was part of a team effort to talk about patients. And that was when she met David Gruner, who was part of a group learning about transactional analysis, a type of therapy. Mom started seeing David, which led to Mom getting an apartment in downtown Denver. It was close to David's communal house, made up of a group of hippies.
Then the two of them moved into a convent next to a great Mexican family with several kids. Mom got a job working in a church, which was a helpline. People would call in with emergencies. "And I didn't really like it. I think I took it because I couldn't find anything else."
Toward the end of Mom's time there, she had the car accident in which she broke her neck. She was in the hospital for a few days, then she couldn't work anymore.
So that summer of '71 David and Mom drove to Ann Arbor because he got into the school of Social Work. They got a duplex on Montgomery Street, which is off of Washington. Mom bought a car with insurance money because it hadn't been her fault when she'd suffered the neck accident. "It was this gremlin, it was a ridiculous car, I don't know why I bought it." It had a cut-off back, kind of a poorly made station wagon. But it was heavy, which made Mom feel more secure after the accident, which had occurred when she was driving a Volkswagon Bug.
Mom, the vagabond, was in Ann Arbor, and little did she know it, but she was there to stay.
Friday, July 13, 2007
July 13: Talking to Mom
At the age of 23, I am starting to think deeper about myself and the meaning of life. One of the conclusions I've come to is that you cannot live fully unless you know where exactly you've come from and the histories of those who brought you into the world. That has pushed me to sit down with my parents and really delve into as much of their history as I can. Here is what I learned from my Mom yesterday about growing up in North Philadelphia in the 1950s.
Mom grew up in North Philadelphia in a place Feltonville. "It was kind of a working class, middle class neighborhood mainly inhabited by Catholics and Jews. The Jews were first-generation, so were the Catholics probably and the street that I lived on was comprised, right across the street actually, that whole block was comprised of a lot of small businesses."
There was a deli, a five-and-dime, a supermarket (called Leon's). "Everybody knew everybody else, the aisles were much smaller. They sold mostly packaged goods. We would go to the butcher to get our meat, it was a kosher butcher."
Mr. Learner sold fish and vegetables and fruit. "He always was wearing a bloody apron."
There was a local shoe store, local dress shop, Marty's Candy Store, which sold a lot of penny candy. There was a lot of penny candy and then a modern-day candy bar like a Snickers was about 10 cents.
Budin's Pharmacy was the name of Mom's drugstore. "Handlers," another drugstore, was right across the street. Grandma made their store a littler "homier and it was always very clean." And there was always a boy working in the shop who would serve ice cream and tend to other chores. "Handlers" was quite a bit smaller. They had prescriptions and sundries — over-the-counter medicines.
Ted Budin bought the store in 1947, when Mom was 2 years old. He bought the stock of the store and they always rented the house. Mom's family never owned a house.
Then they moved to Atlantic City for about a year during Mom's last year of college (she had lived at home the first three years).
"I guess I really didn't like being there, but I was really busy," Mom says of living at home.
Mom lived by herself her senior year at Temple. "It was just easier to get a place by myself, and I kind of wanted that freedom."
It was downtown and she had to take the subway about 15 minutes to get to the Temple University campus. Frank's Bar was on the corner and "The Tip Top Bar" was just a couple blocks away. Mom would go there and dance with the Greek men, although traditionally Greek men would dance by themselves.
They had rock-n-roll on the jukebox. "I loved dancing to Jefferson Airplane, I still do," Mom says.
Mom had to pay about $120 for the apartment, which had a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom/living room. Mom says she didn't get that lonely. She was busy and there was another apartment at the other end of the hallways. Mom was friendly with the people who lived there. First, she got to know a gay man named Rick and then Cheryl, an organ player at a church.
Mom "HATED" her land lady. She says it was the only lady she ever wanted to kill. Mom snuck a cat into the apartment, and the lady made her give the cat away.
Mom grew up in North Philadelphia in a place Feltonville. "It was kind of a working class, middle class neighborhood mainly inhabited by Catholics and Jews. The Jews were first-generation, so were the Catholics probably and the street that I lived on was comprised, right across the street actually, that whole block was comprised of a lot of small businesses."
There was a deli, a five-and-dime, a supermarket (called Leon's). "Everybody knew everybody else, the aisles were much smaller. They sold mostly packaged goods. We would go to the butcher to get our meat, it was a kosher butcher."
Mr. Learner sold fish and vegetables and fruit. "He always was wearing a bloody apron."
There was a local shoe store, local dress shop, Marty's Candy Store, which sold a lot of penny candy. There was a lot of penny candy and then a modern-day candy bar like a Snickers was about 10 cents.
Budin's Pharmacy was the name of Mom's drugstore. "Handlers," another drugstore, was right across the street. Grandma made their store a littler "homier and it was always very clean." And there was always a boy working in the shop who would serve ice cream and tend to other chores. "Handlers" was quite a bit smaller. They had prescriptions and sundries — over-the-counter medicines.
Ted Budin bought the store in 1947, when Mom was 2 years old. He bought the stock of the store and they always rented the house. Mom's family never owned a house.
Then they moved to Atlantic City for about a year during Mom's last year of college (she had lived at home the first three years).
"I guess I really didn't like being there, but I was really busy," Mom says of living at home.
Mom lived by herself her senior year at Temple. "It was just easier to get a place by myself, and I kind of wanted that freedom."
It was downtown and she had to take the subway about 15 minutes to get to the Temple University campus. Frank's Bar was on the corner and "The Tip Top Bar" was just a couple blocks away. Mom would go there and dance with the Greek men, although traditionally Greek men would dance by themselves.
They had rock-n-roll on the jukebox. "I loved dancing to Jefferson Airplane, I still do," Mom says.
Mom had to pay about $120 for the apartment, which had a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom/living room. Mom says she didn't get that lonely. She was busy and there was another apartment at the other end of the hallways. Mom was friendly with the people who lived there. First, she got to know a gay man named Rick and then Cheryl, an organ player at a church.
Mom "HATED" her land lady. She says it was the only lady she ever wanted to kill. Mom snuck a cat into the apartment, and the lady made her give the cat away.
Friday, July 6, 2007
July 11: Remembering the amazing Copp
Copp passed on last Friday afternoon.
The only dog who's ever been a part of our family.
The only dog I've ever loved with all my heart.
Copp, who suffered from cancer, was having a difficult time last week -- and his condition wasn't improving -- so we felt that Friday afternoon would be the right time to put him down.
In the final hour, mom, dad and I sat around our beautiful Golden Retriever, petting him, looking at photo albums and recalling some of his greatest memories.
I even pulled out a poem I wrote about Copp for a creative writing class my senior year of high school. Before I give you my favorite Copper memories, here's that poem in its entirety.
MDC - This poem is dedicated to my dog, Copper
"Damn" I accost the front door thinking.
physics calc and Spanish tonight
IM SCREWED......
And then I glimpse him.
Wagging that tail so hard it could kill a baby.
crying in joy like an adolescent figure skater after scoring 6.
Eyes gleaming like those of a 13-year-old boy watching a nude scene
MY DOG COPP
Golden fur as silky as Aunt Lilly's napkins
tongue hanging like kids in the park off jungle gyms.
ears pointing up like satellites to space
MY DOG COPP
He never fails to amaze,
from when we first picked him
out of a hundred begging dogs
cramped in cages smaller than my bed.
MY DOG COPP
He drinks out of a bowl "half full."
Walks with a wondrous waggle
Always loves me,
lacks lament -- one hundred percent.
MY DOG COPP
He'll lead me on adventures through
burr-stabbing woods
down mud-riddled paths over green grassy knolls
Screaming down trails chasing brave n' dumb squirrels
yet always retreats to check on me
MY DOG COPP
He'll lick pimple-scattered face as if it's ice cream
raise eyebrows in search of beef
you can conclude by the eyes
so caring and loving
MY DOG COPP
We hike together
Swim with each other
and play tug o war with spit-covered shredded-to-pieces toys
MY DOG COPP
He's there for me when I'm struggling.
He's there for me when I'm distraught.
He's there for me when I'm....
NOT there to take him out or feed him.
A wag of the tail.
A wink of the eye.
An electrifying bark.
A sniff of the shirt.
With school erased from mind
I kneel down to scratch his head
its all love in the air
Hey, Copp, wanta go for a walk?
FAVORITE MEMORIES FROM ALMOST 7 YEARS
We got Copp from the Humane Society on September 18, I believe, of the year 2000. When my family first laid eyes on him, stuck in that cramped cage, it was love at first sight. He was so handsome, so perfect.
Yet our dog-person relationship didn't exactly take off from the beginning. I'll never forget the afternoon in Hunt Park when he began biting the leash inexorably, scaring me silly and forcing me to drop the tattered leash. My sister, Rose, and I were able to bait him back to the house, but I must admit that at that point, I didn't want to keep Copp.
But that sentiment didn't last long. Thanks to dog obedience school and the infamous prong collar, which we didn't have to use for very long, Copp and I became best friends. Seriously. I'm not just being clichéd. Copp was the one creature outside of my parents who I could always count on to be my pal, to hang out and go for walks as long as it wasn't thundering (T-storms scared Copp silly).
My favorite general memories from an incredible seven — way too short — years spent together:
-- going for walks to Barton Dam, where I'd let him off the leash and watch him swim several times.
-- arriving home from wherever, whenever and being greeted by his crazy wailing cry. Bust and Mom tried to stop his habit, but I quietly hoped Copp never would cut out the crying. It was sweet.
-- the humping. OK, at times it may have been embarrassing to the family when Copp jumped on the back of some innocent friends of ours, gyrating against them, but I thought these episodes were hilarious. Only Copp. Only Copp.
-- the expressions. Copp had some of the quirkiest expressions. His best was when you'd stare at him for a long period, invariably making him self-conscious. To let you know about this, Copp would move his eyebrows up and down, rolling his eyes the entire time.
-- his friendliness. I know it sounds shallow, but Copp was simply the most innocuous, friendliest creature of any kind I've ever met. He didn't have a single bad bone in his body. He genuinely — yes, I'm talking about a dog; but I believe this — loved everyone around him. I never thought of Copp as "just a dog." He was always much more.
-- playing keep-away. Copp was never the fastest dog. I'm sure if he could have talked, he'd have admitted this. But this deficiency didn't keep him from playing keep-away with Bust and I on countless nights in Hunt Park. Once he got the frisbee/football/whatever, he'd dodge between us like Barry Sanders before we eventually coaxed the object from him (usually just after he became disinterested).
-- watching him put anything in his mouth. Throughout the years, Copp became infamous as a socks thief. Whenever someone would arrive home, he'd become excited, and he'd need to put something in his mouth to go along with the enthusiasm. Usually he'd find some dirty sock lying around. However, Copp didn't just go for socks. In fact, over the last year, he became especially fond of my collection of hats. Tigers hats. Winter hats. You name it. He'd grab them off the couch and calmly sink his teeth into them (although he'd never cause them any more pain than drooling on them). Copp loved having an object in his mouth, whether it was a sock, a rag, a hat or a stuffed animal.
-- taking him to New Hampshire. I don't think Copp was a big fan of our trips to Sandwich, N.H. For one, it was a lot of time sitting in the car in addition to a few days in the Red Roof hotel room in Philly. Then, in N.H., the walks just weren't as special as they were at Bird Hills and Barton. Still, Copp did have some great times out east, including a few rides on pontoon boats when we were able to coax him to jump into Squam Lake. Good times.
And now, I must present a few of my favorite specific Copper memories:
-- the hike up Whiteface. This has to go down as Copp's greatest achievement. In the summer of 2005, my cousin J-bo and I took Copper up the 4,000-foot mountain named Whiteface outside of Sandwich, NH. It was the most difficult climb Copp ever experienced. We had to help him up steep cliffs and over huge boulders. We had to take a 5-minute break to let him rest. But Copp made it to the top, a grand accomplishment for a dog as big as him (nearly 100 pounds). He was absolutely smashed when we returned to the Red House. He conked out on the carpet for several hours. But he had done it. He had conquered Whiteface.
-- the earring episode. I credit Copp for allowing me to realize that earrings aren't all they're made out to be. In high school I thought it was "cool" to get my ear pierced, get a little fake diamond stud hanging off my left lobe. But then one evening Bust and I were playing keep-away with Copp, and as Copp ran swiftly between us, Bust and I butted heads (including me left ear). The earring was pushed into my lobe, requiring a minor surgery at the neighborhood clinic. It's safe to say I've stayed away from earrings since.
-- the first jump. It took us awhile, but finally we were able to coax Copp into taking flight. When Copp first jumped off the pontoon boat in New Hampshire it was a sight to see. The actual leap was, of course, preceded by several minutes of him pacing up and down the boat crying, but once he was in the clear Squam Lake water, there was no more whimpering, just frantic doggie-paddling.
-- the last day. As sad of a day as it was, I could still tell that Copp was with us, that Copp would never leave us. His eyes were always so telling. He wasn't wagging his tail or showing any signs of happiness — he really was miserable — but I could still see my dog through his eyes. He hadn't left us. Five days later, I still catch myself thinking that Copp will greet me at the front door after a long night at work, that Copp will be there to take me for a walk — and a reprieve from everything else — during the afternoon. I think it'll take awhile for me to get over this.
And that's perfectly OK. I don't ever want to forget Copp. He was that special of a dog.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
July 5: Being successful
I'm sick and tired of mediocrity. Plain and simple.
I'm decent, fair, OK at a lot of things. I'm a decent tennis player, a fair basketball player, a decent reporter, a fair biker. That's cool, but not cool enough.
I want to be really good at something. I want to go out and do something and feel invincible, feel like I'm in complete control. I think I want to become a better tennis player. I want to play every day and develop a consistency that I can't seem to maintain in my life. That's always been my problem. I might be good on the tennis court one day, but the next day I suddenly can't hit a forehand.
It's ridiculously frustrating. I want to be good at something day in and day out.
Watching Wimbledon these past few days, I've come to appreciate just how good the world's top players are. Rarely do they fudge up ground strokes. Most of the time, points don't end until a winner is hit — unless there is a killer serve. While I have no aspirations of becoming a professional tennis player, I just want to become consistently good.
I think doing so would boost my overall confidence. It would show me that if I put the time and effort in, I can become very good at something.
So it's time to throw mediocrity out the door. While I applaud those who have a variety of talents, I can no longer sit content being decent at a number of ventures. I need to become good at doing something, even if it's only a single vocation. Maybe it'll be tennis, maybe something else.
But I can guarantee you that I'll put in the hours, minutes and seconds to hone my skills in a particular area. I owe it to myself.
I'm decent, fair, OK at a lot of things. I'm a decent tennis player, a fair basketball player, a decent reporter, a fair biker. That's cool, but not cool enough.
I want to be really good at something. I want to go out and do something and feel invincible, feel like I'm in complete control. I think I want to become a better tennis player. I want to play every day and develop a consistency that I can't seem to maintain in my life. That's always been my problem. I might be good on the tennis court one day, but the next day I suddenly can't hit a forehand.
It's ridiculously frustrating. I want to be good at something day in and day out.
Watching Wimbledon these past few days, I've come to appreciate just how good the world's top players are. Rarely do they fudge up ground strokes. Most of the time, points don't end until a winner is hit — unless there is a killer serve. While I have no aspirations of becoming a professional tennis player, I just want to become consistently good.
I think doing so would boost my overall confidence. It would show me that if I put the time and effort in, I can become very good at something.
So it's time to throw mediocrity out the door. While I applaud those who have a variety of talents, I can no longer sit content being decent at a number of ventures. I need to become good at doing something, even if it's only a single vocation. Maybe it'll be tennis, maybe something else.
But I can guarantee you that I'll put in the hours, minutes and seconds to hone my skills in a particular area. I owe it to myself.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
July 4: Thinking about my life
It's time to dig deep, to truly try to understand what wends itself through my head as each day, each 24-hour capsule, passes.
I'm more than 23 and a half years old, and yet I feel old. That can't be a good thing. I constantly reminisce about the good ole days, when — obviously — I should be considering the world of opportunities in front of me. I am full of regrets, which I know I can do nothing about.
High school. College. I now know I didn't come close to making the most out of those opportunistic eight years. In high school I was shy and afraid — scared to take chances, such as try out for the sport I had always loved, baseball. I didn't partake in any of the events that are featured in high school collages — the prom, homecoming, school sports.
Those voids left me nervous during my search for the perfect college. Instead of truly considering what school would be best for my academic interests, I went with the institution — Albion College — where I felt most comfortable during my visits (the blueberry muffins were simply ravishing). And then I snuffed out my first three years of college with a bevy of homework, newspaper work and work work. It took a trip to the other side of the world — Sydney, Australia, to be exact — for me to realize just how special and unique the college years are. Unfortunately, that was my senior year, and my final semester passed quicker than an hour's sleep. I enjoyed it, but before I could soak it up, it was complete. I stood in the grass of Albion's quad, holding a black diploma, surrounded by family and a few friends, wondering, "What next?"
Now, nearly two months later, I'm in a rut, which I'm having a hard time getting out of. I'm living at home, commuting 40 minutes each evening to Jackson for part-time newspaper work, delivering papers during the day for the Ann Arbor News, and spending most of my free time reading, sleeping and eating. I know this isn't healthy. I know I need to take charge of my life. But I'm having a hard time following these thoughts.
I feel as though I'm an emotional rollercoaster. On the way to Muskegon this past weekend to visit friends, I felt excited, enthused by the plethora of possibilities that lay ahead of me in life. As I cruised west on I-96 late on a Friday night, with the radio blaring the latest raunchy hip-hop beats, I felt as if I was at a large candy shop, with juicy lolly pops and crunchy chocolate bars displayed on endless shelves in front of me.
But this feeling didn't last. Two nights later, after watching "Blood Diamond" before bed, I couldn't fall asleep. I was as restless as I'd been in quite sometime, and it wasn't because of the violence that dominated the movie I'd just watched. The weekend had been depressing. I hadn't done anything right. I'd lost two tennis matches and three ping-pong matches, costing me a $50-plus dinner check on Saturday night and two Tigers tickets for later this season. It wasn't just my losses that had me distraught, however. It was the sense that I couldn't succeed, that whenever I sensed a twinge of momentum, it turned on me and I couldn't do a thing to slow it down.
In the second tennis match, I won the first set quite handedly, 6-2. But then — about three games into the second set — I suddenly couldn't hit a hard forehand, my biggest strength, in bounds. Every one of my strong forehands sailed long or wide. In a matter of minutes, I lost all my confidence in that shot. That killed me. Without my greatest weapon, I couldn't hold off the opponent. I didn't have a winning shot. I could volley back and forth with him, using weak drop shots, but I couldn't end a point myself. I had to rely on him making mistakes.
I think the tennis match was indicative of where I am right now in life. I see great possibilities. Through reading, I know of all the great things people are doing throughout the world, and I want to be a part of such things. "Blood Diamond" showed how a journalist helped bring an African country out of an awful, barbarous civil war. I want to make an impact on society with my sports writing, and I know I'm capable of it. I just finished reading "Hurricane," the book about Rubin "The Hurricane" Carter's battle for freedom in New Jersey. The former boxer was wrongfully convicted — twice — of committing a triple murder. But he, his lawyers and a dedicated group of Canadian activists persevered and eventually freed Carter. It just went to show that if enough effort is put in, things can be turned around.
I know deep inside what I'm capable of. Yet something still holds me back. Maybe it's a lack of confidence. Maybe it's an inherent laziness borne from growing up in a relatively stress-free environment (middle-class, two parents, no crime, no bullies, no financial troubles). Whatever it is, I need to break out of it and realize my full potential. I'm beginning to think that will mean a change of location. I'm ready to leave everything I have here — my good part-time job in Jackson, my family, my friends, Michigan sports, the Tigers — to look for a fresh start in Chapel Hill alongside my cousin, J-bo. As sad as this might sound, I think I need someone similar in age and interests (that would be J-bo) to push me on a daily basis. I need structure in my life, and the more I think about it, the more I think I might be able to find it in Chapel Hill.
Nothing is set. I still don't hold concrete plans to move. But it's certainly in my mind. Something needs to happen to bring me the kind of consistent happiness that's been lacking for quite some time now.
I'm more than 23 and a half years old, and yet I feel old. That can't be a good thing. I constantly reminisce about the good ole days, when — obviously — I should be considering the world of opportunities in front of me. I am full of regrets, which I know I can do nothing about.
High school. College. I now know I didn't come close to making the most out of those opportunistic eight years. In high school I was shy and afraid — scared to take chances, such as try out for the sport I had always loved, baseball. I didn't partake in any of the events that are featured in high school collages — the prom, homecoming, school sports.
Those voids left me nervous during my search for the perfect college. Instead of truly considering what school would be best for my academic interests, I went with the institution — Albion College — where I felt most comfortable during my visits (the blueberry muffins were simply ravishing). And then I snuffed out my first three years of college with a bevy of homework, newspaper work and work work. It took a trip to the other side of the world — Sydney, Australia, to be exact — for me to realize just how special and unique the college years are. Unfortunately, that was my senior year, and my final semester passed quicker than an hour's sleep. I enjoyed it, but before I could soak it up, it was complete. I stood in the grass of Albion's quad, holding a black diploma, surrounded by family and a few friends, wondering, "What next?"
Now, nearly two months later, I'm in a rut, which I'm having a hard time getting out of. I'm living at home, commuting 40 minutes each evening to Jackson for part-time newspaper work, delivering papers during the day for the Ann Arbor News, and spending most of my free time reading, sleeping and eating. I know this isn't healthy. I know I need to take charge of my life. But I'm having a hard time following these thoughts.
I feel as though I'm an emotional rollercoaster. On the way to Muskegon this past weekend to visit friends, I felt excited, enthused by the plethora of possibilities that lay ahead of me in life. As I cruised west on I-96 late on a Friday night, with the radio blaring the latest raunchy hip-hop beats, I felt as if I was at a large candy shop, with juicy lolly pops and crunchy chocolate bars displayed on endless shelves in front of me.
But this feeling didn't last. Two nights later, after watching "Blood Diamond" before bed, I couldn't fall asleep. I was as restless as I'd been in quite sometime, and it wasn't because of the violence that dominated the movie I'd just watched. The weekend had been depressing. I hadn't done anything right. I'd lost two tennis matches and three ping-pong matches, costing me a $50-plus dinner check on Saturday night and two Tigers tickets for later this season. It wasn't just my losses that had me distraught, however. It was the sense that I couldn't succeed, that whenever I sensed a twinge of momentum, it turned on me and I couldn't do a thing to slow it down.
In the second tennis match, I won the first set quite handedly, 6-2. But then — about three games into the second set — I suddenly couldn't hit a hard forehand, my biggest strength, in bounds. Every one of my strong forehands sailed long or wide. In a matter of minutes, I lost all my confidence in that shot. That killed me. Without my greatest weapon, I couldn't hold off the opponent. I didn't have a winning shot. I could volley back and forth with him, using weak drop shots, but I couldn't end a point myself. I had to rely on him making mistakes.
I think the tennis match was indicative of where I am right now in life. I see great possibilities. Through reading, I know of all the great things people are doing throughout the world, and I want to be a part of such things. "Blood Diamond" showed how a journalist helped bring an African country out of an awful, barbarous civil war. I want to make an impact on society with my sports writing, and I know I'm capable of it. I just finished reading "Hurricane," the book about Rubin "The Hurricane" Carter's battle for freedom in New Jersey. The former boxer was wrongfully convicted — twice — of committing a triple murder. But he, his lawyers and a dedicated group of Canadian activists persevered and eventually freed Carter. It just went to show that if enough effort is put in, things can be turned around.
I know deep inside what I'm capable of. Yet something still holds me back. Maybe it's a lack of confidence. Maybe it's an inherent laziness borne from growing up in a relatively stress-free environment (middle-class, two parents, no crime, no bullies, no financial troubles). Whatever it is, I need to break out of it and realize my full potential. I'm beginning to think that will mean a change of location. I'm ready to leave everything I have here — my good part-time job in Jackson, my family, my friends, Michigan sports, the Tigers — to look for a fresh start in Chapel Hill alongside my cousin, J-bo. As sad as this might sound, I think I need someone similar in age and interests (that would be J-bo) to push me on a daily basis. I need structure in my life, and the more I think about it, the more I think I might be able to find it in Chapel Hill.
Nothing is set. I still don't hold concrete plans to move. But it's certainly in my mind. Something needs to happen to bring me the kind of consistent happiness that's been lacking for quite some time now.
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