Let's start today's blog off with a brief history lesson.
In the summer of 2007, the Colonie Little League 10 year old All-Stars took the postseason by storm. They went undefeated through District 13, then through Section 2, and finally, they won the New York State Championship without suffering a single loss. The following year, 2008, the same group of kids now comprised the 11 year old All-Stars. There was some speculation as to whether or not they would be able to recapture the state championship; after all, winning back-to-back state championships is a feat that doesn't happen often, and usually, winning a championship in the first place involves some degree of luck. But, when all was said and done, the 2008 11 year olds did exactly what they did the year before: they went undefeated through the state tournament to take the championship for the second consecutive year. As it turned out, they were just that good. The 2009 season was rife with anticipation for what was to come during the All-Star season, because, as you may know, the 12 year old year of Little League is when it really counts and you can finally advance past the state tournament, into the regionals, and ultimately to the World Series. Having won the state championship for two years running with a record of 21-0, it was basically expected that this team, which had twice proven itself to be the best New York State had to offer, would once again capture the state title and go on to the regionals in Bristol, CT. There, they would play teams representing the other states in the Mid-Atlantic region, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and Washington, D.C., for a chance to compete in the World Series in Williamsport, PA. No team in recent history had a better chance of making it to Williamsport than the 2009 12 year old All-Stars, and after the roster was posted in June, things were shaping up very nicely.
July 6th, 2009, The Crack Heard Round The World: Nick Donato, the 12 year olds' most dominant pitcher, hitter, and all-around star player, was pitching in the City-County semi-final for Vellano Brothers, the Colonie Little League regular season champions. On his third pitch, there was an audible cracking noise, and he fell to the ground. After the wild rumors were done circulating, I heard what happened straight from the source. A spiral fracture, which had started roughly a year before and had gone unnoticed for that duration, had finally opened up, and split his humerus clean in two. He would be unable to play ball for three months, and the All-Star season started in just one week. Basically, at that point, everyone's dreams of going to the World Series were crushed. Sure, a team that good doesn't achieve what they had on the merits of one player alone, and they hadn't; they truly were a great team. But when you take the best player right off the top, you're crippled. They did dominate the district tournament, and went undefeated all the way to the sectional championship, but they lost that game, the first loss they had ever incurred, and their amazing journey was finally over.
I can say with confidence that with Nick on the team, they would not have lost that sectional championship. The team that ended up winning the state, South Shore Little League from Staten Island, would have given them a run for their money, and it would have been a very tough game, but they would not have been an insurmountable challenge. And had they won the state, there is no doubt in my mind that they'd be playing in Williamsport now, because I watched the regional tournament, and the teams that South Shore played there were nothing really special; our 12s would have beaten them with relative ease. All of that, however, was wiped away with one broken arm, the greatest tragedy I've witnessed in my 18 year involvement with Colonie Little League.
Where am I going with all this, you ask? To Williamsport, naturally, which is where I spent this past weekend with this very group of kids (and the rest of the 12 year olds who played for Colonie this year). Going to the Little League World Series was an amazing experience, but at the same time, a bittersweet one. For a time, while watching the South Shore team that represented not only New York but the Mid-Atlantic region, I couldn't shake the feeling that that should be our team down there on the field. Those should be our families cheering for them. Those should be our kids signing autographs for other star struck Little Leaguers and being treated like Major League Baseball players. Angelo Navetta shouldn't have been the most sought-out autograph from the New York team, it should have been Nick Donato. And when Chris pointed out how cool it would be to see Nick as a World Series celebrity, I couldn't stop thinking about that either. I was watching the star players from the World Series teams, and how they acted when they were approached by other kids for autographs. They were quiet, aloof, unenthusiastic, almost like they were sick of signing autographs, like they had already gotten used to the fame and adoration they were receiving. In a word, they came off as arrogant. Now, Nick Donato is a character, that's for sure, but he's the same character everywhere he goes. It's kind of hard to describe, and you really have to know him, but he would have been a ton of fun to be around at the World Series if he had been on one of the teams playing in it. On the field, he's all business, but off the field, he's a total goof, and he would have made the most of that whole scene without being arrogant, because that is one thing he is not and has never been. I think, if for no other reason than the way he carries himself, he deserved that kind of status more than any of these other kids.
On the other hand, while it was a crushing blow to watch players from another team get to do what our team should have been doing, I did take some consolation in the fact that if they were playing, I wouldn't get to experience the World Series with them. And yes, they were a great team, but they're also a really great group of kids too. Part of what made the World Series experience so amazing was getting to spend that whole weekend with these kids. For the most part, they weren't even fazed by the fact that there was another team playing in their place; it seemed like it bothered me more than it bothered them, and I respect them for being able to take it all in stride. Although, as an aside, I was remarking to Chris that every time one of them saw a member of the South Shore team, they should have said "Nick broke his arm. You're welcome."
Another really cool aspect of the weekend was the exhibition game at Original Field, the Birthplace of Little League. If you know me, or if you've been paying attention to anything you've been reading for the last few paragraphs, then you know how much I love Little League Baseball, so to get to go see the very field on which it was first played, and see some of the guys who played on the very first World Series championship team, was just incredible. All the 12 year olds on the trip (24, to be exact, which included kids who weren't on the 12 year old All-Stars) played a 3 inning exhibition game on the field, and during this game, I got to announce for half an inning. I was the first full-time Voice of Colonie Little League, from 2003-2004, so to be able to announce at Original Field was a tremendous honor (Chris, as the current Voice of Colonie Little League, announced the other two and a half innings while I ran around taking pictures and video).
Another thing that amazed me was the sleeper hit activity of the weekend: Mao. In case you're unfamiliar, Mao is a card game (named after the Chinese dictator) in which the rules are not told, only enforced through penalties doled out by the Mao Master, so you have to figure them out as you play, basically by trial and error. It's unbelievably frustrating when you first start playing, but once you figure out the game, it's a great deal of fun. After we were done playing poker for M&Ms, I suggested on a whim that we play Mao, figuring that these antsy 12 year old kids amped up on a sugar high wouldn't have the attention span to sit through one game before they got sick of it and left for something less ambiguous and more frantic. I was surprised when they not only sat through the first game, but kept insisting on playing until they learned all the rules. And THEN, they kept wanting to play it at virtually every free moment back at the campground for the rest of the trip. They demonstrated a shocking degree of patience and self-control, which is odd, considering the fact that most college age individuals I've played with don't conduct themselves the way these kids did. In fact, the only time I ever played Mao with people my age in the capital region, most of them quit angrily after Chris figured out what was going on and they didn't. So I have to give props to the Colonie 12s for their keen observations, (mostly) cool heads, and the overall astute manner in which they played.
On a more personal level, I think this past weekend was just what I needed; circumstances haven't come to pass the way I would have liked in recent history, and I figured a few days away from home would take my mind off things. They did, and then some. The first day, when all we did was arrive at the campground, go swimming, eat dinner and then hang out a little before bed, I spent most of the night trying to convince myself that I was having a good time. Granted, I was having a good time, especially during those two crazy games of Pooltimate Frisbee, but I was preoccupied with trying to shake the feeling that I should be in Lynchburg. On day two, that all changed. I didn't need to shake it anymore, because I became completely absorbed in the World Series. As I said before, I love baseball, and Little League is my favorite form of baseball, so having the opportunity to watch the 16 best Little League teams in the world play against each other was a great treat. I could have done it for hours on end, and in fact, I did. When one game ended, another began, and for two days, we went back and forth between Volunteer Stadium and Lamade Stadium watching the teams face off against each other, and it never got old. The night games in particular were filled with an incredible energy, electrifying the atmosphere. My favorite spot from which to watch the games was basically anywhere behind the outfield fence at Lamade, the main field. Whenever a player hit a home run, there was a mad rush to get the ball, as those World Series balls become prized souvenirs for anyone fortunate enough to get their hands on one (alas, I didn't). I did, however, have a brief stint on ESPN during a commercial break, along with my cohorts (including Chris and Nick) as the crane camera took a shot of us behind the right field fence at Lamade during the Georgia/New York game on Saturday afternoon. We spent basically all of Friday and Saturday at the Little League Complex, and after our time was done, I didn't want to leave. I was enjoying the experience so much that I would have stayed out the week to watch the rest of the series if I could have.
So to recap: the trip spanned four days, Thursday-Sunday, with the meat of the adventures occurring at the Little League Complex on Friday and Saturday. We had two awesome, non-stop days filled with nothing but baseball, and I haven't had such a great time all summer. Now obviously, the primary reason for the immense amount of enjoyment I got out of this trip was that it was structured around one of my favorite pastimes, but there was another reason for its greatness that I didn't realize until the second day we were there: there were no women on the trip whatsoever. None. There were 30 some odd kids, probably a little more than half that many adults, and not a one of them was female. This hit me like a glorious epiphany from the heavens as I was coming out of the shower at the start of day 2. A self-sufficient group of men planned a four day trip, made the journey, supplied themselves with food (this includes cooking, for the record), cleaned up after themselves, made sure they were at the right places at the right times, and had an awesome time doing it. There was no complaining, no nagging, no excess worrying, no lapses in rationality, no impractical uses of time, no whining, and, most importantly (and this also sums up everything I've just listed), no distractions from our purpose for being there. The trip had a few extremely minor hitches - some kids failed to check in with their chaperones at times, and one kid got briefly sick - but other than that, it was a wild success. It was, as we realized, the ultimate Manventure; in fact, it was a Manventure of such epic proportions that it was dubbed a Pilgrimange. I've long said that women are the cause of all the world's problems, and this trip, which had no noteworthy problems, is just more evidence to further that theory.
And look, it even restored my convictions and got me railing against women again. If that's not a great trip, I don't know what is.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Flood Behind Me
I'm not feeling particularly inspired tonight, but for lack of anything else that really interests me at the moment, I turn my fingers once more to the Keys of Truth (as they've just now been designated) to pound out what is sure to be another enlightening glimpse into the world of my wacky noodle. I've found that, if nothing else, this blog serves as a way for me to vent a little every so often, and I've also been told that it's a somewhat regular dose of the Billcast, which makes me feel like it's that much more worthwhile. For the unfortunate souls who never got to experience the Golden Age of 22-3, the Billcast, as it was dubbed by Andrew Clark, the One True Prayer Leader and fellow blogging aficionado (click this blue text here to read his blog), was what occurred whenever I would burst into 305 ranting emphatically about whatever happened to be on my mind at the time. I guess I did it so often that it warranted its own title.
I don't know if anyone else out there noticed this, but it occurred to me that the entity which antagonizes me the most and incites me to the point of fervent bloggery, my bread and butter, if you will, has gone completely unaddressed in the last two posts, and that entity is the people group known, as I tastefully decline to use a more offensive term, as "females." That's right folks, I haven't complained a lick about anything girls have done to bother me in over a month, which, if you know me, is quite the feat. I'm sure this is mostly due to the fact that my interactions with members of the opposite sex have been, for the last three months and counting, limited those that I have with members of my immediate family and those I have by means of interstate instant message conversations. This, of course, puts a cap on the number of things women can do to really irk me, and it's begun to show, but that leads to a more interesting conclusion that I've drawn about myself.
If I've not made it clear already, a large portion of my inspiration, at least for this blog, has come from witnessing females take courses of action that challenge my notions of what rational thought really is, or in laymen's terms, from watching them do things that bug the crap out of me. But that got me thinking, especially last night, when I went to write a new blog and initially had nothing to say, about what it is that gets me going on a more basic level. When I sat down to start writing, I was in a rather indifferent mood; not a pleasant one, necessarily, but I wasn't particularly upset about anything. As I geared myself up to write the blog, I realized that the method by which I was preparing myself mentally was to try and irritate myself to the point of having something to say... basically mental stimulation through situational frustration. It then occurred to me that if I wasn't really irritated about anything at the moment, it would be stupid of me to irritate myself and put myself in a bad mood just so I could write something down, so I decided to just watch a movie instead. But it dawned on me at that point: my inspiration comes mainly through irritation. If I'm not up in arms about something, I don't really have much to say. This, of course, is not always the case, but most of the time it's true.
And that brings me to the here and now. Again, tonight, I feel largely indifferent toward virtually everything; indeed, I feel almost consumed by apathy. Maybe it's just a temporary inclination brought about by a dull routine into which I've fallen over the past week or two, but maybe it's something more. When an exchange that I'm sure going in will get me fired up (or at least remotely concerned) just fizzles out and dies without leaving any real impression on me, it makes me pause to wonder: what's wrong with me? I'm not used to this, it's very strange, but I can't seem to shake it. Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not so concerned about certain things, but I basically feel that way about everything right now.
Yesterday Chris, the younger siblings, and I went to the Imagination Station, which is the coolest playground in all the land. It's tough to describe to somebody who's never been there, but it's got these big wooden structures that are connected via bouncy bridges and monkey bars and winding, maze-like platforms. If I were a little kid, I would have a blast playing there, and it almost makes me wish I had gone to Shaker Elementary, just so I could have experienced recess at the Imagination Station. When we got out of the car, however, we saw that one of the big wooden structures near the entrance had been replaced with a shiny new piece of playground equipment, made of metal and plastic and boasting a rather tall twisty slide. On its own, this piece was impressive, of course, a marvel of modern playground engineering and demonstrative of the latest in playground safety measures (shredded pieces of tire provided a squishy cushion at the base of the structure, in stark contrast to the wood chips that litter the rest of the playground). But it's just not the same. While it may not have been as visually stunning, the old wooden piece that formerly resided there had a great deal of character, and I was sad to see it gone in favor of what I can only describe as "change" with a twinge of "hope." I was extremely disappointed when I saw that one of my favorite things, the little talky boxes connected by underground pipes at opposing ends of the playground, had been removed to make way for this monstrosity. I was even more dismayed when I went over to the swing set. The swing set I had discovered three years ago, my favorite swing set in the whole world, was gone, replaced by a new one of the same breed as the structure that took the place of our old wooden friend. All sentimentality aside, even in its practical application, this new swing set is inferior, as the supports are not as high as the old set's, and the swing's radius from the top of the support is decreased, allowing you to only dream wistfully of how high you had once been able to soar on those old swings. One thing that was left unchanged, however, was the Low Rider Swings way off in the distance, and thank goodness for that. At least there I could sit and ponder my existence without feeling like I was a visitor on some strange alien playground.
My point is this: the past is gone and the future is bleak, so you can't look to either for comfort. Maybe the notion that I'm just stuck exactly where I am is what's causing me to be so apathetic. I feel like deviation from what I'm already familiar with will bring nothing but trouble, but at the same time, I'm forced to stray from the beaten path that I love so much. I'm in a situation that I'm not exactly fond of, but at least it's safe, so I can't really complain either. Maybe a few days in Williamsport will put things in a better perspective, or at least distract me a little.
I don't know if anyone else out there noticed this, but it occurred to me that the entity which antagonizes me the most and incites me to the point of fervent bloggery, my bread and butter, if you will, has gone completely unaddressed in the last two posts, and that entity is the people group known, as I tastefully decline to use a more offensive term, as "females." That's right folks, I haven't complained a lick about anything girls have done to bother me in over a month, which, if you know me, is quite the feat. I'm sure this is mostly due to the fact that my interactions with members of the opposite sex have been, for the last three months and counting, limited those that I have with members of my immediate family and those I have by means of interstate instant message conversations. This, of course, puts a cap on the number of things women can do to really irk me, and it's begun to show, but that leads to a more interesting conclusion that I've drawn about myself.
If I've not made it clear already, a large portion of my inspiration, at least for this blog, has come from witnessing females take courses of action that challenge my notions of what rational thought really is, or in laymen's terms, from watching them do things that bug the crap out of me. But that got me thinking, especially last night, when I went to write a new blog and initially had nothing to say, about what it is that gets me going on a more basic level. When I sat down to start writing, I was in a rather indifferent mood; not a pleasant one, necessarily, but I wasn't particularly upset about anything. As I geared myself up to write the blog, I realized that the method by which I was preparing myself mentally was to try and irritate myself to the point of having something to say... basically mental stimulation through situational frustration. It then occurred to me that if I wasn't really irritated about anything at the moment, it would be stupid of me to irritate myself and put myself in a bad mood just so I could write something down, so I decided to just watch a movie instead. But it dawned on me at that point: my inspiration comes mainly through irritation. If I'm not up in arms about something, I don't really have much to say. This, of course, is not always the case, but most of the time it's true.
And that brings me to the here and now. Again, tonight, I feel largely indifferent toward virtually everything; indeed, I feel almost consumed by apathy. Maybe it's just a temporary inclination brought about by a dull routine into which I've fallen over the past week or two, but maybe it's something more. When an exchange that I'm sure going in will get me fired up (or at least remotely concerned) just fizzles out and dies without leaving any real impression on me, it makes me pause to wonder: what's wrong with me? I'm not used to this, it's very strange, but I can't seem to shake it. Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not so concerned about certain things, but I basically feel that way about everything right now.
Yesterday Chris, the younger siblings, and I went to the Imagination Station, which is the coolest playground in all the land. It's tough to describe to somebody who's never been there, but it's got these big wooden structures that are connected via bouncy bridges and monkey bars and winding, maze-like platforms. If I were a little kid, I would have a blast playing there, and it almost makes me wish I had gone to Shaker Elementary, just so I could have experienced recess at the Imagination Station. When we got out of the car, however, we saw that one of the big wooden structures near the entrance had been replaced with a shiny new piece of playground equipment, made of metal and plastic and boasting a rather tall twisty slide. On its own, this piece was impressive, of course, a marvel of modern playground engineering and demonstrative of the latest in playground safety measures (shredded pieces of tire provided a squishy cushion at the base of the structure, in stark contrast to the wood chips that litter the rest of the playground). But it's just not the same. While it may not have been as visually stunning, the old wooden piece that formerly resided there had a great deal of character, and I was sad to see it gone in favor of what I can only describe as "change" with a twinge of "hope." I was extremely disappointed when I saw that one of my favorite things, the little talky boxes connected by underground pipes at opposing ends of the playground, had been removed to make way for this monstrosity. I was even more dismayed when I went over to the swing set. The swing set I had discovered three years ago, my favorite swing set in the whole world, was gone, replaced by a new one of the same breed as the structure that took the place of our old wooden friend. All sentimentality aside, even in its practical application, this new swing set is inferior, as the supports are not as high as the old set's, and the swing's radius from the top of the support is decreased, allowing you to only dream wistfully of how high you had once been able to soar on those old swings. One thing that was left unchanged, however, was the Low Rider Swings way off in the distance, and thank goodness for that. At least there I could sit and ponder my existence without feeling like I was a visitor on some strange alien playground.
My point is this: the past is gone and the future is bleak, so you can't look to either for comfort. Maybe the notion that I'm just stuck exactly where I am is what's causing me to be so apathetic. I feel like deviation from what I'm already familiar with will bring nothing but trouble, but at the same time, I'm forced to stray from the beaten path that I love so much. I'm in a situation that I'm not exactly fond of, but at least it's safe, so I can't really complain either. Maybe a few days in Williamsport will put things in a better perspective, or at least distract me a little.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Life Altering Decisions Of A Bug On The Side Of The Road
I enjoy walking; or, more specifically, I enjoy taking walks. Whenever I've got a lot on my mind or I'm not sure what to do with myself, or even just when I want to get out and move around a bit, taking a walk is one of my favorite choices. Something about being alone out in the open air and trekking forth without a necessarily clear-cut destination is relaxing, and it provides a level of privacy that I can almost never get in my own house. I'm able to mull things over, to consider my circumstances and how they could be impacted by decisions I've made or will make, and, on occasion, make some interesting observations. I can't say it clears my head, because usually it's just the opposite. My thoughts crash about just as furiously as they always do, but whenever I'm out wandering around, they do their crashing with less interference from external distractions, which sometimes leads me to draw some interesting conclusions based on how the different interpretations of what I've experienced intermingle.
Lately I've been trying to make some decisions, and I've been rather frustrated with my complete lack of progress, so I decided to go out and walk in a giant circle around my neighborhood. If nothing else, I figured I was at least getting some exercise. So I took off down the street at about 8:50 PM and figured my journey would take roughly an hour (it did). As I was walking, I saw a small green bug scurry across my path and into the grass by the side of the road just as a car came flying by. It occurred to me that this bug probably just crossed the road, and that may not really seem like anything special, but think about it: a bug crossed the road. Without getting hit by a car. Honestly, what are the odds? Think about how huge that road is in the bug's eyes, and consider the frequency at which cars travel down it (this is a pretty busy road, for the record, not some backwoods dirt path, just so you know). I can picture the bug sitting on the one side of the road, psyching himself out in preparation for the coming ordeal. There he is, knowing this is an all-or-nothing undertaking; his success at this endeavor makes or breaks his entire future. He pauses to contemplate for a moment: his very life is on the line if he decides to go ahead with this very dangerous maneuver. Is what's waiting for him on the other side worth risking everything to attain? Is he even capable of making it across at all? Finally, he comes to the conclusion that he must go, that reaching whatever is on the other side is worth the price of making the journey. He skitters out and for a little while, it's smooth sailing. Suddenly, a car comes barreling down the road at what seems like a million miles an hour, and he just narrowly avoids a sudden and untimely demise underneath its tires. More cars come and go just as rapidly, but he succeeds in avoiding death at their hands as well. Finally, after what feels like hours, the bug has the lush green scenery of the other side of the road in his sights; if only he can make it past that final white line, the line that denotes his success. If he can just keep going for a little while longer, he'll be home free. He hears one last car rumbling toward him from way off in the distance, and resolves to make one last push toward that line. With all his effort, he heaves his body out of the way of the car, and finds himself, at long last, within the safety of the grass, having made his way laboriously across the entirety of the road, triumphing against all odds and in the face of the most adverse circumstances he's ever known. He rejoices victoriously, and scampers off to claim his prize, proud of everything he has achieved.
And yet... it was still just a bug. Crossing the road. He got where he was going, but really, where was he going? No one cared when he started out, no one cared when he got there, and no one cares now. Who knows if he's even still alive? I happened to see him cross the road successfully, and after processing it, I thought, "Wow, that's pretty impressive." But in the grand scheme of things, his accomplishment in crossing the road was completely and utterly worthless and irrelevant.
Which begs the question ladies and gentlemen... what's the point? I could beat myself up overanalyzing the context of every decision I ever have to make, weighing the pros and cons and trying to figure out what the very best course of action to take is. That course of action could be a risky one, but it could very well pay off handsomely in the end if I succeed. Or I could take the safe route, one that may not be as rewarding in the end, but that guarantees a solid and stable environment for myself. Either way, that bug who wanted to cross the road may as well have been named Bill, and I think I can take a lesson from the exploits of Billy the Bug: whatever I do, it ain't gonna amount to a hill of beans in the end. The irony that any given circumstance can seem so gravely important and yet have virtually no real significance is something I can appreciate, which just makes me chuckle even more heartily at this masterfully crafted joke we live in. I can't wait for the real punchline.
Lately I've been trying to make some decisions, and I've been rather frustrated with my complete lack of progress, so I decided to go out and walk in a giant circle around my neighborhood. If nothing else, I figured I was at least getting some exercise. So I took off down the street at about 8:50 PM and figured my journey would take roughly an hour (it did). As I was walking, I saw a small green bug scurry across my path and into the grass by the side of the road just as a car came flying by. It occurred to me that this bug probably just crossed the road, and that may not really seem like anything special, but think about it: a bug crossed the road. Without getting hit by a car. Honestly, what are the odds? Think about how huge that road is in the bug's eyes, and consider the frequency at which cars travel down it (this is a pretty busy road, for the record, not some backwoods dirt path, just so you know). I can picture the bug sitting on the one side of the road, psyching himself out in preparation for the coming ordeal. There he is, knowing this is an all-or-nothing undertaking; his success at this endeavor makes or breaks his entire future. He pauses to contemplate for a moment: his very life is on the line if he decides to go ahead with this very dangerous maneuver. Is what's waiting for him on the other side worth risking everything to attain? Is he even capable of making it across at all? Finally, he comes to the conclusion that he must go, that reaching whatever is on the other side is worth the price of making the journey. He skitters out and for a little while, it's smooth sailing. Suddenly, a car comes barreling down the road at what seems like a million miles an hour, and he just narrowly avoids a sudden and untimely demise underneath its tires. More cars come and go just as rapidly, but he succeeds in avoiding death at their hands as well. Finally, after what feels like hours, the bug has the lush green scenery of the other side of the road in his sights; if only he can make it past that final white line, the line that denotes his success. If he can just keep going for a little while longer, he'll be home free. He hears one last car rumbling toward him from way off in the distance, and resolves to make one last push toward that line. With all his effort, he heaves his body out of the way of the car, and finds himself, at long last, within the safety of the grass, having made his way laboriously across the entirety of the road, triumphing against all odds and in the face of the most adverse circumstances he's ever known. He rejoices victoriously, and scampers off to claim his prize, proud of everything he has achieved.
And yet... it was still just a bug. Crossing the road. He got where he was going, but really, where was he going? No one cared when he started out, no one cared when he got there, and no one cares now. Who knows if he's even still alive? I happened to see him cross the road successfully, and after processing it, I thought, "Wow, that's pretty impressive." But in the grand scheme of things, his accomplishment in crossing the road was completely and utterly worthless and irrelevant.
Which begs the question ladies and gentlemen... what's the point? I could beat myself up overanalyzing the context of every decision I ever have to make, weighing the pros and cons and trying to figure out what the very best course of action to take is. That course of action could be a risky one, but it could very well pay off handsomely in the end if I succeed. Or I could take the safe route, one that may not be as rewarding in the end, but that guarantees a solid and stable environment for myself. Either way, that bug who wanted to cross the road may as well have been named Bill, and I think I can take a lesson from the exploits of Billy the Bug: whatever I do, it ain't gonna amount to a hill of beans in the end. The irony that any given circumstance can seem so gravely important and yet have virtually no real significance is something I can appreciate, which just makes me chuckle even more heartily at this masterfully crafted joke we live in. I can't wait for the real punchline.
Monday, August 3, 2009
This Post Brought To You By the Christian Love Of Liberty University's Administration
It is with a heavy heart that I begin this post... so brace yourselves kids, when I start a blog with a statement that serious, you know something's amiss. I still can't quite wrap my head around what I'm about to say, and although I've been dancing around the possibility all summer, hoping it would never actually come to this, the breaking point has finally been reached via, dare I say, a series of unfortunate events. And so, I must finally step up and take my place in the Real World alongside the greats who came before me, Jamie Newman, Sean Harrison, Andrew Clark, and Ryan Trammell. I will not be returning to Liberty University in the Fall.
For those of you who know me (which I'm pretty sure is everyone reading this), you are aware that this is the moment I've dreaded the most since I first started college in the Fall of 2004. And even though I was able to prolong my educational experience for an extra year beyond undergrad by enrolling in grad school at Liberty, I still feel like it's been cut short because I was planning on having one more year. Of course, after having completed my Master's Degree, I would certainly have been finished; I'm not one for the scholarly scene, and my solitary year of grad school was miserable enough on the academic front. But that loss of one year really throws everything off, you know? I suppose in a certain sense it's good that it's playing out this way, because I didn't spend the whole of my last year fretting about the fact that it was the last time I would be doing any given thing, and in that capacity I probably got more enjoyment out of all those things. But the realization that I will never again get to do any of those particular things (play intramural sports, go to Scaremare and Coffeehouse, even eat at the Rot) when I had been intent on having another whole year to do all of them comes as quite a shock, and I still don't think it's really hit me yet.
For all the fond memories of I have of 8th Grade, my four years of undergrad at Liberty University were without a doubt the best times of my life. I could go on forever with stories, amusing anecdotes, interesting factoids, and references to inside jokes that I've compiled since I arrived in Lynchburg on August 15th, 2004. I think part of what made it so great was how easy the program actually was; I pretty much breezed through my Communication Studies (with a concentration in Video Broadcasting) degree and had tons of spare time for socialization. And this past year was nothing to sneeze at either; the schoolwork was hell, but socially it was great, in spite of the fact that several of my closest friends had graduated and moved on. Liberty University truly is an amazing institution, primarily because of the awesome people who comprise the student body. Actually, replace the word "primarily" in that last sentence with "only," and we have an excellent transition to my next section.
If you're wondering about the title of this post, allow me to explain. The aforementioned series of unfortunate events all began back in late May, when I ran into an unsettling situation regarding my employment for next year. I hadn't wanted to say anything directly about it via this forum until I knew for sure what the resolution of the whole fiasco was, which is actually what kept me from blogging for so long back then, but since it's all over now I might as well spill. As most of you know, I was a GA with the Coms department teaching Coms 101 to freshmen this past year, and GAs are required to maintain a yearly GPA of at least 3.0 in order to keep their jobs (hilarious side note: the minimum GPA to be a GA is the same as the minimum GPA just to graduate; you would think the requirements for holding a special position would be higher, but that's just one example of Liberty's brilliantly thought-out graduate program). Well, I ran into a few problems, so I sought help from the higher-ups at Liberty, starting with the Coms department heads. Now, I don't want to mention anyone by name, so I'm going to give all the important characters fictional names. The first response I got came from the man we'll call Dr. Michael Richards, and it was nothing short of Christ-like; that is, if you're talking about the Fake Life Jesus who just said "You screwed up? That's really too bad. I can't die for you, and though I am condemning you to hell, I sincerely hope you manage to find your own way into heaven somehow." I believe he'll be teaching a graduate course in Baptist Phariseeism sometime this fall; for those of you with no compassion and a desire to do tons of work, I would highly recommend this class.
So, of course, I climbed the chain of command, bringing me to the Obelisk of Academia and its high priest, Dr. Prasiebandsinger Handjoint. Again, I got a similar roadblock, even after explaining my situation in even greater detail to him. Apparently the phrase "I can't afford to continue my education without this job" means nothing to people who already have their PhDs; either that or they were just calling my bluff. Well boys, if this were a poker game, I'd be raking the chips in right now, cuz that was no bluff. This response, of course, is right in line with the course of action we as GAs were instructed to take when approached in a similar manner by our own Coms 101 students, and it seems rooted in some kind of extreme dishonesty paranoia. We were always told that, if a student asked for an extension of a deadline, for instance, only give it to them if we were absolutely certain they were not lying, if they had a history of turning their work in on time and could somehow prove the truthfulness of whatever extenuating circumstances they claimed. They said that we couldn't afford to make exceptions to the policies with all the people out there willing to lie just to get a better grade. That philosophy always seemed backwards to me, and as such, I essentially disregarded it. I almost always gave extensions if they were requested, because the way I see it, if a kid is lying about his circumstances, then sure, he gets a break he doesn't really deserve. But on the other hand, if that kid isn't lying, he isn't needlessly screwed over just because he can't prove he isn't lying. Boy I could go on and on about the rather surprising attitudes held by many of the GAs who supported this philosophy and the things they said and did to adhere to it, but I digress.
After being rejected by Dr. Handjoint, who told me that he had been persuaded that the decision of the department heads must stand, I had no recourse but to go to the Big Man himself, who we will call Billy Kincaid (which, as a somewhat obscure Spawn reference, actually works on three levels... bonus points if you can figure out what they are. Hint: the primary one is symbolic of his most worthwhile contribution to the running of the university). Initially, I got a response from one of Billy's assistants, saying that Billy would be unable to intervene in this situation, as that decision is up to the heads of the department, and that I should contact them with my appeal. Well, considering this was my last resort in the first place, I had already detailed my previous exploits with the department heads and basically implored him for mercy because I had nowhere else to turn, so obviously this assistant didn't bother reading much more than the first line of my email. I can't say I really blame her, because she must have to weed through tons of those kinds of emails every day. Still, "unable to intervene?" Really? A particular line from the end of Aladdin springs to mind here: "Am I Sultan or am I Sultan?" Fortunately, I was able to acquire Billy's personal email address (it's helpful to have athletes as students, they have connections), and I sent him the same message at that address. After a week without getting a response, I resent the message, and he replied not five minutes after I sent that second message, telling me that he would look into it for me. I was actually very hopeful after that, until the next day when I realized that "I will look into this" meant "I'm going to dump this on Dr. Handjoint and have him deal with it." Obviously Dr. Handjoint's mind was already made up; I had been hoping that, after I thoroughly explained my situation to Billy, he would find it in his heart to grant me an exception, but hey, what's leadership without delegation? Oh and just as a brief aside, Billy's wife, who loves the students so much and acts as an advocate for them, was good enough to never respond to either of the two messages I sent her.
So, long story short, I just can't afford to come back. Of course there are other factors involved aside from the whole GA debacle, but were it not for that, I would be able to. At this point, it's time to bring up an old turning-point-in-your-life cliche: Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) by Green Day. I always got the "time of your life" aspect, and how you regard fondly the memories you've made along whatever journey you're just wrapping up, but I never quite understood why the song was titled "Good Riddance." It seemed the exact opposite of what the song represented. But now I think I get it, having reached a truly bittersweet crossroads in my life. As I said before, I did indeed have the time of my life at Liberty, but by leaving, I'm also saying "good riddance" to all the crap, crap that mostly manifested itself in this past year through pompous academia and pretentious "scholarly" work. As far as something unpredictable that in the end is right... well, I was planning on finishing my Master's at Liberty and didn't really see this coming till mid-May, so that was plenty unpredictable, and I really have no choice so it has to be right... I guess you could say that's time grabbing me by the wrist and directing me where to go as well. I'll have to make the best of this test without asking why... blah blah blah, I could dissect the song line by line, but you get the idea. The point is, I can now look back at Liberty and say "Man, I had the time of my life there," but also say "Good riddance," which, in a way, makes my departure a tiny bit easier. So props, Green Day. As if your song wasn't iconic enough, it now has my official endorsement. I'd say you've officially made it as a band now.
Anyway, I'm gonna miss Liberty a whole lot, probably more than I've missed any institution that I've ever left. Even in the past year, when my experience was somewhat different from the experiences of the first four years, I had a great time. I thoroughly enjoyed playing Mafia with the wily women of East 7, playing Catchphrase with those same women (who were not so deft at that particular game), and every single hilarious Ian-infused round of Apples to Apples ("It's ketchup AND mustard!"). The unexpected joys of sitting on the floor in convocation, actually having a good sister dorm for once, the Starcraft Era which evolved into the Age of Empires Society and the best breakfast I've ever had, and playing Magic in the twilight hours of the year are all experiences I will look back upon fondly. And being a Coms 101 GA... while I had my gripes with the way the program was run, I really loved being in the classroom with my students. I learned a lot about the difference between simply performing the duties of a teacher and actually encouraging learning, which is much different than the academic bigwigs would like to think... but that's another story. And don't even get me started on my four years of undergrad. I had so many amazing experiences during my time on Dorm 22-3 that attempting to encapsulate them here in just a few sentences would be an injustice. I think what I may do, purely for my own enjoyment and the entertainment of those who lived through those times, is start a series of blog posts devoted to stories from those days, with each post given its own story. That could be fun. Stay tuned.
The really funny thing is, like I said earlier, it hasn't really hit me yet, and I don't think it really will until the school year gets into full swing and I'm no longer there. This will be the first time I'll experience September in New York in five years. And to be honest, while Fall in upstate New York is second to none, I wish it could have been six years before I'd seen it again. One of the most depressing things is that I keep remembering, periodically throughout the day, that I am not going back. I'll be carrying out my daily activities when I come across something that reminds me of Liberty or the people there and think "I can't wait till I get back so I can... oh wait..." and it's rather crushing, honestly. A nugget of encouragement, however, comes from the fact that I am a big boy now, and I can go back to visit if I want to. Obviously the expense of a trip between Albany, NY and Lynchburg, VA is too great for me to be coming down every weekend, but I'm gonna try my best to make it to Liberty at least once before the coming semester is out, hopefully with Andrew Clark and maybe even Ryan Trammell at the same time.
For now, though, I don't want to drag this out too much longer. If you're reading this, and at some point in the future think back to any of the times when I went off on a wildly aggressive rant about anything that happened to be bothering me at any given time, check in on this blog; there's a good chance I'll be doing the same thing for a long while in digital form. But I think I've made my point here, and that is that I sorely grieve my premature departure, and I will miss everything and everybody I'm leaving behind at Liberty. Life will never be the same. Thanks for a great time guys.
Godspeed.
For those of you who know me (which I'm pretty sure is everyone reading this), you are aware that this is the moment I've dreaded the most since I first started college in the Fall of 2004. And even though I was able to prolong my educational experience for an extra year beyond undergrad by enrolling in grad school at Liberty, I still feel like it's been cut short because I was planning on having one more year. Of course, after having completed my Master's Degree, I would certainly have been finished; I'm not one for the scholarly scene, and my solitary year of grad school was miserable enough on the academic front. But that loss of one year really throws everything off, you know? I suppose in a certain sense it's good that it's playing out this way, because I didn't spend the whole of my last year fretting about the fact that it was the last time I would be doing any given thing, and in that capacity I probably got more enjoyment out of all those things. But the realization that I will never again get to do any of those particular things (play intramural sports, go to Scaremare and Coffeehouse, even eat at the Rot) when I had been intent on having another whole year to do all of them comes as quite a shock, and I still don't think it's really hit me yet.
For all the fond memories of I have of 8th Grade, my four years of undergrad at Liberty University were without a doubt the best times of my life. I could go on forever with stories, amusing anecdotes, interesting factoids, and references to inside jokes that I've compiled since I arrived in Lynchburg on August 15th, 2004. I think part of what made it so great was how easy the program actually was; I pretty much breezed through my Communication Studies (with a concentration in Video Broadcasting) degree and had tons of spare time for socialization. And this past year was nothing to sneeze at either; the schoolwork was hell, but socially it was great, in spite of the fact that several of my closest friends had graduated and moved on. Liberty University truly is an amazing institution, primarily because of the awesome people who comprise the student body. Actually, replace the word "primarily" in that last sentence with "only," and we have an excellent transition to my next section.
If you're wondering about the title of this post, allow me to explain. The aforementioned series of unfortunate events all began back in late May, when I ran into an unsettling situation regarding my employment for next year. I hadn't wanted to say anything directly about it via this forum until I knew for sure what the resolution of the whole fiasco was, which is actually what kept me from blogging for so long back then, but since it's all over now I might as well spill. As most of you know, I was a GA with the Coms department teaching Coms 101 to freshmen this past year, and GAs are required to maintain a yearly GPA of at least 3.0 in order to keep their jobs (hilarious side note: the minimum GPA to be a GA is the same as the minimum GPA just to graduate; you would think the requirements for holding a special position would be higher, but that's just one example of Liberty's brilliantly thought-out graduate program). Well, I ran into a few problems, so I sought help from the higher-ups at Liberty, starting with the Coms department heads. Now, I don't want to mention anyone by name, so I'm going to give all the important characters fictional names. The first response I got came from the man we'll call Dr. Michael Richards, and it was nothing short of Christ-like; that is, if you're talking about the Fake Life Jesus who just said "You screwed up? That's really too bad. I can't die for you, and though I am condemning you to hell, I sincerely hope you manage to find your own way into heaven somehow." I believe he'll be teaching a graduate course in Baptist Phariseeism sometime this fall; for those of you with no compassion and a desire to do tons of work, I would highly recommend this class.
So, of course, I climbed the chain of command, bringing me to the Obelisk of Academia and its high priest, Dr. Prasiebandsinger Handjoint. Again, I got a similar roadblock, even after explaining my situation in even greater detail to him. Apparently the phrase "I can't afford to continue my education without this job" means nothing to people who already have their PhDs; either that or they were just calling my bluff. Well boys, if this were a poker game, I'd be raking the chips in right now, cuz that was no bluff. This response, of course, is right in line with the course of action we as GAs were instructed to take when approached in a similar manner by our own Coms 101 students, and it seems rooted in some kind of extreme dishonesty paranoia. We were always told that, if a student asked for an extension of a deadline, for instance, only give it to them if we were absolutely certain they were not lying, if they had a history of turning their work in on time and could somehow prove the truthfulness of whatever extenuating circumstances they claimed. They said that we couldn't afford to make exceptions to the policies with all the people out there willing to lie just to get a better grade. That philosophy always seemed backwards to me, and as such, I essentially disregarded it. I almost always gave extensions if they were requested, because the way I see it, if a kid is lying about his circumstances, then sure, he gets a break he doesn't really deserve. But on the other hand, if that kid isn't lying, he isn't needlessly screwed over just because he can't prove he isn't lying. Boy I could go on and on about the rather surprising attitudes held by many of the GAs who supported this philosophy and the things they said and did to adhere to it, but I digress.
After being rejected by Dr. Handjoint, who told me that he had been persuaded that the decision of the department heads must stand, I had no recourse but to go to the Big Man himself, who we will call Billy Kincaid (which, as a somewhat obscure Spawn reference, actually works on three levels... bonus points if you can figure out what they are. Hint: the primary one is symbolic of his most worthwhile contribution to the running of the university). Initially, I got a response from one of Billy's assistants, saying that Billy would be unable to intervene in this situation, as that decision is up to the heads of the department, and that I should contact them with my appeal. Well, considering this was my last resort in the first place, I had already detailed my previous exploits with the department heads and basically implored him for mercy because I had nowhere else to turn, so obviously this assistant didn't bother reading much more than the first line of my email. I can't say I really blame her, because she must have to weed through tons of those kinds of emails every day. Still, "unable to intervene?" Really? A particular line from the end of Aladdin springs to mind here: "Am I Sultan or am I Sultan?" Fortunately, I was able to acquire Billy's personal email address (it's helpful to have athletes as students, they have connections), and I sent him the same message at that address. After a week without getting a response, I resent the message, and he replied not five minutes after I sent that second message, telling me that he would look into it for me. I was actually very hopeful after that, until the next day when I realized that "I will look into this" meant "I'm going to dump this on Dr. Handjoint and have him deal with it." Obviously Dr. Handjoint's mind was already made up; I had been hoping that, after I thoroughly explained my situation to Billy, he would find it in his heart to grant me an exception, but hey, what's leadership without delegation? Oh and just as a brief aside, Billy's wife, who loves the students so much and acts as an advocate for them, was good enough to never respond to either of the two messages I sent her.
So, long story short, I just can't afford to come back. Of course there are other factors involved aside from the whole GA debacle, but were it not for that, I would be able to. At this point, it's time to bring up an old turning-point-in-your-life cliche: Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) by Green Day. I always got the "time of your life" aspect, and how you regard fondly the memories you've made along whatever journey you're just wrapping up, but I never quite understood why the song was titled "Good Riddance." It seemed the exact opposite of what the song represented. But now I think I get it, having reached a truly bittersweet crossroads in my life. As I said before, I did indeed have the time of my life at Liberty, but by leaving, I'm also saying "good riddance" to all the crap, crap that mostly manifested itself in this past year through pompous academia and pretentious "scholarly" work. As far as something unpredictable that in the end is right... well, I was planning on finishing my Master's at Liberty and didn't really see this coming till mid-May, so that was plenty unpredictable, and I really have no choice so it has to be right... I guess you could say that's time grabbing me by the wrist and directing me where to go as well. I'll have to make the best of this test without asking why... blah blah blah, I could dissect the song line by line, but you get the idea. The point is, I can now look back at Liberty and say "Man, I had the time of my life there," but also say "Good riddance," which, in a way, makes my departure a tiny bit easier. So props, Green Day. As if your song wasn't iconic enough, it now has my official endorsement. I'd say you've officially made it as a band now.
Anyway, I'm gonna miss Liberty a whole lot, probably more than I've missed any institution that I've ever left. Even in the past year, when my experience was somewhat different from the experiences of the first four years, I had a great time. I thoroughly enjoyed playing Mafia with the wily women of East 7, playing Catchphrase with those same women (who were not so deft at that particular game), and every single hilarious Ian-infused round of Apples to Apples ("It's ketchup AND mustard!"). The unexpected joys of sitting on the floor in convocation, actually having a good sister dorm for once, the Starcraft Era which evolved into the Age of Empires Society and the best breakfast I've ever had, and playing Magic in the twilight hours of the year are all experiences I will look back upon fondly. And being a Coms 101 GA... while I had my gripes with the way the program was run, I really loved being in the classroom with my students. I learned a lot about the difference between simply performing the duties of a teacher and actually encouraging learning, which is much different than the academic bigwigs would like to think... but that's another story. And don't even get me started on my four years of undergrad. I had so many amazing experiences during my time on Dorm 22-3 that attempting to encapsulate them here in just a few sentences would be an injustice. I think what I may do, purely for my own enjoyment and the entertainment of those who lived through those times, is start a series of blog posts devoted to stories from those days, with each post given its own story. That could be fun. Stay tuned.
The really funny thing is, like I said earlier, it hasn't really hit me yet, and I don't think it really will until the school year gets into full swing and I'm no longer there. This will be the first time I'll experience September in New York in five years. And to be honest, while Fall in upstate New York is second to none, I wish it could have been six years before I'd seen it again. One of the most depressing things is that I keep remembering, periodically throughout the day, that I am not going back. I'll be carrying out my daily activities when I come across something that reminds me of Liberty or the people there and think "I can't wait till I get back so I can... oh wait..." and it's rather crushing, honestly. A nugget of encouragement, however, comes from the fact that I am a big boy now, and I can go back to visit if I want to. Obviously the expense of a trip between Albany, NY and Lynchburg, VA is too great for me to be coming down every weekend, but I'm gonna try my best to make it to Liberty at least once before the coming semester is out, hopefully with Andrew Clark and maybe even Ryan Trammell at the same time.
For now, though, I don't want to drag this out too much longer. If you're reading this, and at some point in the future think back to any of the times when I went off on a wildly aggressive rant about anything that happened to be bothering me at any given time, check in on this blog; there's a good chance I'll be doing the same thing for a long while in digital form. But I think I've made my point here, and that is that I sorely grieve my premature departure, and I will miss everything and everybody I'm leaving behind at Liberty. Life will never be the same. Thanks for a great time guys.
Godspeed.
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