The other day my brother and I were discussing the incredible disparity between the break rooms at our respective workplaces. Zack works at HEB, the nice grocery store in town. I work at WalMart. Zack was telling me about the HEB break room, which includes a nice sofa with an HDTV with cable. He described its niceness and continued to fuel my jealousy. You see, the WalMart breakroom is not nearly as nice. Don't get me wrong, you are missing out if you have yet to spend time in a Wally World break room, whether the things you are missing are fair or foul may lie solely in the eye of the beholder.
The room is filled with several rows of long rectangular card tables. My guess is that one day the managers had to take down some kind of clearance feature filled with them and decided that rather than send them to the garbage, they would give their employees tables for their break room instead. Only the Lord knows just how old those tables are, or Ms Hannah (not actual name), who I'm pretty sure is old enough to be his kindergarten teacher.
There are a lot of creatures in the break room (other than humans and other unidentifiable life forms currently employed there). Ants are a particular nuisance. They are everywhere. It doesn't matter where you put food, if you leave it there more than five minutes, you will be sharing with your friendly neighborhood colony of Camponotus consobrinus's.
Adjacent to the break room is the smoking room. It separated by a wall with the top half made of glass. I think it looks like a terrarium, filled with really weird people. I wish the glass was a one-way mirror instead, that way I could observe the peculiar rituals that people who smoke have. I just re read that and realized how creepy it sounds, but still, I think management should look into it. The regular break room has a photo of Sam Walton on the back wall, but the smoking room has a very strange portrait on its rear wall. Its a portrait with a first-person view of a man looking out at his study from behind his giant antique desk. In his hand is a giant cigar, which he is apparently enjoying while staring at his giant globe (maybe that's what rich smokers do, look at globes, thinking about the world and why it is round. I suppose it depends entirely on what exactly the person is smoking). The only part of him you can see is his hand, which is wrinkly and old and actually kind of gross. I'm not sure if he is actually old or if he's thirty and the artist just drew the wrinkles for realism. Either way, I think its a strange painting.
The one redeeming quality about the break room are the people. Its mostly full of old people to be quite honest, but old people can be the most entertaining. My favorite thing about old people is how they talk about illnesses (which come to think is about all they ever talk about, other than their kids/grandkids). I love how they put "the" before every illness, the same way peasants in medieval movies talk about the black plague. "Hey Bernice, did you hear Lavern has the Fibromialgia?". Just adding that "the" to the name makes chronic aches and pains sound more like terminal Lepracy. My favorite use of this sort of phrasing went as follows: Lady 1"Well I took the grandson to the doctor yesterday, says he's come down with the A.D.D."
Lady 2"Oh dear, whats his prognosis?"
Lady 1 "Well they got him on the Ritalin, but I think he already gets those from friends. I don't know."
Lady 2 "You think its gonna help him in school?"
Lady 1 "Nah, but there's always the military. He does like to play with guns."
I love my job
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Safety Recall
As a Site-To-Store Associate at Walmart, I spend a lot of time in the area that used to be Layaway. Its located in the middle of the back wall, where you will also find bathrooms, water fountains, and, of course, the safety recall board. This is perhaps the most hilarious/alarming/are-you-friggin-kidding-me area of the entire store. During a particularly slow period of my shift, I traveled beyond the desk and looked at the items on the board. Items recalled are as follows.
Highchairs: "Severe Lacerations"
Apparently a certain brand of highchair not only lets you feed your baby while including it in family meals, it also can shred it to pieces....particularly horrifying.
Baby Food: "Acute Diarrhea"
Not just Diarrhea. ACUTE DIARRHEA!! I don't really want to play out scenarios in my head of this, but I imagine that could get pretty messy.
Trampoline: "Failure to meet weight capacity requirements"
Will break you bones, and destroy your self esteem when you look at the box and see that you single-handedly broke a trampoline supposedly designed to withstand over 1000lbs of weight bouncing up and down on it. Nobody wants to be "That Guy" at the birthday party.
Water-Activated Flashlight: "Electrocution"
First off, unless I'm spear-fishing for Barracudas in the Amazon at one in the morning, I don't really see a need for a water-activated flashlight. Secondly, I would never trust it not to zap me. So when I heard that this flashlight had a tendency to electrocute its users while submerged in water, I wasn't exactly, well....shocked.
Lawn Mower: "Involuntary Engine Startage/Risk of projectile blades"
I think of it as "Brave Little Toaster" meets "Texas Chainsaw Massacre". This definitely reignites the instinctive distrust of yard equipment I've had ever since I was electrocuted by my weed-eater. Aside from the obvious physical dangers and potentially catastrophic events this type of defect could create, think also of the mental damage this could do. Somewhere there is a child who is always sitting in his room grounded for refusing to mow the lawn based on his conclusions that Lawn Mower is alive. "Dad, I swear it starts by itself and starts flinging the blades at me!!!", followed by a response from the Dad: "C'mon Nancy! Stop slacking and get to work!!". Best case scenario, we have a new Stephen King. Worst case, he either falls victim to the blades of the evil grass cutter, or takes the anguish felt from the mistrust of his father and propels himself towards a life of crime. I feel for the kid. I really do.
Highchairs: "Severe Lacerations"
Apparently a certain brand of highchair not only lets you feed your baby while including it in family meals, it also can shred it to pieces....particularly horrifying.
Baby Food: "Acute Diarrhea"
Not just Diarrhea. ACUTE DIARRHEA!! I don't really want to play out scenarios in my head of this, but I imagine that could get pretty messy.
Trampoline: "Failure to meet weight capacity requirements"
Will break you bones, and destroy your self esteem when you look at the box and see that you single-handedly broke a trampoline supposedly designed to withstand over 1000lbs of weight bouncing up and down on it. Nobody wants to be "That Guy" at the birthday party.
Water-Activated Flashlight: "Electrocution"
First off, unless I'm spear-fishing for Barracudas in the Amazon at one in the morning, I don't really see a need for a water-activated flashlight. Secondly, I would never trust it not to zap me. So when I heard that this flashlight had a tendency to electrocute its users while submerged in water, I wasn't exactly, well....shocked.
Lawn Mower: "Involuntary Engine Startage/Risk of projectile blades"
I think of it as "Brave Little Toaster" meets "Texas Chainsaw Massacre". This definitely reignites the instinctive distrust of yard equipment I've had ever since I was electrocuted by my weed-eater. Aside from the obvious physical dangers and potentially catastrophic events this type of defect could create, think also of the mental damage this could do. Somewhere there is a child who is always sitting in his room grounded for refusing to mow the lawn based on his conclusions that Lawn Mower is alive. "Dad, I swear it starts by itself and starts flinging the blades at me!!!", followed by a response from the Dad: "C'mon Nancy! Stop slacking and get to work!!". Best case scenario, we have a new Stephen King. Worst case, he either falls victim to the blades of the evil grass cutter, or takes the anguish felt from the mistrust of his father and propels himself towards a life of crime. I feel for the kid. I really do.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Could somebody get me a manual??
It has been quite some time since I have posted something new. And even LONGER since I've posted something worth reading lol. Anyways, this holiday break has been quite a roller-coaster. Christmas was wonderful. It was full of service, family and friends. I have to say Christmas of 2010 was the most special Christmas of my life so far because I was actually focusing on Christ. I loved it.
The rest of my holiday has been one to behold. Full of all-nighters with old friends and lots of good quality conversations about everything under the sun. However I was caught off guard by the wave of emotions, feelings, mindsets, goals, tendencies, etc, etc, that I haven't really noticed or dealt with since high school. It got me thinking about the growing up process, and when (or if) it ever even happens.
Disclaimer: You are reading the words of a guy who thinks one of the most philosophically deep movies of all time is Kung-Fu Panda -Yes thats right, and I'm sticking to it (keep an eye out for an entire post dedicated to that arguement)- so the case could very well be that I'm just immature by nature and disposition, and not much in the world will ever change that.
I'm still waiting on the day when my mind completely moves on from high school. I don't mean emotionally letting go of the glory days roaming the halls of your alma mater, I mean like the moment when you just start thinking differently. That moment when your knowledge of the "big picture" finally overcomes teenage "reasoning". Because as teenagers we pretend to know, understand, and make decisions based on "The Big Picture" (from now to be referred to as "TBP"), but in all reality, we end up making decisions naively based on hormones or something of the sort. I sure did. I expected it almost. I knew that most of the things I worried about were fairly trivial, but I still worried about them, because I'm a teenager. What I didn't expect, for some reason, was being 19 years old, two years out of high school, and pretty much feeling the exact same way. HOLD ON JUST A SECOND!!! When do I finally get to move on??
Maybe no one really does? Maybe we just pretend to? Maybe we find something or someone or somewhere that helps us forget? I'm not really sure. I know these are the years of "figuring it out" but I'm already kind of tired of it. I have no problem jumping off the high dive into the deep end, but I need to at least feel the water first. Unfortunately when the water is in reality the future that you will be creating, there is no preview allotted. Some people can't take a leap of faith because they don't trust a certain person or something of the sort. I am afraid of the leap because I don't really trust myself!
The rest of my holiday has been one to behold. Full of all-nighters with old friends and lots of good quality conversations about everything under the sun. However I was caught off guard by the wave of emotions, feelings, mindsets, goals, tendencies, etc, etc, that I haven't really noticed or dealt with since high school. It got me thinking about the growing up process, and when (or if) it ever even happens.
Disclaimer: You are reading the words of a guy who thinks one of the most philosophically deep movies of all time is Kung-Fu Panda -Yes thats right, and I'm sticking to it (keep an eye out for an entire post dedicated to that arguement)- so the case could very well be that I'm just immature by nature and disposition, and not much in the world will ever change that.
I'm still waiting on the day when my mind completely moves on from high school. I don't mean emotionally letting go of the glory days roaming the halls of your alma mater, I mean like the moment when you just start thinking differently. That moment when your knowledge of the "big picture" finally overcomes teenage "reasoning". Because as teenagers we pretend to know, understand, and make decisions based on "The Big Picture" (from now to be referred to as "TBP"), but in all reality, we end up making decisions naively based on hormones or something of the sort. I sure did. I expected it almost. I knew that most of the things I worried about were fairly trivial, but I still worried about them, because I'm a teenager. What I didn't expect, for some reason, was being 19 years old, two years out of high school, and pretty much feeling the exact same way. HOLD ON JUST A SECOND!!! When do I finally get to move on??
Maybe no one really does? Maybe we just pretend to? Maybe we find something or someone or somewhere that helps us forget? I'm not really sure. I know these are the years of "figuring it out" but I'm already kind of tired of it. I have no problem jumping off the high dive into the deep end, but I need to at least feel the water first. Unfortunately when the water is in reality the future that you will be creating, there is no preview allotted. Some people can't take a leap of faith because they don't trust a certain person or something of the sort. I am afraid of the leap because I don't really trust myself!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
A Day In The Life of Loganzo: Future Edition
In 15 years I will be 34 years old. If all goes well, this is what I'll be doing.
6:00am: Wake Up.
I like the mornings, so I think six would be a good time. I'll get out of bed and head downstairs to cook up some breakfast. On the way downstairs I'll probably trip on a toy or a blanket or something left on the staircase by one of my kids (I don't really want to guess how many I'll have at this point, But I would like to have a big family). I'll think about cussing, but I'll probably just do it in my head to lessen the guilt and to not risk having to explain to my wife how my tape-recorder of a son or daughter learned a new word.
I'll make it to the kitchen eventually, and cook up some tasty breakfast tacos....yummmmm. I might even share the meal with my wife and kids...but I'm not certain. That's love folks.
6:10am: Sportscenter.
Its a beautiful thing. Watch the highlights, catch some breaking news, debate with analysts who can't hear me. Maybe even yell at the TV a little bit depending on what's going on. This is how I will wake up the rest of my family. Most children wake to alarm clocks or their parents gently rocking them awake. Mine will wake to the sound of their father (who will probably still be in his boxers as he sits on the couch...on a good day) yelling plays, insults, "suggestions", and other sports related jargon at the people in the television who can't hear him through the cameras and time difference...And they will love me for it.
7:00am: Get dressed.
Only because I have to. But hey, at the rate the world is going, briefs might be acceptable as "Business Casual", however if that's the case I will have to blow all my vacation time calling in sick every "Casual Friday"(see episode of "The Office" of the same title). I will then utilize my never ending water heater. I love warm showers. For washing, relaxing, singing, and pondering. During the winter I like taking long showers just because its really really warm, and tile showers have sick acoustics. Anyways, I will take as long of a shower as I want. This is starting to feel a little awkward.
8:00am: Work.
I pull up to the radio station in my car (I don't really care what, just something better than "Big Bertha"), just in time to start my mid morning sports talk radio show at KVET Austin. Where I provide in depth "unbiased" analysis on UT Sports. I'll talk about games I'm slotted to call that weekend, and just get my sports geek on. It would be chill.
12:00pm: Lunch Time:
MMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmm. I love lunch time. Where I eat my lunch will vary. If I have little kids and my wife is a stay at home mom, then I would enjoy going home for lunch. If my wife works, then I would like to go eat lunch with her. I wouldn't mind an occasional lunch-interview with Steve Young, or Tim Lincecum, or maybe even hang with Colin Cowherd or Michael Wilbon every now and then. But I think it would be cool to eat lunch with my wife.
1:00pm. Work
Now I prep for a game that upcoming weekend. I need to memorize the names and jersey numbers of every player on the Phoenix Sun's roster in preparation for calling the Spurs game that weekend. I also need to find every bad stat for the Longhorns in preparation for calling their game against USC that Saturday...Like I said, unbiased.
5:00pm. After a few phone interviews with various shows on ESPN, I get back into my car and drive home. Where is home? Somewhere in Central Texas. Somewhere in the hills with pine trees. Maybe even Bastrop, who knows?
I drive up to my house (a mid-nineteenth to early-twentieth century house with a wrap around porch and a lake out back) and walk in the door to be bombarded at the knees by little Herzogs (or, if they take after their dad, I'll be getting bombarded by a couple of 6-foot, 195 lb six-year-olds at the door). I'll take in the hyper kids, and early-evening chaos that I remember so fondly from my childhood much like a soldier adjusts to the shell-shock from an artillery bombardment on the shores of some god-forsaken beach (this is nothing against my future wife, any children with my genes will generate chaos no matter the effort their mom puts in).
After the adjustment is complete, everyone has been hugged and hello-ed, and I take in the damages the little Loganzo's have caused, I go about helping cook dinner, doing dishes (yes I would do the dishes because I will be too excited NOT to use my actual functioning dishwasher after a childhood of manual labor.) bathing the kids, and putting them to bed. I talk with my wife about how our day went
(about my future wife, I'll leave out gushy, cheesy imaginations about how she will be, I just know she will be pretty awesome.) and maybe watch a movie I got from NetFlix.(gosh I can't put my love for NetFlix into words.)
I'll agree to watch a chick-flick with her if she promises to watch part of the game I will be calling that weekend.
(Also about my wife: I want to marry someone who like sports enough to root passionately for a team once or twice a year at a game-watching party. Outside of that there are no requirements.)
8:30: De-pressurization.
I go into my home studio and just jam. I work on some new songs, maybe play some tunes for my rockin' awesome wife, and get ready to lay down some tracks for my band's new CD (and ensuing tour in support of said CD. I'm kind of a little stressed at this point because I'm still waiting on my leave-of-absence to be OK-ed). Its my perfect get-a-way.
10:00pm: Sportscenter.
I catch any latest news, final scores, highlights, and just make sure I'm still in the loop. This session is not nearly as long as my morning time (and involves a lot less yelling.) I make sure the games have been DVR-ed so I can go over them tomorrow. And then I go to bed.
I am now going to take a lesson from my future self and go to sleep.
6:00am: Wake Up.
I like the mornings, so I think six would be a good time. I'll get out of bed and head downstairs to cook up some breakfast. On the way downstairs I'll probably trip on a toy or a blanket or something left on the staircase by one of my kids (I don't really want to guess how many I'll have at this point, But I would like to have a big family). I'll think about cussing, but I'll probably just do it in my head to lessen the guilt and to not risk having to explain to my wife how my tape-recorder of a son or daughter learned a new word.
I'll make it to the kitchen eventually, and cook up some tasty breakfast tacos....yummmmm. I might even share the meal with my wife and kids...but I'm not certain. That's love folks.
6:10am: Sportscenter.
Its a beautiful thing. Watch the highlights, catch some breaking news, debate with analysts who can't hear me. Maybe even yell at the TV a little bit depending on what's going on. This is how I will wake up the rest of my family. Most children wake to alarm clocks or their parents gently rocking them awake. Mine will wake to the sound of their father (who will probably still be in his boxers as he sits on the couch...on a good day) yelling plays, insults, "suggestions", and other sports related jargon at the people in the television who can't hear him through the cameras and time difference...And they will love me for it.
7:00am: Get dressed.
Only because I have to. But hey, at the rate the world is going, briefs might be acceptable as "Business Casual", however if that's the case I will have to blow all my vacation time calling in sick every "Casual Friday"(see episode of "The Office" of the same title). I will then utilize my never ending water heater. I love warm showers. For washing, relaxing, singing, and pondering. During the winter I like taking long showers just because its really really warm, and tile showers have sick acoustics. Anyways, I will take as long of a shower as I want. This is starting to feel a little awkward.
8:00am: Work.
I pull up to the radio station in my car (I don't really care what, just something better than "Big Bertha"), just in time to start my mid morning sports talk radio show at KVET Austin. Where I provide in depth "unbiased" analysis on UT Sports. I'll talk about games I'm slotted to call that weekend, and just get my sports geek on. It would be chill.
12:00pm: Lunch Time:
MMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmm. I love lunch time. Where I eat my lunch will vary. If I have little kids and my wife is a stay at home mom, then I would enjoy going home for lunch. If my wife works, then I would like to go eat lunch with her. I wouldn't mind an occasional lunch-interview with Steve Young, or Tim Lincecum, or maybe even hang with Colin Cowherd or Michael Wilbon every now and then. But I think it would be cool to eat lunch with my wife.
1:00pm. Work
Now I prep for a game that upcoming weekend. I need to memorize the names and jersey numbers of every player on the Phoenix Sun's roster in preparation for calling the Spurs game that weekend. I also need to find every bad stat for the Longhorns in preparation for calling their game against USC that Saturday...Like I said, unbiased.
5:00pm. After a few phone interviews with various shows on ESPN, I get back into my car and drive home. Where is home? Somewhere in Central Texas. Somewhere in the hills with pine trees. Maybe even Bastrop, who knows?
I drive up to my house (a mid-nineteenth to early-twentieth century house with a wrap around porch and a lake out back) and walk in the door to be bombarded at the knees by little Herzogs (or, if they take after their dad, I'll be getting bombarded by a couple of 6-foot, 195 lb six-year-olds at the door). I'll take in the hyper kids, and early-evening chaos that I remember so fondly from my childhood much like a soldier adjusts to the shell-shock from an artillery bombardment on the shores of some god-forsaken beach (this is nothing against my future wife, any children with my genes will generate chaos no matter the effort their mom puts in).
After the adjustment is complete, everyone has been hugged and hello-ed, and I take in the damages the little Loganzo's have caused, I go about helping cook dinner, doing dishes (yes I would do the dishes because I will be too excited NOT to use my actual functioning dishwasher after a childhood of manual labor.) bathing the kids, and putting them to bed. I talk with my wife about how our day went
(about my future wife, I'll leave out gushy, cheesy imaginations about how she will be, I just know she will be pretty awesome.) and maybe watch a movie I got from NetFlix.(gosh I can't put my love for NetFlix into words.)
I'll agree to watch a chick-flick with her if she promises to watch part of the game I will be calling that weekend.
(Also about my wife: I want to marry someone who like sports enough to root passionately for a team once or twice a year at a game-watching party. Outside of that there are no requirements.)
8:30: De-pressurization.
I go into my home studio and just jam. I work on some new songs, maybe play some tunes for my rockin' awesome wife, and get ready to lay down some tracks for my band's new CD (and ensuing tour in support of said CD. I'm kind of a little stressed at this point because I'm still waiting on my leave-of-absence to be OK-ed). Its my perfect get-a-way.
10:00pm: Sportscenter.
I catch any latest news, final scores, highlights, and just make sure I'm still in the loop. This session is not nearly as long as my morning time (and involves a lot less yelling.) I make sure the games have been DVR-ed so I can go over them tomorrow. And then I go to bed.
I am now going to take a lesson from my future self and go to sleep.
Overheard at Wal-Mart
Guy at Wally World-"So Logan, what do you want to study in college?"
Me- "Well I was thinking Journalism"
G@WW- "Journalism huh?...that's a bit of a dying art isn't it?"
Me- "Yeah it is, but hey, guess we'll see. What is your degree in?"
G@WW- "Blacksmithing"
....?
Me- "Well I was thinking Journalism"
G@WW- "Journalism huh?...that's a bit of a dying art isn't it?"
Me- "Yeah it is, but hey, guess we'll see. What is your degree in?"
G@WW- "Blacksmithing"
....?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
My football career: The only thing shorter than my attention span.
I am such a sports nerd. Its almost embarrassing. I literally like have fun researching different formations and packages and such. The only other people I know who enjoy talking about it like I do are people who played the game. This normally turns into a "why the crap didn't you play football??" discussion. It's a bit of a long story, so I figured it would make an interesting blog post. Why the crap didn't I play sports in school? The story goes a little something like this:
Before I jump into high school, let me give some background information. Basically, from the time I was two, I was told by everyone that I was born to be a football player. My mother's side is full of broad shouldered, barrel-chested men, and my Dad is 6'5". I basically got the best of both worlds. Huge shoulders, a barrel chest, 6'4.25" height and even longer wingspan. It just seemed meant to be.
So as a 6 foot, 275lb 13 year old, I naturally wanted to play pop-warner. I begged and begged my mom, but she said she would have none of it. If I wanted to scramble my brains I would at least have to wait until high school. I was crushed. I counted down the days until summer training started at Apopka High School, a 6-A football powerhouse in Florida high school football.
The day finally came where I was going to achieve my dream of playing America's game in a highly competitive program. By freshman year I was 6'3", 240lbs, and expected to be one of the biggest kids trying out. I couldn't have been more wrong. I showed up to the first practice and told the coach I would like to try out for offensive lineman. He just laughed. I could NOT believe it. He told me I was too skinny to play lineman but hey, it was my funeral (this was a historic moment. I can't recall any time before or after that remark where I had been told I was too skinny for ANYTHING. It was frequently the contrary.) I walked up to where the lineman were gathering and quickly realize he was right! I was a twig! Our starting linemen that year recorded weights of 290, 295, 285, 290, 310. Remember we were freshman. 14 year old boys. Or at least thats what they told people. They looked like college players.
Needless to say that I was no match for some of these guys. I weighed less than almost every single defensive lineman as well. The coaches thought about moving me to a Wide Reciever slot, until they saw my bow-legged, flat-footed self run my 40 in about 8.5 seconds. The slowest on the team. I also had a four inch vertical jump. I was quickly returned to the linemen group.
Now this wasn't even enough to deter me. After all, I had the frame, I would just need to spend time in the weight room. The biggest physical challenge was actually my feet. I only dressed for half of the games because I kept either twisting my ankles, hyper-extending my knees, or even worse, straining my achilles tendon over and over again. Now turned ankles and constant aches and pains have always been a part of my life and I've learned to play through them, but ask anyone who has had an achilles injury, there's no playing on it. Insanely sharp pain. Thats the only way I can describe it. Your leg doesn't even allow you to try and go through it, it buckles on you before you can even try.
Another thing I realized after I joined was how intense the sport is. I was completely comfortable with giving and receiving elbows to the face and even throwing a punch or two (something I demonstrated playing Water Polo), but football was a whole 'notha level. We had the team chaplain "Pastor Brown" come in the locker room to pray with us. I think the one thing Pastor Brown liked doing more than praying was giving pep talks. Some quotes include "I love football, its the only sport where you can try to kill someone and its legal." and "Smack 'em so hard you make they mama cry!". I wasn't really into that. I didn't mind trying to hurt someone, but in order to be good at football, you either have to be incredibly athletic, or have an incredible desire to inflict harm. I didn't really fit that criteria, and that was a major turning point.
Even despite this, I moved to Texas fully expecting to join the football team and give it another go, but two major things would change my mind.
I remember when my guidance counselor signed me up for newspaper. I didn't have the prerequisite, but my teacher would give me lessons on the fly. I realized how much I loved writing about sports, without having to deal with the ticking injury time bombs below my knees. I also wanted to spend more time on my music. I told myself that if I played football again I would need to be willing to put my whole effort and all of my time into it, I soon realized that I wasn't. I miss it sometimes. But then I think about all the things I wouldn't have been able to do if I had played. I may have never discovered some things that I absolutely love to do. I would really like to coach someday, or do something to be around the sport, and I'm sure I'll have to keep on answering the same inquiries as to why I never played. At least now instead of having to repeat the same story over and over again, I can just send them the link.
Before I jump into high school, let me give some background information. Basically, from the time I was two, I was told by everyone that I was born to be a football player. My mother's side is full of broad shouldered, barrel-chested men, and my Dad is 6'5". I basically got the best of both worlds. Huge shoulders, a barrel chest, 6'4.25" height and even longer wingspan. It just seemed meant to be.
So as a 6 foot, 275lb 13 year old, I naturally wanted to play pop-warner. I begged and begged my mom, but she said she would have none of it. If I wanted to scramble my brains I would at least have to wait until high school. I was crushed. I counted down the days until summer training started at Apopka High School, a 6-A football powerhouse in Florida high school football.
The day finally came where I was going to achieve my dream of playing America's game in a highly competitive program. By freshman year I was 6'3", 240lbs, and expected to be one of the biggest kids trying out. I couldn't have been more wrong. I showed up to the first practice and told the coach I would like to try out for offensive lineman. He just laughed. I could NOT believe it. He told me I was too skinny to play lineman but hey, it was my funeral (this was a historic moment. I can't recall any time before or after that remark where I had been told I was too skinny for ANYTHING. It was frequently the contrary.) I walked up to where the lineman were gathering and quickly realize he was right! I was a twig! Our starting linemen that year recorded weights of 290, 295, 285, 290, 310. Remember we were freshman. 14 year old boys. Or at least thats what they told people. They looked like college players.
Needless to say that I was no match for some of these guys. I weighed less than almost every single defensive lineman as well. The coaches thought about moving me to a Wide Reciever slot, until they saw my bow-legged, flat-footed self run my 40 in about 8.5 seconds. The slowest on the team. I also had a four inch vertical jump. I was quickly returned to the linemen group.
Now this wasn't even enough to deter me. After all, I had the frame, I would just need to spend time in the weight room. The biggest physical challenge was actually my feet. I only dressed for half of the games because I kept either twisting my ankles, hyper-extending my knees, or even worse, straining my achilles tendon over and over again. Now turned ankles and constant aches and pains have always been a part of my life and I've learned to play through them, but ask anyone who has had an achilles injury, there's no playing on it. Insanely sharp pain. Thats the only way I can describe it. Your leg doesn't even allow you to try and go through it, it buckles on you before you can even try.
Another thing I realized after I joined was how intense the sport is. I was completely comfortable with giving and receiving elbows to the face and even throwing a punch or two (something I demonstrated playing Water Polo), but football was a whole 'notha level. We had the team chaplain "Pastor Brown" come in the locker room to pray with us. I think the one thing Pastor Brown liked doing more than praying was giving pep talks. Some quotes include "I love football, its the only sport where you can try to kill someone and its legal." and "Smack 'em so hard you make they mama cry!". I wasn't really into that. I didn't mind trying to hurt someone, but in order to be good at football, you either have to be incredibly athletic, or have an incredible desire to inflict harm. I didn't really fit that criteria, and that was a major turning point.
Even despite this, I moved to Texas fully expecting to join the football team and give it another go, but two major things would change my mind.
I remember when my guidance counselor signed me up for newspaper. I didn't have the prerequisite, but my teacher would give me lessons on the fly. I realized how much I loved writing about sports, without having to deal with the ticking injury time bombs below my knees. I also wanted to spend more time on my music. I told myself that if I played football again I would need to be willing to put my whole effort and all of my time into it, I soon realized that I wasn't. I miss it sometimes. But then I think about all the things I wouldn't have been able to do if I had played. I may have never discovered some things that I absolutely love to do. I would really like to coach someday, or do something to be around the sport, and I'm sure I'll have to keep on answering the same inquiries as to why I never played. At least now instead of having to repeat the same story over and over again, I can just send them the link.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
The Four Pillars of Terrible Christmas Music
I love Christmas. I love the weather. I love how people are in a good mood. I love the extra focus I have on Christ as I celebrate his birth. My favorite way to celebrate the season is through music. I absolutely LOVE Christmas hymns.I am the first to bust out my MOTAB Christmas albums every November. I would seriously sing them year round if people didn't yell things at me. I don't understand how some people get mad when they have to listen to the hymns about Christmas longer than they think is necessary. However notice this whole time I've been using the term "Hymns". You see I have a somewhat picky taste in Christmas music. I also like the cute traditional, secular (for lack of a better term) Christmas songs, but there are four types of Christmas songs that just totally bring out the Scrooge in me. Such as:
4. The depressing Christmas song.
"Christmas Shoes" falls into this category. I feel like a bad person for saying this, but I DO NOT like that song. Is it "touching"? I suppose you could say that. But is it necessary? I don't think so. Some may say its a reminder for us to reach out to the less fortunate during the Christmas season, which I have absolutely nothing against. But man, every time I hear that song I feel wayyyy more sad than any Christmas song should make me feel. The greatest motivation to reach out to the less fortunate for me is the spirit I feel when I hear songs about the savior, not necessarily "Christmas shoes". Please feel free to throw rocks at me. I probably deserve them.
Now to begin work on my next post titled "I Have No Heart". Just kidding....kinda.
1. Any song sung by "The Chipmunks".
I hate to burst your bubble. But they aren't real. Its really just a bunch of strange people singing Christmas songs then dubbing their voices to sound ridiculously high. I just think its dumb, and it literally hurts my ears when songs are sung so high that only my Great Danes can fully understand what is being said.
2. Any song that involves a romantic relationship with Santa Clause.
I think songs like "Santa Baby" and "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" are incredibly creepy. Maintaining the innocence of an elderly man who sneaks in through everyone's chimney to leave gifts for little children requested through the post service is difficult enough in this world, so now we decide to add some love affair? I don't understand. Santa is supposed to be a symbol of the spirit of giving. Now he's sneaking into homes to make out with another man's wife? Just hearing those songs make me feel more inclined to meet Santa at the chimney with a double barreled shotgun, NOT cookies and warm milk (which is totally gross btw).
3. Any other kind of Christmas love song.
There are exceptions to this rule I'm sure, I'm just not sure if I can think of any. Most songs of this nature are cheesy and lack originality. If I have to hear another song about only wanting "you" for Christmas, or using the weather as leverage in the debate over whether to stay the night (yes I'm talking to YOU Barry Manilow), I just might throw coal at someone
4. The depressing Christmas song.
"Christmas Shoes" falls into this category. I feel like a bad person for saying this, but I DO NOT like that song. Is it "touching"? I suppose you could say that. But is it necessary? I don't think so. Some may say its a reminder for us to reach out to the less fortunate during the Christmas season, which I have absolutely nothing against. But man, every time I hear that song I feel wayyyy more sad than any Christmas song should make me feel. The greatest motivation to reach out to the less fortunate for me is the spirit I feel when I hear songs about the savior, not necessarily "Christmas shoes". Please feel free to throw rocks at me. I probably deserve them.
Now to begin work on my next post titled "I Have No Heart". Just kidding....kinda.
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