tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50579711906558712182024-03-07T23:06:47.664-05:00The Silent I in TeamUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-16242037964979344342012-09-19T08:03:00.000-04:002012-09-19T08:03:44.545-04:00High Class DramaWhen my soccer world becomes more exciting than anything I could make up in a story, I think it's time to return to my soccer-writing roots. A lot has changed since August, hopefully making the wait for my next blogpost worth your while. Our record now 4 and 2, the Lady Hawks are off to a very different start from last year.<div>
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Every year, our game against Solon has always been intense and even brutal. While I can't speak for the other team, I know our players look forward to this game each season as one of our toughest games, and consequently, most heated. With their fans getting a hold of our roster, we ignore the taunting from their home bleachers in order to focus on the blood bath soaking up the turf. Okay, so it might not actually be that dramatic. But I will always remember this game in a battle-like haze. </div>
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Similarly, I can't recall the order in which these following events occurred, but simply remember an array of chaos that erupted sporadically throughout those 80 minutes. </div>
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I remember a referee blowing his whistle for himself, as he crumbles to the ground with a Charlie Horse. Stop of play.</div>
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I remember watching my teammate on the brink of a fight with a Solon midfielder, a shove in the back while the ball is overhead. Stop of play.</div>
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I remember, in the lull between a ball out of bounds and a corner kick, the pulling of my teammate's ponytail-- New Mexico style-- if any of you remember that YouTube video. Stop of play.</div>
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And I remember my sweeper on the ground, afraid to look at her black and blue ankle. I remember Stan, our coach, storming the field, yelling into the tired ref's face. I don't remember what he said, but saw the red card wave up high like a flag in the air, and Stan surrendered. Parents yelled at other parents and cops showed up to show us to our cars. We finished off the game, and left.</div>
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When I'm old, I'll remember our crazy coach sticking up for us in a game teetering on the edge of a new version of Gladiator. I can't say that we were entirely the victims, but by losing control himself, Stan gave us back a shred of control on the field. At school the next day, when I got hoarse from telling this same story to whoever would hear it, I could only describe the infamous Solon game with one phrase: High Class Drama.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-50515409030828819992012-08-19T09:18:00.000-04:002012-08-19T09:18:46.527-04:00Here Come the CliffhangersSchool starts in a few days, and despite having procrastinated on all of my summer homework, I'm pretty excited. Now for me, the main reason to be excited for the new school year is for the soccer season to officially start. YES, THE END OF PRESEASON!! Our first game was yesterday against Cardinal Mooney, and we won 4 to 0. This year is starting to look like our undefeated season of last year, knock on wood, but hopefully with a better outcome in the playoffs. I feel like I'm on the brink of a cliffhanger and it's exciting. I don't want to predict too much about the upcoming season for the fear of jinxing anything (like most athletes, I have to say I'm fairly superstitious). Our next game is sometime next week, I should probably know this kind of stuff... so I'll keep you posted!<br />
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As for our story, for those of you who want to know what happened to the boy, read on! And for those of you who don't, I know that you're thinking "this is supposed to be a sports blog". I'm sure it also doesn't help that the narrator plainly states "I hate sports". Oh, the irony. But have some faith in your devoted blogger! So here it is:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I start to make a list in my head,
with a leaky green pen on blue-lined paper. I could trip, sprain my ankle,
break it, the bone poking through my skin. I could chip a tooth on a baseball,
get a knot in my leg, fall. I start muttering about Achilles Tendinitis under
my breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Is he retarded? The boy asks, and
the others laugh. I scratch the top of my bony hands again, and they start to
bleed. I rub them pink, and think about my pink house and how badly I wanted to
walk away from it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> He’s weak, my father said just
before he left. I think he knew I was listening, because he saw me on the
staircase and stared at my scarred hands; I tucked them behind my back. I
remember it soggy, like far away and I’m looking at him underwater and he
leaves the pink house and doesn’t look back. And although I hate my father, I
wanted to be him at the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> A boy with moppy blonde hair and
crooked teeth comes up to the mailbox. He’s short like me, but his strides are
long and he’s grabbing my mitt before I can lean against the mailbox again. I
push at the glasses falling down my speckled nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Put it on, the boy says, shoving my
glove into my chest, and I cough, almost dropping it. Sweat mats my brown hair
to my forehead and I try to wipe it off with the back of my hand. It stings.
The sun is staring at me and the boys are waiting and I look down at my
un-scuffed converse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sorry, I can’t— I start to say. But
someone’s tapping on a glass window, and I turn around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Go, Mother says, even though I can’t
hear her from outside. She shoos me with her hands, clicking the window with
her long pink fingernails. I turn to face the boy with the crooked teeth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> C’mon, he says, and so I slip on my
baseball glove, the dark leather rubbing against my raw hands, and walk towards
the cul-de-sac.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">to be continued.... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>come on here we go cliff hanger its another club banger got ya hanging on the edge of your seat. -- Eminem</i></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-68188130582989358072012-08-09T18:55:00.003-04:002012-08-09T18:55:55.899-04:00Keeping My WordSo, I like to keep my promises. And a few weeks ago I did promise you an interesting blog, so hopefully this will suffice. When I was at Columbia University for "nerd" camp, I started writing a story set in the C-L-E (Cleveland Pride!!!). Below is the first chunk of what I'm hoping to be a slightly longer piece. Feel free to comment and tell me what you think! And I haven't thought of a title yet, so shout out any suggestions.<div>
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Here it is....</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve always wanted a house on the
cul-de-sac. One with green shutters and a blue door and a dog named Elvis
Presley. A mailman would hobble to our mailbox shaped like a golf ball and ask
me what I thought of the weather. I wouldn’t know what to say, but I’d smile
and nod and let the man with the leathery bag walk down to the next driveway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> In Parma, Ohio, 1963, it’s
considered normal for the mailman to know your name. It’s considered normal for
the ten Bradley children to fill up the school bus with their hand-me-down
sweaters and brown-bagged lunches, and for the drunk Mr. Keeler’s cat to eat
tar off the pavement. And so it wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary to wait for a
thunderstorm from your screened-in porch in the middle of July.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today, the trees are bowing to our coarse
brown lawn and I know a summer storm is coming. I panic, but then remember that
my flashlight’s under the bed and the extra batteries are in the top drawer of
my dresser. I remember this because I’m claustrophobic, but only when it’s dark.
However, when I told Mother this an hour ago she rolled her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Go play outside, she said. So I sat on
this doorstep and haven’t moved since. I pull at the collar of my red
sweatshirt and try not to sweat. Today, the mailman would say it’s never been
this hot before. But I’m wearing a sweatshirt anyways because of the breeze.
Every season’s flu season, Grandmother used to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I sit with my back to the house so that I
don’t have to look at the slanted, rusty gutter, or the pink paint flaking away
from the siding. We should get that fixed, Mother says. But by now I know not
to believe her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I think it’s easier to walk away from a
pink house. To sit with you’re back to it. I love going out to the mailbox in
the morning to look out at the other houses and pretend that behind me, mine
looks exactly the same. Grandmother used to love going to church on Sundays
because she hated that thin coat of pink paint. Sometimes, if I listened hard
enough, I could hear her praying for a different colored house. Or at least, I
pretended I could. Because that was much more interesting than counting the
linoleum tiles of the chapel floor. Even Mother, although she’d never admit it,
loves going to her weekly Bridge game to walk away from the pink house. Yes, my
mother plays Bridge. And although I can’t explain why, I am intensely proud of
her for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And when a yellow taxicab had pulled up
to the house—the romantic cabs you watch pull up in movies—, I strangely
understood why my father stuffed his black suitcase into the trunk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The week after he left, Mother made me
grilled cheese sandwiches. I guess she thought they were my favorite, and I
guess I didn’t have the nerve to tell her that they weren’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The grilled cheese making started one day
when Mother took all the cheese from the fridge—the only food that was still in
there, since Mother refused to go to the grocery store alone— and melted slices
on Wonderbread using her metal iron and the stained ironing board. I never have
friends over for dinner for exactly this reason: my mother can’t cook. Eating
bread soggy and smushed too flat, I nodded and tried to smile with sticky
cheese stretching across my teeth. Any good? Mother would ask. And then, she’d
spin around and make another before I could say no, not good at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Late at night, after Mother made her
final wet cheese sandwich and fell asleep on the couch, I’d take a preventive
swig of Pepto-Bismol and brush my teeth twice. Just in case, Grandmother used
to say. And I would brush my teeth again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then, I’d lie down on top of my plain
white sheets with the fan spinning above. And just before I would close my
eyes, I pressed on my kidney, or the place where I thought it should be, and
checked for kidney stones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">From my seat on the doorstep, I can see a
legion of boys in t-shirts and baseball caps coming towards me, and at first
I’m scared. I try to stand up, if only to block the view of my pink house.
Stand by the mailbox; it’ll look cooler. I worry about whether or not I put on
sunscreen, but only for a moment, before the boys are calling my name. But
they’re just shouting hey Kid or hey You, and I look up. I lean on the mailbox,
but feel it quiver beneath my elbow. Stand up straight; you’ll get Arthritis,
Grandmother used to say. I scratch at the top of my hands; I don’t want
Arthritis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hey, you have a glove? We need one more,
a boy asks. He’s the tallest, and his hair is reddish and freckles look like
they were spat on his round face. But he laughs and the others laugh and I wish
I were him, but only for a second.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I slip my sweaty palm into my
father’s hand-me-down mitt, but quickly take it out again. Mother always tells
me I was horrible at making decisions. You wanna come play? They ask again. But
I hate sports.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">to be continued...</span></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-10399269546916479182012-07-22T15:54:00.000-04:002012-07-22T15:54:56.122-04:00I Am Also... (Part 3)This is the final part, I promise. For the past three weeks, I have been in NYC. And yes, I did buy one of those I <3 NYC shirts while I was there. In addition to buying my new favorite t-shirt, I took three weeks' worth of creative writing classes at Columbia University. Until now, I have been a closet creative writer. This consisted of a few hundred attempts at writing the next "great American novel" (which, despite my distaste for some of the other "greats" like <i>Gatsby</i> or <i>The Scarlet Letter</i>, I am stil trying to create).<br />
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While I do love jigsaw puzzles, creative writing has played a slightly larger role in my life (btw I promise I won't get too cheesy with this...). And so I thought I would tell all of you reading this that the content of my blog might change a bit. Don't worry; I will keep you updated on my final (tear) soccer season.. EVER.... if to simply justify the name of my blog. However, I'm also going to share some of my writing here.<br />
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Don't you hate it when people talk about doing something without actually doing it? ? ? Me too. Expect a post next week with something interesting :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-61165630632449467982012-06-23T10:30:00.000-04:002012-06-27T07:58:23.802-04:00I Am Also... (Part 2)Against my better judgement, I got a Dr. Pepper at the concessions counter before seeing the movie <i>Snow White and the Huntsman</i> with Kristen Stewart and Chris Hemsworth. I am normally the type of person who doesn't get a drink at the movie theater, but figuring that it wouldn't be the end of the world if I missed a few minutes of Stewart's renowned acting in order to pee, I broke my movie-going rules. But with the crossing of a pond roughly forty-five minutes into the movie, I started to regret that Dr. Pepper.<br />
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Yes, despite it being a Kristen Stewart movie, I didn't want to miss any part of it by going to the bathroom. The movie that I had told my friends I was seeing for the special effects hooked me in, my eyes locked to the screen as I desperately sat on my feet and bit my lip.<br />
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Whether Stewart had suddenly gotten better at acting or not, the story line was brilliant. While they can't get <i>all </i>the credit (because it's an adaption of <i>Snow White and the Seven Dwarves</i>), the plot twists that they added to the original story were unique while still being believable. And the set and special effects were also incredible, keeping me in my seat as my bladder was about to explode. For once, the plot of a Disney Princess movie was not driven by a girl's desire for a perfect Prince. Likewise, the movie also strayed from the original by ending with the crowning of Snow White, instead of the Disney wedding with all the forest critters tearing up at the ceremony. Long awaited and surely needed, Disney has given us another heroine to look up to.<br />
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Don't worry, I am not a born-again Stewart fan; that's not what I spent three paragraphs explaining. As I regretted drinking my Dr. Pepper, I thought of another way to define myself (and no, I'm not going to say I have a small bladder, either). In addition to being a soccer player, track runner, high school student and jigsaw puzzler, I am also a movie buff.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-34381500739435122642012-06-14T09:00:00.001-04:002012-06-14T09:00:22.400-04:00I Am Also... (part 1)Despite what many might think, I am not just a soccer playing robot whose sole interest is athletic competition. While I do spend a great deal of time either playing, or complaining about high school sports, I have other hobbies that i devote just as much time to (but perhaps not as much complaining).<div>
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One habbit that I have not been able to kick is my love for online jigsaw puzzles. Yes, I can spend up to two hours clicking together electronic puzzle pieces to reveal pictures that range in content from Florence, Italy to Pokemon.</div>
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Prior to last month, I have never really been a fan of puzzles. I didn't particularly enjoy smashing piece into piece, frequently bending-- or even tearing-- the cheap, thin cardboard slices. However, in the midst of a marathon session on <a href="http://www.stumbleupon.com/">www.stumbleupon.com</a>, I "stumbled upon" a website called <a href="http://www.jigidi.com/" target="_blank">Jigidi</a>. If anyone out there is looking to waste an hour or two (after reading all of my blogs of course... :P), try a jigsaw puzzle on Jigidi. It's fun, free-- and I promise I'm not secretly paid to solicit for them. The pieces don't break, and when they fit just right, the website gives a satisfying CLICK. </div>
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Hi, my name is Carolyn Mazanec, and I am a Jigidi addict.</div>
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For those of you who are athletes out there thinking, "what the...", expecting another blog post about turf or Gatorade, I would like to point out that a jigsaw puzzle is another form of challenge. Jigidi does you the favor of timing how long it takes you to finish a puzzle, and so each new jumbled picture becomes an opportunity to beat your PR speed of completion. While I don't think jigsaw-ing is ready to be an Olympic sport, it is definitely an okay hobby to admit to as an athlete (or at least, thats what I tell myself).</div>
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In addition to being a soccer player, track runner, and high school student, I am also a jigsaw puzzler.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-21214107198622550562012-05-31T22:18:00.004-04:002012-05-31T22:18:39.500-04:00What It Takes<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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About a month before each high school soccer season, I get
this horrible dread that pits in the bottom of my stomach. This is not to say
that I don’t like playing soccer, or that in every second of every game I don’t
spend 110% of my energy trying to outplay, outrun, and outsprint my opponent,
leaving them sputtering in a cloud of turflets. However, just before my first
practice each year, I have that same recurring nightmare of my coach saying “On
the line” in a thick, Russian accent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Although my usual approach to this dread is to ignore the
problem and pretend that I’m not even going to play soccer until that first day
(which is hard to convince myself of considering I haven’t gone a year without
playing soccer since I was three), this year a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHHMaiNyztk" target="_blank">Nike advertisement</a> helped get me
pumped for the season (and yes, you can click on the words “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHHMaiNyztk" target="_blank">Nike advertisement</a>”
to watch the commercial).<o:p></o:p></div>
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Firstly, I am not trying to solicit for any brand nor am I
saying that my sole motivation for playing high school soccer is the sports
gear that comes with it. While the Nike logo is visible throughout the entire
sixty-one seconds, this advertisement also promotes the power and strength that
one can obtain by simply being an athlete. Despite the inspirational song that
plays in the background, I am not fooled by their attempt to depict working out
as fun. Running sprints, doing ladders, and crunching those abs is not fun. So
why do I do it? Why do I endure the horrible dread that pits in the bottom of
my stomach or get on the line after each practice? The answer is simple:
Because I’m an athlete. Because I want to win and if running sprints, doing
ladders, and crunching those abs is what I need to do, then I’ll <i>Just Do It</i>. And while I can’t say I’m
looking forward to all of the stress and the pain, at least I’m ready for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-42721408796785682682012-05-18T08:44:00.002-04:002012-05-18T08:47:09.343-04:00A Good Sports Movie is Like a Designer Handbag.A good sports movie is like a designer handbag. Each scene needs to be stitched together ever-so-seamlessly in order for the movie to flow naturally. While designer handbags are stitched with silvery thread, a good sports movie must be sewed up with quotable lines that are both unique and of high quality. They must also have a central theme, and aggressively stray from the plague of too many morals of the story, just as a purse should not have both zebra stripes and rainbow polka dots on it at the same time. And while you want there to be a moral of the story, you also want to avoid any cheesy lines that can make the underlying emotion in the scene seem false. Similarly, you want to avoid the knock-off Gucci bags in Chinatown, seeing that it will never be able to give you the satisfaction that the original can.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
Although there is more than one bag or purse that fits this criteria, everyone has a favorite. Some people just simply like Juicy over Prada, with no rhyme or reason to it. As for me, I have simply always loved the movie, <u>Coach Carter</u>, directed by a Mr. Thomas Carter. While I love the movie for its brief shirtless scenes of Channing Tatum, I watch <u>Coach Carter</u> instead of Google-imaging Channing Tatum because of the knockout quotes that steadily stream from the screen.</div>
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"I came to coach basketball players, and you became students. I came to teach boys, and you became men." ~Coach Carter</div>
<span style="background-color: #93c47d;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"<span style="line-height: 18px;">Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." ~Timo Cruz</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">These are just a few of my favorite quotes from <u>Coach Carter</u>, the moments when I get a chill from just from watching someone else say these words. Unlike a designer handbag, a good sports movie can have a lasting impact on you that can change the way you think about things. If there are any other sports movie quotes that inspire you, I'd love to hear them! And if you haven't seen <u>Coach Carter</u> before, I strongly encourage you to buy it on Netflix or Demand; it's much better than a designer handbag, and much less expensive.</span></span><br />
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-67794726585002321042012-05-05T19:38:00.001-04:002012-05-05T19:38:11.213-04:00Soccer Girl Probs"Those who can celebrate Cinco de Drinko today, go drink your faces off....however, God be with those who have a game tomorrow <s style="text-decoration: none;">#</s><b style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">SGP."</b><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After our annual pre-pre-preseason soccer meeting, one of my friends showed me a twitter account called @SoccerGirlProblems. With 93,600 followers, you know that her tweets must be hilarious, relatable, and under 140 characters. The account stemmed from a popular YouTube video called, "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YiyPJnsoe9c" target="_blank">Sh*t Soccer Girls Say</a>". In just under five and a half minutes, these girls are able to say all of the things that every soccer player has thought at some point or another. I would put this video right up there with the YouTube sensation, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWNaR-rxAic&ob=av2n" target="_blank">Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen</a> or <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wRXa971Xw0&feature=relmfu" target="_blank">Jenna Marbles</a>'s videos. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
@SoccerGirlProblems is able to hit you on all electronic fronts... accessible on twitter, YouTube, and even on <a href="http://www.ourgamemagazine.com/?p=7057" target="_blank">http://www.ourgamemagazine.com/?p=7057 </a>. With so much to say, they need all the web-based outlets they can get. I would really recommend watching the videos linked above and checking out their blog and twitter account. If you're in the mood for a quick laugh, check 'em out!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-36593450163767494892012-04-22T10:55:00.002-04:002012-04-22T10:55:40.734-04:00The Benedict Arnold of the Twenty-first CenturyAlthough its a name I can barely get my lips to mouth, a sore subject that I rarely like to bring up, I think it's time to talk about LeBron. Now nearing the end of the NBA season, there are a few things that no Cavaliers fan likes to bring up. With a term well-known to most Cleveland sports fans, this was a"rebuilding year" for our hometown Cavaliers.<br />
<br />
So instead of succumbing to the disappointment of a weak season without LeBron, many Cavaliers fans have switched their focus to watching the Heat. As avid as we all once were in cheering for LeBron's victory, we now are just as avidly cheering against him, if not more so. LeBron has made himself, at least in the eyes of many Cleveland-ers, the Benedict Arnold of the Twenty-first Century.<br />
<br />
I'm sure you reading this have heard of the many LeBron jersey campfires that ensued "The Decision" broadcasted by ESPN. In the video below, another fan finds a small hometown victory in the Mavericks victory over the Heat. In what little ways we can keep ourselves sane as Cavaliers fans, we find the glass half-full when LeBron is defeated after his betrayal of Cleveland.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJ4TFETdWMk&feature=plcp&context=C4f661f9VDvjVQa1PpcFOgi-_gvGAGd3ZNWVWisltUuObOA3urppg%3D" target="_blank">Crazy Fan Reaction</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-23479963371574995802012-04-07T10:33:00.001-04:002012-04-07T10:36:34.296-04:00The Silence of the National AnthemI think my favorite part of a soccer game would be the National Anthem played at the beginning. Although it's mostly considered the one part of a two hour activity that could be cut in order to get us home before 10 on a school night, I would like to disagree.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>No, I don't think that a girls highschool soccer game in Northeast Ohio is played in order to honor one's country. And I don't pretend to take it that seriously. However, I think the National Anthem serves a purpose each time its played as the men take their caps off. For me, it pumps me up. Standing there with my team, staring at the flag and humming under my breath, I silently prepare for my game. It gives me those 90 seconds to think for myself, without the constant stream of voices from my coaches, teammates, and parents. Its the time I take to breathe. In 90 seconds, I look ahead at the next 80 minutes of soccer I have to play, and think, I can do this.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So clearly, to me the National Anthem is not about the quality of song. Whether its a tape recording or the entire Cleveland Orchestra strumming along, I think regardless. And so, when a singer tries to make the National Anthem about them, I get annoyed. At the championship March Madness game between Kansas and Kentucky, The Fray sang the National Anthem for two college basketball teams, their coaches and staff, and a completely sold out arena. When I watched this video (linked below), I was floored by their confidence to think that they could rewrite the National Anthem, a song sung since 1889, and somehow think they could make it better. Although I am a huge fan of The Fray, I was definitely disappointed by their over-complication of a song beautiful for its simplicity. At best, I would call this a mosquito-like distraction to an otherwise exciting game.</div><div><br />
</div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQXkqoJnIlg&feature=youtu.be" target="_blank">The Fray National Anthem</a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-31126567486461037202012-04-02T21:06:00.001-04:002012-04-02T21:07:24.013-04:00It's Been A While.Hi everyone! Like the title implies, it's definitely been a while since the last time I posted. Now that we're half way through the spring, there's a lot that I need to catch you up on! This winter, as you might have assumed, was incredibly dull and sport-free. There were no lamentable snow storms, no noteworthy UFO sightings, and the Cavaliers never upset the Heat. With all this free time I had, you might've guessed that I spent most of my time of YouTube: to-date the greatest cure for boredom. After hours of clicking on related videos, I stumbled upon a video that I thought you all might like to see...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKMllY6jHp0">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKMllY6jHp0</a><br />
<br />
When I showed my friends this video, half of them thought it was film-edited, while the other half found it believable. Being one to hope for semi-miracles, I chose to argue for its authenticity. Evan Longoria must have heard the ball coming, and reached out his hand quick enough to catch it! But the debate continues... email or comment your opinions!!<br />
<br />
And as for catching you up on whats been going on these past few months, I guess you'll just have to wait for my next blog post. Which, fingers crossed, should be ready for reading by next weekend. Happy Spring,<br />
<br />
GooUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-18574390467634289052011-11-13T18:08:00.000-05:002011-11-13T18:08:13.121-05:00Hi Again!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hello everybody! I just wanted to apologize for taking so long to post again, I know its been a long long long long long long long long long time (and I’m sure still longer than the amount of time it took you to read that).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The soccer season is over by now, and since starting in July, I would say a 4 month season was plenty. However, despite all the complaining I did about the long practices and endless conditioning, my time has never been as well spent as it was during this season. Monday through Saturday I spent with my team, out on the fields working on drills and running and headers and crosses and running and corners and free kicks, and did I mention running? Back in July we welcomed in the new freshmen after saying goodbye to the old seniors, and rebuilt our happy, misfit, and sometimes dysfunctional family.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In previous years people have said that our coach, Stan, was like the second Uncle of the family. For a long time he was the authoritative leader that was not to be crossed, and even, although we hate to admit, feared by the team. But this year, he listened to what we had to say and what we wanted to change, and went above and beyond to make it happen for us. And in return, we recognized that although some may disagree with his coaching style, none can say that he is not dedicated to each and every one of us as players. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And this year was fun. We were winning, and somehow balancing working hard with having a good time in both our games and practices. With an undefeated record by the end of the season and a conference championship, we were excited and happy and pumped for the play offs.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are many reasons that I wish our season hadn’t ended as early as it did. Yes, I wanted to win states. And badly. But also, I wanted that for my teammates and coaches as well. Although I probably wouldn’t have admitted it then, I loved spending all of my time with my crazy soccer family. Some of the seniors being a few of my closest friends, I’m sad to be past the last game I’ll get to play with them. But I look back on this season and see an amazing run, with so many high points that they almost completely hide the disappointing lows. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And don’t worry readers. Because next year, we’ll be back.<o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-67260567746692064422011-10-19T18:43:00.000-04:002011-10-19T18:43:06.956-04:00This Is It.<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Since I started high school in 2009, this time of year has meant one thing: play offs. Like the pumpkin pie to my Thanksgiving or the Santa Clause to my Christmas (for those of you who are Jewish or simply don’t practice Christianity, please bare with me for a moment. I urge you to come up with a similar comparison, whether it be with dreidels, jack-o-lanterns, or tooth fairies!), Play offs is the creamy nougat center of my 3 Musketeers Bar (too far?).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Today we played our first game of the tournament, and are thankfully moving onward. With the beginning of a hopefully long road ahead of us, I couldn’t think of any better way to start it than some pump up music. Here are the top five songs I listen to when getting ready for the play offs. Feel free to agree, disagree, or give back any suggestions you might have. Some of my stuff’s a bit outdated, but has kept me going all the same. To the first steps of a long awaited journey! (And no, I’m not afraid to admit that I feel like Odysseus or even Forest Gump right now. “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.”)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Forever- Drake ft. Lil Wayne, Kanye West, and Eminem<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I Put on for My City by Young Jeezy ft. Kanye West<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lose Yourself- Eminem<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Zombie Nation- Kenkraft 400<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Can’t Be Touched- Roy Jones Jr.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-51655921192373269662011-10-09T08:36:00.000-04:002011-10-09T08:36:43.734-04:00The True Holy Grail, Last Hoarcrux, Golden Ticket<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Rewards, incentives, motives, prizes…… my life is bloated, bursting at the seams, leaking from the bottom, overflowing at the top with other people’s reasons why I should work my hardest (when honestly, I already am). Most of you out there have been familiar with point systems, privileges such as rewards cards for Walgreens or Frequent Flyer miles at Continental Airlines. Our school has a House system (which extends my delusion that I’m actually attending Hogwarts just a bit farther), which gives points for an assortment of deeds, ranging from community service to Field Day activities. However, every point system can step over the limit (or jump or leap or skip, specifically when someone mistakenly tried to give us House points for donating our organs last year….. long story. But that was more of a hundred yard jump over the line with a pair of moon shoes). <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">In sports, while incentives can be an excellent source of motivation for your team, can also push the limit. What happened to wanting to win simply just for the rights to sing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We Are The Champions </i>at the top of your lungs? Or for the pounding in your chest and the smile that, as hard as you try, can’t be wiped off your face? Like Indiana Jones, true athletes are on a quest. However, we aren’t looking for the Holy Grail, but the big W. And you won’t find it in the prizes or point systems (but feel free to double check). Being insanely competitive (which, as most of you know, doesn’t come in handy when playing friendly games of Monopoly or ping pong), is pretty much enough motivation for me. And I’m not unique by any standards; most athletes can remember at some point in their lives screaming that the “game is stupid” or “someone’s cheating”, because by all means there’s no possible way you could be losing. Although this seems like a horrible trait (and I assure you it can be), I’ve found it pretty helpful in sports. So while your coach’s incentives may be well-meaning, tell he/she that you don’t need them. You simply want to win.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">On a separate note, I want to congratulate all you lady hawks out there! Winning CVCs was a major feat, and we couldn’t have done it without any member from the team. We wanted to win, and we did. We worked hard for it and I am so proud of everyone. (Good thing we found the big W hiding in the back of the net). <o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-18627912764933170832011-09-30T14:49:00.000-04:002011-09-30T14:49:32.235-04:00FML to BFFL<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t understand the people who say that autumn is their favorite sport. Yes, it’s pretty. And yes, there is the bonus of my birthday being on September 9<sup>th</sup> (which I’m sure is the real reason that people across the globe love this dreary season). Between the showers of rain that seem to want to make the flowers (still standing) gargantuan monsters and lakes of mud that hide the ugly beasts who cling to your cars with sharpened talons, paralyzing your innocent Prius or Honda CRV.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Practicing sports in the mud isn’t any nicer. True, you get to slide and stomp and splish and splash in the mounds of not-so-chocolatey goodness (if that sounds oddly appealing to some of you). However, no one can argue that they like the feeling of dirt beneath their fingernails (or rather, no one can sanely disagree), or for that matter, in your hair, behind your ears, under your feet or splattered across your face. However, if I’m not here to cheer you up, than what am I doing? And so, here are my Five Reasons Why… that slimy brown gloop is your friend.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 24pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For those of you who play sports with goalies, muddy conditions always make it harder for them to be on their game. So shoot! Your BFFL mud has got you covered, you can bet it’s going in.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 24pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">If you’re feeling slow, Mud has your back. He slows down your opponents and lets you catch your breath, no problem (true, he’ll probably slow you down a little bit too, but he won’t mean too. And anyways, that’s beside the point. Keep it positive!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 24pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">If you feel your cleats look too clean and new (making them an envy of the other girls on your team, who therefore won’t pass to you), Mud will give them a good ol’ bear hug and you’re good to go!<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 24pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Mud loves being the scapegoat. Truly! It’s his favorite role to play. If you’re having a bad game, Mud will gladly take full responsibility, no questions asked. He’s just a good friend like that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 24pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And five, Mud is the kind of friend that will walk you all the way home. He isn’t shy; he’ll walk right up to your parents and introduce himself! He’s polite that way, you see.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Still not convinced that Mud is your friend? Fine, then go buy yourself a Swiffer Sweeper and be done with it. At least I tried… happy fall!!!<o:p></o:p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-20289576589228147942011-09-24T06:30:00.000-04:002011-09-24T06:30:01.228-04:00The Neon Shoe Issue<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although I just got my shoes last year, and they are not the least bit worn or weathered, I still want a new pair of cleats. If a player from another team decided to try to sabotage me by cutting holes in my cleats and spray-painting them yellow, I would be all the more grateful. Not that I don’t like my current shoes, because they have been pretty good to me, never complaining as I leave my sweaty socks inside them or get turf wedged in between their creases. But when the mighty mail man (who my dog not-so-secretly despises), drops off a new soccer apparel magazine that has me drooling over the glossy pages. (However, I manage to do so in an elegant, lady-like fashion…)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now I’m sure most of you know what the neon shoe issue is. Or if you don’t, you can probably guess what it is. Go on, give it a try… no idea? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The neon shoe issue is that when you get neon-colored shoes and play sports in them, people expect you to be pretty good at that sport. I mean, you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did </i>by neon shoes. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, now back to me. Because this blog, after all, is about me (see the title if you don’t believe me). As I was flipping through the magazine, drooling a little bit, even getting teary eyed on certain pages (though I’d hate to admit it), I couldn’t help but stopping on the page with all the neon shoes. They are brilliant! Like highlighters that your feet can be cozily wrapped in: purples and blues and pinks and yellows and greens. Every month it seems that Nike out does itself, finding more and more combinations of neons to splash together on a shoe. And can you blame them? They look amazing. I’m tempted to sabotage my own shoes just to get a pair. But then I thought about the reputation they’d get me. I don’t want too high of expectations set for me, and especially expectations made because of my shoes! Some of you out there probably think the whole issue is pretty silly. And it is. But I can’t help fearing the neon shoes, and so I push the magazine away. Plus, Ole Faithful, lefty and righty, are calling me from the mudroom, asking to be rid of little turflets and nasty socks. And so, I walk away.<o:p></o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-38361468792266482382011-09-16T09:50:00.002-04:002011-09-16T09:50:32.027-04:00The Sole Survivor<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, the war is over. The battle to the death has come to a screeching halt; the winning gladiator spattered with blood… (okay, maybe I’m taking it a bit too far). But, as sad as it is to say, the Haiku Contest is finally closed. I just wanted to say that I appreciated all of your submissions, and if later on you come up with a winner of a Haiku, feel free to send it to me despite the fact that the contest is over. I love reading them, and although you may not get the tantalizing prize, at least you’ll get the satisfaction of getting a chuckle out of me. Which isn’t hard to do, but I appreciate it none-the-less. So now, what you’ve all been waiting for… the winning haiku!!! As promised, Here is the winning three lines... fifteen words… seventeen syllables… (If I was even remotely tech-savvy I would try to insert a synthesized drum roll here. But since I am not, rest assured that right now I am somewhere banging on my desk, or to my parent’s dismay, maybe even my dining room table.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The turf cuts me knees<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What a lovely day outside<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wish we had grass.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Although it was an extremely tough decision, this haiku stole the gold. Made the kill shot. Took the trophy. The author was left anonymous, and so I will forever wonder who sent me this delightful poem. (However, the ambiguity of it all adds to the appeal, I think). My favorite part is when the author uses “me” instead of the anticipated “my” in the first line. Whether a fortunate typo or some brilliant word choice, this made the poem made me think of a leprechaun clicking his heels together, like I was thrown into a world where the short man on the front of my Lucky Charms box invites me to come play soccer with he and the other cereal-eating, just-as-animated kids that I see every morning at the breakfast table. This made me think of some possible titles for the haiku, like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Leprechaun’s Dream of Frolicking in the Grass </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At Least the Turf Don’t Come Up to Me Shoulders</i>. However, as I am not the author of this poem, we all must be forever guessing. Excellent work Anonymous, please keep writing!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-23971391461317881742011-09-07T08:10:00.000-04:002011-09-07T08:10:00.837-04:00Haiku Contest<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">Black Under Armour</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">A hug that trumps one from you</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">When the rain falls down.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">Turflets in my ears,</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sorry, what did you just say?</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">I couldn’t hear you.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">One minute’s alone,</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sitting up on the scoreboard,</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">With it’s friend, pressure.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">I never like it</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">When the crowd forgets to cheer,</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">The silence crushed me.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Haikus, haikus, haikus! The only type of poem that can be sane and insane, crazy and tame, silly and serious, all within three lines. 17 syllables. The object of this contest is to come up with the most creative sports haikus that you can think of. Post them in the comments below this entry, or email them to me at goohighschoolsports@gmail.com.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But contests are for competing and competing leads to winning and those who win are winners. And so, there must be a prize (to give to the winners for winning). The Prize: I will post the winning haiku in my next blog entry. So, with that tantalizing reward, create haikus! (But please keep them PG. And on a more serious note, try not to battle to the death on this one. Although I know you all are dying to win, It is not Gladiators.)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-3028480915752557032011-08-31T19:10:00.001-04:002011-08-31T19:10:00.146-04:00Our Narnia<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">You know you’re an athlete when you walk into Dick’s Sporting Goods claiming to be broke and walk out of it with a bag full of “the coolest stuff that you couldn’t believe you were playing without”. This doesn’t mean that you can’t like regular shopping too (I promise, when it comes to shopping you do not need to be monogamous). But I have never met an athlete who has ever distinctly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>liked Dick’s. And how can you not? With their candy-colored shorts, their endless array of dunks, their rack upon rack of running shirts and Under Armour and tennis skirts and swim suits. What’s not to like?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even in the camping section, me not being the outdoorsiest of people, I can’t help but enjoy the tents set up to fight off the crazy Dick’s wilderness (especially the dangerous predators in green polos to match their natural habitat), or the kayaks laid down to test on the roaring waves of the carpet. It’s always been on my bucket list to find a way to hide out in the tents over night.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Walking into a Dick’s Sporting Goods is an experience that I enjoy without hesitation (though it might be best if I hesitate. But what else can you do with an over-active imagination like mine?). Which is why I am here to warn you, don’t order things from Dick’s online. For one, I am sure you will make the mistake, as we all have, of typing in dicks.com instead of <a href="http://www.dickssportinggoods.com/">www.dickssportinggoods.com</a>. Not a forgiveable mistake either (I just hope, for your sake, that when you make this mistake you are alone, and can quickly correct it). And two, you miss the visit to an athlete’s wonderland, Disneyworld, and Neverland combined. Where all one’s dreams come true in the form of athletic apparel and sports equipment!<o:p></o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-51009792181283567662011-08-24T06:20:00.000-04:002011-08-24T06:20:01.916-04:00Legions of Air Buds<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Now, I have two dogs. The one is sweet, kind, cuddly, and a little on the chubby side (but for those of you who have chubby dogs out there, you know its an endearing quality). He is a really great dog, but my family has accepted early on that he will not be the next Air Bud.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For those of you who missed the essential childhood experience of watching Air Bud, it’s about an athletic golden retriever who goes out for the soccer team, football team, baseball team… you get the point (they made a LOT of sequels, being quite the blockbuster hit. I’m still confused why it didn’t win an Oscar). <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My other dog, though not a golden retriever and definitely not as well trained, might as well be Air Bud’s long lost twin (or maybe adoptive cousin, I’m not sure which). My dog Maggie seems to find energy when no one else in the house has any, bringing us tennis balls that we honestly couldn’t care less about, though we pretend to as to not break her little heart. Maggie likes tennis balls, footballs, golf balls, you name it; She’s called it her friend and chewed it up all in the same hour. When I’m in my backyard practicing my soccer skills (which should happen more often than it does), Maggie feels like she has to be apart of the “good time” I’m having. She takes the ball with her teeth and runs with it until she realizes I’m not chasing her. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m sure to some of you out there this story sounds vaguely familiar. There’s something almost creepy about how dogs can literally <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never </i>take their eyes off the ball (I’m sure it’s magic, but since I haven’t gotten my owl yet I can only guess it is). But what’s the point? Other than getting frustrated and having a no-longer-usable, chewed-up soccer ball, football, golf ball, etc. And no, I’m not suggesting that you try and bring your dog to practice (although I have to admit, when our coach said we needed more players I immediately thought of my dog). The point is that those of you who have your own personal Air Bud residing in your house, feel free to use them. Try dribbling around them, making passes while they’re pressuring you, even trying to out run them to the ball. It’ll be good practice, and you’ll make your own Air Bud very happy. For those of you with cats or Chihuahuas… sorry, you’re out of luck.<o:p></o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-20550394879640579882011-08-18T07:08:00.001-04:002011-08-18T07:08:01.497-04:00Pre-Game Praying<div class="MsoNormal">Before I go on with this entry, I just want to make it clear that I am not trying to convert anyone. If I were, this blog would surely be called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goo in the Convent </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crusader Goo</i>. But seeing as that it is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>called either of those names, I assure you I’m doing nothing of the sort. Because this blog is called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Silent I in Team</i> (for those of you who didn’t know, though I hope you would. It’s written right above this, you see), this blog is obviously, blatantly, self-centeredly, fabulously about me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, before soccer games (and sprints that really scare me), I quickly cross myself and pray. Nothing too needy, for I wouldn’t want to take an important prayer from someone who really needed it (although I’m not sure that’s how God works. Of course, I wouldn’t know). I usually pray for courage or strength (but don’t think I’m too profound, because I also sing Eminem’s very explicit rap songs while running my ladders and pyramids).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This normally helps calm my nerves, because most of the time, talking helps me with the pre-game/ pre-sprint jitters. Yes, I could probably talk to my teammates instead. And after the game or sprints, I generally do. But beforehand, I tend to talk more than I should. When I’m nervous, I ask a lot of questions at a very fast pace, and often annoy whoever I’m talking to rather quickly. (By the way, this also applies to my track season, as well as my soccer season.) But if I say a prayer, I tend to a) talk less, because I’m not getting an immediate response and b) don’t annoy who I’m talking to (because I don’t think even the most annoying of people could annoy God. Or else, it’d be really hard to, anyways).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For me, praying is what gets me focused and prepares me for what I’m about to do. Whether it be praying or stretching or jumping or singing Eminem songs, you should do whatever calms your nerves.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-6699365849059298522011-08-12T15:46:00.000-04:002011-08-12T15:46:28.016-04:00School is starting in a week or so for many of you, and with the K Mart commercials there to constantly remind you, how can anyone forget. In roughly a week, we will have to go back to long days of class and longer nights of practice and homework (or rather, practice then dinner then shower then facebook then <a href="http://stumbleupon.com/">stumbleupon.com</a> then more facebook and then maybe, just maybe, some homework). And it doesn't seem like there's much to look forward to now that late August is here. (The Green Day song, <i>Wake Me Up When September Ends </i>has always confused me. Why do they want it to be October? And wouldn't you rather wake up when May ends, when school let's out? But this is besides the point.)<div><br />
</div><div>The point is that although the end of August looks bleak, there are a few things that you as a high school athlete have to look forward to. For example, pre-season is almost over! You survived! All those sprints you ran and crunches you crunched and push ups you pushed are starting to have a purpose. Which brings me to my next point... you'll finally start playing games! You're starting to remember why you were practicing in the first place. Why you were conditioning. Why you were interrupting you're lazy days by the pool to go soak in the heat from the nice turf fields (which is another issue entirely). I love packing my uniform in my bag before heading off to school, pumping myself up throughout the day, counting down to 3:15 (even though it makes that slow, boring, last class of the day go by that much slower). We practice to play games. And we play games because we like playing them. And so even if homework has gotten you down (my summer reading not quite done...), the idea of classes and quizes and tests and grades and G.P.A.s and SATs has you feeling a little sad, remember that at least your season is finally here, it's finally game day and you're ready to play.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And for those of you who play winter or spring sports... you'll survive. You always do.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-36748194765579245002011-08-07T14:07:00.001-04:002011-08-07T14:07:00.130-04:00The Battle Between Turf and Grass<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The on-going battle between turf and grass has been heating up as more and more turf fields are being built. Now, not only professional athletes get to feel the extra cushion from the little black ‘turflets’, but both colleges and high schools are also installing the plastic green grass in between their bleachers. Both turf and grass have their strengths and weaknesses. Turf doesn’t need to be cut, supplies athletes with a soft, even surface to play on, and doesn’t get plucked away by cleats (unlike grass, that seems to ‘disappear’ in the commonly-used areas of the field). Both hurt when you fall, although turf doesn’t normally stain your jersey. And both flood.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">However, you can’t get around the fact that Turf <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">isn’t real</i>. I used to joke around with my friends about how our grandchildren will one day call grass <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">synthetic turf</i> instead of calling turf <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">synthetic grass</i>. But now, I’m starting to think that this might actually happen. The radical-thinking, kind-of-sort-of-really-crazy side of me is screaming, FIRST SYNTHETIC GRASS, THEN SYNTHETIC PETS, THEN SYNTHETIC PEOPLE! THE WORLD IS GOING TO BE TAKEN OVER BY ROBOTS! (Of course, I would never say this in public, only on the Internet…) But then, I quickly calm myself down and stop screaming inside my head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Turf is now not only being used for athletics, but also for everyday landscaping. Someday, I predict there’ll be more ‘turflets’ than there is dirt, and more green plastic shreds than there are blades of grass. However, because I blog about high school sports, I’ll resist from pretending to know anything about modern landscaping. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">From my perspective as a soccer player, each surface gives you a completely different game. Grass is less predictable regarding how the ball is going to bounce off of the ground, and Turf makes for a faster paced game (because of how the ball rolls faster). Most players have mixed feelings regarding the battle; neither side is generally favored. Between the turf and the grass, it generally comes down to hand-to-hand combat, angry squabbles on the playground and heated arguments at the dinner table. Which is better, turf or grass? Friendships have been ruined and families have been divided. Which side are you on?<o:p></o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5057971190655871218.post-85237871670222256742011-08-03T15:50:00.001-04:002011-08-03T15:51:49.702-04:00The Fish Trick<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I don’t know if any of you have ever been fed candy by your coaches at halftime, but if you have, you’ll know about the fish trick. The fish trick is when your coach gives you Swedish Fish in the middle of a game, hoping to spark your energy by giving you a sugar rush. Being me, I would be the last person to argue. Candy in between halves? I’m all in! But, I’ve found it hard to believe that a little red, gummy fish can make much of a difference in the second half of my soccer games. So curiosity may have killed the cat, but it left me perfectly fine. I searched for my answer on the Internet (the all-knowing, all-powerful. Mac stores? Giant shrines to today’s new best friend, the Internet. Of course, this is beside the point. And since I am no technology expert, I won’t pretend to know any more about it). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Now, typing ‘the fish trick’ into the search bar on Google didn’t do much. I guess not many people call it that (especially because I just made up that nickname for the purposes of this blog. It was a short title, you know? More appealing than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why Do Some Coaches Feed Their Athletes Candy in the Middle of their Games? </i>Plus, that was much too long. Let me know if you can think of anything better). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">From my reliable source, Yahoo! Answers, I discovered that the sugar in candy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does </i>give you a quick energy boost in the middle of a game. But it also depends on how much candy you eat. Does one little red gummy do the trick? And a sugar rush, as told by Yahoo! Answers, will roughly last from a half hour to an hour, depending on how much you eat. Now I’m assuming that one little red fishy will have you on the shorter end of that range, but even if I didn’t assume that, would you want to take the risk? Crashing from a sugar rush makes you instantly exhausted and sluggish.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Soccer games are split into two 45-minute halves. If you’re lucky, the crash wouldn’t hit you until after the game. But there’s a fair chance that it could zip away all of your energy and leave you melting away in the middle of the field sometime during the second half. (Well, I don’t think it’s that dramatic. But you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> suddenly feel tired.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">For those of you who have never heard of the fish trick before, because your coaches haven’t fallen for it’s pseudo magical powers like some of mine have, than you’re in luck. No risk! But for those of you who are ever offered the little red fishy, feel free to decline. For those of you who took my advice (yay!), but are still looking for energy and want to avoid the forsaken ‘crash’, what do you do? Is there no hope? Well, don’t fear, because there is. Gatorade replenishes your electrolytes without giving you that crash that can be detrimental to the last few minutes of your game, the minutes that really count. And they’ve even created this new Gatorade Series that has five million different parts, a goop, a drink, and a shake. So how could they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> know what they’re talking about? They do, I assure you they do. Why do you think so many athletes endorse their product? (Well, obviously because they get paid millions of dollars if they simply say they drink the stuff. But still, they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must</i> think it works if they’re willing to endorse it, right?) So the moral of the story is… say NO to the little red fishy, but drink the multicolored, electrolyte-packed Gatorade ocean that he swims in.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0