It was three in the afternoon and I had just been released from school. A soon as I went out the door I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. When I checked the screen to see who was calling a number I didn’t know was scrolling across the screen. I answered the phone with a confused “Hello?” to see who was calling, and I was answered by the familiar voice of Jeff, a friend of the family.
“Hey matt I just wanted to let you know that we had to take your dad to the hospital.”
“What is it?”
“The doctors think he has appendicitis.”
“Ok, I’ll have to go back to the house first then I’ll come up there.”
“Alright, your sister already knows, and she will be looking for you.”
We ended the conversation so I turned my head to look for my sister. She had already spotted me and was on her way. We walked to my car together and I let her know that I wasn’t worried because appendicitis was a common thing. So we threw or things in the backseat of my car and headed off.
At the hospital we were in the ambulatory surgery waiting room. My sister, mom, and aunt were in the secluded area of the waiting room with me. Come to find out what I thought was a common ailment was a little more. His appendix had burst and perforated his colon. His insides were a mess and he would be in surgery for a while. Jeff was on his way while I thought about the way my dad acted for the past week.
Not exatly sure how to word the body yet so this is all I have.
Matthew Graham
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
My Ozzy.
On a Tuesday night in late August, I spent the night at my Dad’s small Jerry Seinfeld apartment in Tennessee. Like many times before, my dad shows me a rough audio recording of his band, mixed just the night before. During the listening session I found myself fighting sudden aches of hunger, so acting as any needy daughter would, I got up and looked for something to eat. As I make my way through the small, groggy, living room I found myself in a maze of music equipment. Stumbling over guitars, drums heads, and huge half stack amps, I made it to the kitchen with just a stumped toe this time. I limped the rest of the way making animal like sounds. Relief finally struck when I got to the pantry. When I swung the door open, my findings were a box of saltine crackers, a can of tomato soup, two bags of Lays Chips, some cherry Koolaid packets, and a box of Jew Jew Bee’s. I closed the pantry door. Next I stepped over to the refrigerator, and its contents were no more promising: a half a pound of hamburger meat, a can of mushrooms and a gallon of 2 percent milk. I looked through the kitchen into the living room where my dad still remained in the same position on the couch listening closely to his songs booming on the speakers. I looked closer and noticed that dad looked frail, swollen and looked as though he’d been beaten. For some reason this image made me feel like crying. This kind hearted man, never got to live his dreams, my dad, the smartest man I know, trudges through each week making enough to cover only a small percentage of what he owes to this economy. I wanted to just make everything okay for him. My dad’s only problem isn’t that he wasn’t talented, but he never properly planned for life. He tells me to take his life as a lesson. Contrary to the ever so popular belief that one should set high goals, keeps optimisms and hopes strong toward their dreams, I believe that in order for one to fulfill their dreams, that they must first work hard, and for Pete’s sake have a backup plan.
During high school you would find my dad not in school, but at home playing guitar. My grandmother tried with all her might to get him on the right track. Little did she know, my dad’s grungy rock attitude feed upon his mothers bickering as motivation to question authority further. My dad spent his high school nights partying with whoever was willing. He jumped from rock bands to garage bands, and even to metal bands. Music was his only true friend, and his only legal escape. His dependency on it had become increasingly strong, and seemingly success borne.
In October of 1986 my dad met my mom at a house party in their hometown. My mom had played bass for one of the bands playing at the party. My dad had told me she sat down beside him talking to her friends. Dad said he recalls having a lot to drink that night, but not enough to be unnervous about sitting beside beautiful, talented lass. Dad said he burped obnoxiously without meaning to, and turned hot red in the face. With shame he scooted his body the other direction and let out a faint, shaky “excuse me.” He told me that this beautiful girl, now 2 feet away turned around and looked at him with a funny facial expression and said “wow that was at least an eight”. Thus starting a conversation, and creating a Mark and Jenny world, only they could enter. How romantic.
As time went by my dad grew content with life, he had the girl of his dreams, he had a band, he was unemployed, and he had talent. He was so content that he had decided to quit school.
From this point Dad settled down with a seemingly solid dedicated band. With his girl playing bass and his brother on the drums, he had no doubt in his mind that success was just around the corner. High hopes arouse when a heavy set, British gentleman promised a record deal in Nashville at one of their bar shows. For days Dad rubbed it in parents’ face, his teachers face and even some of his friends’ face.
The big night dad Dad found himself at his closet unsure of what to wear, being that he was soon to be the biggest rockstar, what better to wear a grungy flannel t-shirt and ripped up jeans. Right?
Later that night dad drove his little 1982 Toyota truck to Nashville praying that the hunk of metal would get him there and back. He prayed that there would be no rain so his equipment wouldn’t drown. He prayed for the best, that this would be the big come through. He was beginning to see the light. He started to think about the crazy things he would demand backstage before each show. He thought about where he would live. God had a different plan for him.
When he and his band arrived at the address given to him, he got out of his truck and looked around. He saw a troubled neighborhood, one that looked as if a dark cloud always hung around it, or is that rain?
He looked for a bigger building. To his surprise he found himself looking at a rundown place that looked just like a drug dealers house, but he was sure that this was his destination because a little sign out in the yard read ”Danny’s studio”. Alright! The band started to make their way up the broken pavement, and up wobbly steps to the front door. Before they could even knock they heard a weak voice say “he’s not there”. “what?” said dad as he looked in the direction from which it came from. He saw an old lady who seemed to have almost popped out of the bushes beside them. “Yes” she said, “He’s not there”. “well, where is he?” Said dad. She paused for a second and said “he went to jail for selling crack”. “Well, that’s Promising” said dad as he high stepped it off the porch, looking around for hidden cops. He got to his truck almost crying. All the way home, it rained.
Just a couple of years later, Dad’s band became tight and each of the band members became better musicians. But news from my mom made the band come to a screeching halt with the words “I’m Pregnant”. So like any young teenage guy my dad paused for the longest time and came back with the words “it’s not mine”. My grandparents listened as my mom and dad fought in the back bedroom. Two hours later my mom ran out of the room crying and dad followed soon after.
“I can’t believe you’re still worried about our stupid band” said my mom.
Only time changed my dad. As months went by, he saw my rump in mom’s belly though hard about things as they were, he turned himself around. He got his first job at sunbeam in Portland Tennessee, and worked 12 hours shifts in order to support his soon to be family. Before you knew it he was just about excited as mom was about having a little version of him running around.
On January 23, 1991, I was born to my parents during the worse time possible for them both. We all lived with my grandparents who showed the biggest amount of support. Dad loved us, mom and I soon became his life, we were all he’d ever thought about. Yet he still had a strange desire to play music, and a positive feeling that his music career wasn’t over. He yet again quits his job.
One year later, the band reunites my parents played shows at every bar in Nashville. And years following, the band changes with replacements of drummers and singers, and 2nd guitarist. In the middle of this chaos my grandparents had pretty much adopted me since mom and dad were on the road a lot.
In, 1994 my parents had made enough money to buy them a house, and placed just a few feet away from my grandparents. Though they never stayed in it, it was still theirs and not mom and dads.
After many attempts and failure my parents never grew tired of music.
In summer of 1997 my dad’s life and crumbled under his feet when he discovers my moms disfaithfullness to the guitar player in the band. With little time my dad packs up and leaves to his parent’s house. He had lost his wife, his baby girl, and he was once again broke.
It’s disheartening how life bites the nicest people in the ass. My dad turned his life over to God, he tries to see me every weekend, he has a job at the bottom of the pyramid, and he stills lives with his parents most of the time.
Music is played on the side now, only when he gets time. He plays music with people who are old enough to be his father.
Music has always helped my daddy cope, yet it tore his life apart in the end.
Haley Jones
During high school you would find my dad not in school, but at home playing guitar. My grandmother tried with all her might to get him on the right track. Little did she know, my dad’s grungy rock attitude feed upon his mothers bickering as motivation to question authority further. My dad spent his high school nights partying with whoever was willing. He jumped from rock bands to garage bands, and even to metal bands. Music was his only true friend, and his only legal escape. His dependency on it had become increasingly strong, and seemingly success borne.
In October of 1986 my dad met my mom at a house party in their hometown. My mom had played bass for one of the bands playing at the party. My dad had told me she sat down beside him talking to her friends. Dad said he recalls having a lot to drink that night, but not enough to be unnervous about sitting beside beautiful, talented lass. Dad said he burped obnoxiously without meaning to, and turned hot red in the face. With shame he scooted his body the other direction and let out a faint, shaky “excuse me.” He told me that this beautiful girl, now 2 feet away turned around and looked at him with a funny facial expression and said “wow that was at least an eight”. Thus starting a conversation, and creating a Mark and Jenny world, only they could enter. How romantic.
As time went by my dad grew content with life, he had the girl of his dreams, he had a band, he was unemployed, and he had talent. He was so content that he had decided to quit school.
From this point Dad settled down with a seemingly solid dedicated band. With his girl playing bass and his brother on the drums, he had no doubt in his mind that success was just around the corner. High hopes arouse when a heavy set, British gentleman promised a record deal in Nashville at one of their bar shows. For days Dad rubbed it in parents’ face, his teachers face and even some of his friends’ face.
The big night dad Dad found himself at his closet unsure of what to wear, being that he was soon to be the biggest rockstar, what better to wear a grungy flannel t-shirt and ripped up jeans. Right?
Later that night dad drove his little 1982 Toyota truck to Nashville praying that the hunk of metal would get him there and back. He prayed that there would be no rain so his equipment wouldn’t drown. He prayed for the best, that this would be the big come through. He was beginning to see the light. He started to think about the crazy things he would demand backstage before each show. He thought about where he would live. God had a different plan for him.
When he and his band arrived at the address given to him, he got out of his truck and looked around. He saw a troubled neighborhood, one that looked as if a dark cloud always hung around it, or is that rain?
He looked for a bigger building. To his surprise he found himself looking at a rundown place that looked just like a drug dealers house, but he was sure that this was his destination because a little sign out in the yard read ”Danny’s studio”. Alright! The band started to make their way up the broken pavement, and up wobbly steps to the front door. Before they could even knock they heard a weak voice say “he’s not there”. “what?” said dad as he looked in the direction from which it came from. He saw an old lady who seemed to have almost popped out of the bushes beside them. “Yes” she said, “He’s not there”. “well, where is he?” Said dad. She paused for a second and said “he went to jail for selling crack”. “Well, that’s Promising” said dad as he high stepped it off the porch, looking around for hidden cops. He got to his truck almost crying. All the way home, it rained.
Just a couple of years later, Dad’s band became tight and each of the band members became better musicians. But news from my mom made the band come to a screeching halt with the words “I’m Pregnant”. So like any young teenage guy my dad paused for the longest time and came back with the words “it’s not mine”. My grandparents listened as my mom and dad fought in the back bedroom. Two hours later my mom ran out of the room crying and dad followed soon after.
“I can’t believe you’re still worried about our stupid band” said my mom.
Only time changed my dad. As months went by, he saw my rump in mom’s belly though hard about things as they were, he turned himself around. He got his first job at sunbeam in Portland Tennessee, and worked 12 hours shifts in order to support his soon to be family. Before you knew it he was just about excited as mom was about having a little version of him running around.
On January 23, 1991, I was born to my parents during the worse time possible for them both. We all lived with my grandparents who showed the biggest amount of support. Dad loved us, mom and I soon became his life, we were all he’d ever thought about. Yet he still had a strange desire to play music, and a positive feeling that his music career wasn’t over. He yet again quits his job.
One year later, the band reunites my parents played shows at every bar in Nashville. And years following, the band changes with replacements of drummers and singers, and 2nd guitarist. In the middle of this chaos my grandparents had pretty much adopted me since mom and dad were on the road a lot.
In, 1994 my parents had made enough money to buy them a house, and placed just a few feet away from my grandparents. Though they never stayed in it, it was still theirs and not mom and dads.
After many attempts and failure my parents never grew tired of music.
In summer of 1997 my dad’s life and crumbled under his feet when he discovers my moms disfaithfullness to the guitar player in the band. With little time my dad packs up and leaves to his parent’s house. He had lost his wife, his baby girl, and he was once again broke.
It’s disheartening how life bites the nicest people in the ass. My dad turned his life over to God, he tries to see me every weekend, he has a job at the bottom of the pyramid, and he stills lives with his parents most of the time.
Music is played on the side now, only when he gets time. He plays music with people who are old enough to be his father.
Music has always helped my daddy cope, yet it tore his life apart in the end.
Haley Jones
The Last Time Through The Air Lock
Some of my fondest memories from high school came from my involvement in marching band. One of my favorite memories was the final marching band competition during my junior year. This was the first year that we had ever gone to the Bands of America Grand Nationals in Indianapolis, Indiana. In the world of competitive high school marching band this is the equivalent of the Super Bowl. In November bands from all over the country, some as small as sixteen members while others numbered over three hundred, compete for a national title and bragging rights for a year. Until this last year the event had taken place at the RCA Dome. This venue was unique in that the material that made up the roof of the dome was held up by air pressure and a long standing tradition at Grand Nationals is for all competing bands to pass through the “air lock” to get to the field. Though it was necessary to do this because of how the Dome was designed, it became a rite of passage for all competitors.
The day before the last performance of my junior year started early for us. We had left school at around seven o’clock the night before and had got to the motel at around one o’clock in the morning. Taking into account that the last game of the World Series was on and the usual getting settled in to a new place, no one got to bed before two thirty, and we had to be up a five for breakfast and at the practice site by seven. The day dawned cloudy with light rain, high winds, and a forecasted daily high of thirty-three degrees without the wind chill. I had the presence of mind to bring warm clothing and to dress in layers, but my friends weren’t as well prepared, and as a result morale suffered. To say practice started off badly would be putting it mildly. There were people not paying attention, not being prepared, and just not caring what they were doing. Not four days before we had just won our fourth state title and I’ll admit we all felt pretty cocky going into this competition and the first half of practice reflected this. It got to the point where our band director, Mr. Harris, called us all off the field and told us to “get it together or we were going to withdraw from the competition get back on the busses and go home.” After that little “pep talk” we started to get our act together and practice started to turn for the better.
It should be understood that while it was mostly our state of mind and our lack of energy that contributed to the morning practice going the way it did, the adverse weather conditions did play a part in it as well. One of the most prevalent difficulties we as a band faced that day as far as the weather was concerned was the temperature. Thirty-three degrees is considered cold by most people but add to that almost constantly gusting winds with light rain mingled with sleet and it becomes ten times worse. I had on several layers of warm clothes and when the wind hit me I might as well have had a tee-shirt on, there were times it seemed like the wind was going through me. We were all thankful when we broke for lunch and got the chance to warm up, and adjust our attitudes.
After a break for lunch we found a second wind and were able to turn the practice around and end the day on a high note. We all knew that if the next day’s practice went the way it did that day we wouldn’t have a prayer of holding our own in the competition.
The next morning everyone seemed to move with a purpose and practice that morning went much better than the one that took place the previous day. Even the weather seemed to cooperate with us. The biting cold and the almost constant wind gusts had been replaced by bright sunny skies and temperatures that topped out in the upper fifties. We all took this as a sign of good things to come. During the bus ride the mood was light. At one point someone started singing their part of the show and slowly everyone started joining in with their parts. With both drum majors conducting us “sang” the entire show from the first down beat to the end of the show. To this day I do not know who it was that started it, but I’m glad they did because it allowed us all to cut up a little bit and relax our nerves because going into a competition like Grand Nationals, there is no room for nerves.
Once we arrived at the Dome we went immediately into warm-ups. While the musical and physical warm-ups were important, our mental warm up is the one that meant the most to us. I cannot fully put into words the full impact that the mental warm-up had on all of us. It is something that one has to be a part of to truly understand but at the same time, have no explanation for. The closest I can come to describing what took place is the funneling of all our emotions fear, joy, pride, and a host of others into one small tightly compacted form leaving only pure focus and determination to show on our faces, in our eyes. With that ritual completed we left the warm-up area and stepped into the air lock.
The first performance seemed to take just a second, eight minutes and fifty-two seconds compressed into an instant, one second the show started and the next I was playing the last notes of the show. When I experienced this I knew at that moment that I had held nothing back and had put myself into my performance. And looking around as we walked off the field I knew that all eighty-eight of us had done the same thing. We had taken all of our emotions that we had packed away and then released them using the performance as a vehicle to convey them to the audience. The emotions written into the music mixed with those being given off by us, the performers, creating an experience that no one will ever forget.
After the run we went into the stands to await the announcement of the semi-finalist bands. Our performance marked the end of preliminaries in which ninety-four bands participated; most of them were three to four times our size. Of these bands only thirty-two would get a place in semi-semi finals and only twelve of those thirty-two would get a spot in finals. As the announcing began we all counted down until only one slot remained. The announcer paused for dramatic effect lasting only a few seconds, but to us it felt like hours. Then we heard what we had all been hoping for, we were in semi-finals.
The warm-up process repeated itself but this time there were tears in our eyes. The upcoming performance marked not only the end of our season, but the end of our senior’s involvement with the band. Young men and women who we have developed close bonds with, had less than ten minutes left in a program that they had poured their hearts and souls into for the last four years. It was also the end of an era. We had been given the honor of being the last Bands of America Grand Nationals semi-finalist band to ever pass through the air lock and take the field at the RCA Dome.
Our semi-finals run went as well as the first, but like I said there’s only room for twelve bands in finals, and Bands of America doesn’t really like bands of less than one hundred members. On the bus ride home that night when most of the others had fallen asleep I allowed myself some time for reflection. A big theme that we always pushed for was having no regrets. And looking back on the season, each competition, every practice, and even all the way back to band camp remembering the highs and the lows, chuckling to myself at the funny moments and sniffling at the sad I had a smile on my face when I fell asleep.
Arriving back at school at four thirty in the morning after a week that started out with nearly freezing to death at some random high school and ended with memories and experiences that I will never forget, I got my duffle bag and walked out to my truck in the parking lot. After tossing my stuff in the bed and climbing into the cab, I recalled what I had been thinking about on the bus. As I pulled out of the parking lot I knew that I had no regrets.
By Adam Wilck
The day before the last performance of my junior year started early for us. We had left school at around seven o’clock the night before and had got to the motel at around one o’clock in the morning. Taking into account that the last game of the World Series was on and the usual getting settled in to a new place, no one got to bed before two thirty, and we had to be up a five for breakfast and at the practice site by seven. The day dawned cloudy with light rain, high winds, and a forecasted daily high of thirty-three degrees without the wind chill. I had the presence of mind to bring warm clothing and to dress in layers, but my friends weren’t as well prepared, and as a result morale suffered. To say practice started off badly would be putting it mildly. There were people not paying attention, not being prepared, and just not caring what they were doing. Not four days before we had just won our fourth state title and I’ll admit we all felt pretty cocky going into this competition and the first half of practice reflected this. It got to the point where our band director, Mr. Harris, called us all off the field and told us to “get it together or we were going to withdraw from the competition get back on the busses and go home.” After that little “pep talk” we started to get our act together and practice started to turn for the better.
It should be understood that while it was mostly our state of mind and our lack of energy that contributed to the morning practice going the way it did, the adverse weather conditions did play a part in it as well. One of the most prevalent difficulties we as a band faced that day as far as the weather was concerned was the temperature. Thirty-three degrees is considered cold by most people but add to that almost constantly gusting winds with light rain mingled with sleet and it becomes ten times worse. I had on several layers of warm clothes and when the wind hit me I might as well have had a tee-shirt on, there were times it seemed like the wind was going through me. We were all thankful when we broke for lunch and got the chance to warm up, and adjust our attitudes.
After a break for lunch we found a second wind and were able to turn the practice around and end the day on a high note. We all knew that if the next day’s practice went the way it did that day we wouldn’t have a prayer of holding our own in the competition.
The next morning everyone seemed to move with a purpose and practice that morning went much better than the one that took place the previous day. Even the weather seemed to cooperate with us. The biting cold and the almost constant wind gusts had been replaced by bright sunny skies and temperatures that topped out in the upper fifties. We all took this as a sign of good things to come. During the bus ride the mood was light. At one point someone started singing their part of the show and slowly everyone started joining in with their parts. With both drum majors conducting us “sang” the entire show from the first down beat to the end of the show. To this day I do not know who it was that started it, but I’m glad they did because it allowed us all to cut up a little bit and relax our nerves because going into a competition like Grand Nationals, there is no room for nerves.
Once we arrived at the Dome we went immediately into warm-ups. While the musical and physical warm-ups were important, our mental warm up is the one that meant the most to us. I cannot fully put into words the full impact that the mental warm-up had on all of us. It is something that one has to be a part of to truly understand but at the same time, have no explanation for. The closest I can come to describing what took place is the funneling of all our emotions fear, joy, pride, and a host of others into one small tightly compacted form leaving only pure focus and determination to show on our faces, in our eyes. With that ritual completed we left the warm-up area and stepped into the air lock.
The first performance seemed to take just a second, eight minutes and fifty-two seconds compressed into an instant, one second the show started and the next I was playing the last notes of the show. When I experienced this I knew at that moment that I had held nothing back and had put myself into my performance. And looking around as we walked off the field I knew that all eighty-eight of us had done the same thing. We had taken all of our emotions that we had packed away and then released them using the performance as a vehicle to convey them to the audience. The emotions written into the music mixed with those being given off by us, the performers, creating an experience that no one will ever forget.
After the run we went into the stands to await the announcement of the semi-finalist bands. Our performance marked the end of preliminaries in which ninety-four bands participated; most of them were three to four times our size. Of these bands only thirty-two would get a place in semi-semi finals and only twelve of those thirty-two would get a spot in finals. As the announcing began we all counted down until only one slot remained. The announcer paused for dramatic effect lasting only a few seconds, but to us it felt like hours. Then we heard what we had all been hoping for, we were in semi-finals.
The warm-up process repeated itself but this time there were tears in our eyes. The upcoming performance marked not only the end of our season, but the end of our senior’s involvement with the band. Young men and women who we have developed close bonds with, had less than ten minutes left in a program that they had poured their hearts and souls into for the last four years. It was also the end of an era. We had been given the honor of being the last Bands of America Grand Nationals semi-finalist band to ever pass through the air lock and take the field at the RCA Dome.
Our semi-finals run went as well as the first, but like I said there’s only room for twelve bands in finals, and Bands of America doesn’t really like bands of less than one hundred members. On the bus ride home that night when most of the others had fallen asleep I allowed myself some time for reflection. A big theme that we always pushed for was having no regrets. And looking back on the season, each competition, every practice, and even all the way back to band camp remembering the highs and the lows, chuckling to myself at the funny moments and sniffling at the sad I had a smile on my face when I fell asleep.
Arriving back at school at four thirty in the morning after a week that started out with nearly freezing to death at some random high school and ended with memories and experiences that I will never forget, I got my duffle bag and walked out to my truck in the parking lot. After tossing my stuff in the bed and climbing into the cab, I recalled what I had been thinking about on the bus. As I pulled out of the parking lot I knew that I had no regrets.
By Adam Wilck
Machine Shop Disaster
Performance test was the only thing racing through my mind as I walked slowly to my CAD and CNC programming class, computer controlled machine tools, Friday afternoon. I was in no hurry for the test, but the slower the pace the more anxiety built in me. I opened the door to the class at two o’clock and was struck by the smell of oil and cutting fluid. I kept out of the way of the running machines and entered into the computer room. It looked more like a surgical operating room: clean, swept, and all the tools placed in order for the tasks of the day.
Then I placed my book bag by my computer and grabbed a piece of butter board, a block of plastic, and sat back in a chair waiting for my turn at the machine. I ran my fingers up and down the smooth yellowed butter board trying to calm myself. The mini mill, a small computer controlled mill, would only take fifteen minutes to complete the part, but it felt like an eternity sitting in front of the blank computer screen. The minute hand slowly ticked by.
After staring at the black screen, I went over the operating procedure in my head a thousand times, forwards and backwards. The machine was going to cut a rectangular journal, shave the right side of it down by two inches, and then drill four quarter inch holes in the short side. I had studied the procedure religiously the night before and asked my teacher every question about the mini mill imaginable. Still nervous, I cycled through the procedures and checked them again for accuracy, just like one of these computers in the room.
Soon as the clock read two fifteen, the teacher called for the next student. I entered the mini-mill room and heard the door close shut. A man could have heard a pin drop in the room. I was completely isolated from the entire class with the machine.
At the same time as the door shut, I swept the surgically cut pieces of butter board form the keyboard of the computer. The pieces littered the floor and air. I placed the block tightly in the vise and inserted the cutting tool into the collet (tool holding device). I opened my file on the computer and slowly pressed the go button, but the mini-mill sat there lifelessly for a moment.
“Error!” the computer shouted in bold red letters.
Immediately, I shoved my face right up to the screen to read the remark. The computer had found unreadable code in line ten. I had already checked the program but scrolled to line ten and saw the problem. Two plus signs sat at the end of the code. I had put them there by accident when I added lengths to find the origin of the part. I deleted them and went on. It was odd that marks meaning positive accomplishment were causing me trouble. The machine started again. Two twenty ticked by on the clock.
At the same time, the whistle of the cutting tool echoed through the room, and the machine hummed to life. I thought “finally success.” The arm of the mini-mill slowly moved the cutting tool in small increments towards the part. The bit began slicing the correct pattern, but it was just trimming air. The mini-mill had moved the cutting tool seven inches off the block. I slapped the emergency stop button, and scrolled through the code again, but my untrained eye found nothing wrong. I looked at the clock over my shoulder and saw two fifty, ten minutes left of class. Simple mistakes had devoured priceless time.
Meanwhile, my heart raced, and sweat rolled over my face fogging the lenses of the safety glasses. I took them off and looked at the block without the film of anxiety. With shoulders hunched, I lowered my head.
“Okay,” I thought nervously, “Let’s reset the cutting tool’s starting position.”
I carefully redid the math and set the bit back in position. The clock stated 2:55, five minutes remained of class. Again, I slowly pushed the start button.
For the second time, the machine buzzed and rapidly moved the cutting tool to the right side of the block to mill the first journal. My pride rose then suddenly fell with the mill’s next movement. The tool bite into the part like a dog on a bone and sliced through the middle of the block. I punched the emergency stop. My body was drained and limp. I stood in the mini-mill room staring at my deformed block. It was three o’clock, and class was over. I wandered out of the room with the deformed block in my hand towards the teacher’s desk.
“Finished?” he asked.
I looked him in the eye and confidently stationed my misshapen part on his desk.
By Jarad Williams
Then I placed my book bag by my computer and grabbed a piece of butter board, a block of plastic, and sat back in a chair waiting for my turn at the machine. I ran my fingers up and down the smooth yellowed butter board trying to calm myself. The mini mill, a small computer controlled mill, would only take fifteen minutes to complete the part, but it felt like an eternity sitting in front of the blank computer screen. The minute hand slowly ticked by.
After staring at the black screen, I went over the operating procedure in my head a thousand times, forwards and backwards. The machine was going to cut a rectangular journal, shave the right side of it down by two inches, and then drill four quarter inch holes in the short side. I had studied the procedure religiously the night before and asked my teacher every question about the mini mill imaginable. Still nervous, I cycled through the procedures and checked them again for accuracy, just like one of these computers in the room.
Soon as the clock read two fifteen, the teacher called for the next student. I entered the mini-mill room and heard the door close shut. A man could have heard a pin drop in the room. I was completely isolated from the entire class with the machine.
At the same time as the door shut, I swept the surgically cut pieces of butter board form the keyboard of the computer. The pieces littered the floor and air. I placed the block tightly in the vise and inserted the cutting tool into the collet (tool holding device). I opened my file on the computer and slowly pressed the go button, but the mini-mill sat there lifelessly for a moment.
“Error!” the computer shouted in bold red letters.
Immediately, I shoved my face right up to the screen to read the remark. The computer had found unreadable code in line ten. I had already checked the program but scrolled to line ten and saw the problem. Two plus signs sat at the end of the code. I had put them there by accident when I added lengths to find the origin of the part. I deleted them and went on. It was odd that marks meaning positive accomplishment were causing me trouble. The machine started again. Two twenty ticked by on the clock.
At the same time, the whistle of the cutting tool echoed through the room, and the machine hummed to life. I thought “finally success.” The arm of the mini-mill slowly moved the cutting tool in small increments towards the part. The bit began slicing the correct pattern, but it was just trimming air. The mini-mill had moved the cutting tool seven inches off the block. I slapped the emergency stop button, and scrolled through the code again, but my untrained eye found nothing wrong. I looked at the clock over my shoulder and saw two fifty, ten minutes left of class. Simple mistakes had devoured priceless time.
Meanwhile, my heart raced, and sweat rolled over my face fogging the lenses of the safety glasses. I took them off and looked at the block without the film of anxiety. With shoulders hunched, I lowered my head.
“Okay,” I thought nervously, “Let’s reset the cutting tool’s starting position.”
I carefully redid the math and set the bit back in position. The clock stated 2:55, five minutes remained of class. Again, I slowly pushed the start button.
For the second time, the machine buzzed and rapidly moved the cutting tool to the right side of the block to mill the first journal. My pride rose then suddenly fell with the mill’s next movement. The tool bite into the part like a dog on a bone and sliced through the middle of the block. I punched the emergency stop. My body was drained and limp. I stood in the mini-mill room staring at my deformed block. It was three o’clock, and class was over. I wandered out of the room with the deformed block in my hand towards the teacher’s desk.
“Finished?” he asked.
I looked him in the eye and confidently stationed my misshapen part on his desk.
By Jarad Williams
Keep Me Posted
Parents always want their kids to keep in touch with them. They want to know where their kids are and that they are safe at all times. My parents are the same way, they need to know that I am in a secure area and surrounded by either people I know or people that aren’t going to attack me. If I keep in touch with the they are in the know and feel comfortable letting me do what I want, but when they are uniformed, situations begin to spiral out of control.
After work one night, around 9:30ish, I had made plans to go out with some friends to a field party. One of those parties that I should have probably worn a good sturdy pair of and pair of shoes that I really didn’t care to see the true color of after the night was said and done. I told my dad where I was going: “to a party somewhere in West Nashville”; also that I was going to be with my best friend Matt, who, at times, I think my parents love more than me, and our go-to-guy friend Chris; therefore I’d be well protected. My dad agreed, finishing our little phone conversation with his I’m-being-a-good-parent-phrase, “you shouldn’t stay out all night”, but I took that as more of a suggestion, rather than a command; as most teenagers would. All summer I had been coming in at around 4 or 5 am, so I thought this night was not going to be an exception. After clocking out, locking up and hopping into Matt’s car we were on our way. Forty-five minutes later, after watching the darkness get darker on the way to this “party”, we came across what was said to be the entrance to the field: a space in the trees, gravel path, marked with a small American flag stuck in the ground. How patriotic. We turned in thinking that the party was going to be just around the corner, but instead we drove for about eight more minutes through what looked like scenes from Jurassic Park: a huge barn, abandoned cars, turned over boats, a couple of broken down trailers, all surrounded by intense foliage.
I said, “If we break down we’re calling 9-1-1, and no ones opening the doors to this car until day light”.
Finally we started to see cars, ones that weren’t sitting on blocks, lots of them. Once parked, we walked to the main clearing. There we found about 250 plus drunken kids, stumbling about, laughing and chattering away with friends. To the left: a huge generator in the back of a fire-truck-red Jeep Wrangler truck with a spot light shined directly at the party, and at the small bonfire, as if the heat itself wouldn’t keep the drinkers from wobbling towards it; loud speakers blasting top 40; and to the right: two huge coolers filled with a mixture of who-knows-what punch, surrounded by half empty cases of beer. We couldn’t walk ten steps without crunching on one of those all-too-familiar and way-inconspicuous red cups. It had rained almost all that week, so the ground was extremely muddy and slick. While attempting to mingle gracefully I lost a flip-flop to the brown grassy gook more than a couple times and the bottom half of the legs to my jeans were soaked all the way through. Oh, the outfits we ruin to be able to say, “We were there”. After a couple cups of the bitter red juice, I was definitely networking my way to the top of the party, too bad I wouldn’t remember anyone’s name I shook hands with. I met a couple of Vandy kids, some from UT Knoxville, Chattanooga, some from Brentwood and Franklin, and some were just too drunk to function and could barely state their names.
After stumbling and stuttering a tad myself we decided the party was dying down and that it’d be a really great idea if we headed out before some of the other dizzy kids decided to try their luck at escaping the jungle. Matt, being the only sober one, was our driver. With Chris in the back-seat, and I riding shotgun we were off over the rocky bumps and slushy turns, back through entrance of Wrong Turn to Dead End; luckily escaping any run-ins with inbreeds and the sound of banjo music. On the long ride back to civilization, I wore Matt’s sunglasses while we all tried a butchered attempt at a Jackson Five song. I remembered that my phone had died earlier at the party, I think I remember something about Matt’s dying too. Oh well, I thought, as long as my parents knew I was with Matt then I didn’t think they’d care. We dropped Chris off, and decided to just leave my car at the studio where I worked; I’d get it tomorrow, since I was working again. We then went to Matt’s house, where I guess we thought we would sit out my intoxication. We turned on Law and Order SVU, our favorite show, and that was the last thing I remember.
I pulled my eyes open as a very pale blue peeked through the window. Oh my God. It was morning; I must have fallen asleep on the floor. I felt my face grow hot, my heart pumping faster, my ears rang, and a vein pulsated in my temple. I jerked up and ran over to the chair where Matt was sprawled on, his head hanging slightly. I shook him and yelled.
“It’s morning! Oh my God, my parents are going to kill me; they’re going to kill us both! We have to get back to my car!” He started to move, but I was already waiting to go. My phone was still dead, no telling how many times my dad had probably tried to reach me; and with Matt’s phone dead too; oh God, this could not end well. We rushed to the studio to get my car; I was definitely more than awake and aware enough to operate a vehicle. In our separate cars we both rushed to the end of the parking lot. It was times like these where I truly wish my car could teleport. I was half way home before I realized my music was on, but when I did I immediately shut it off; I felt even more nervous with it playing the songs from last night. When I pulled into my driveway I half expected to just be able to just sneak in through the garage and my parents to still be asleep, but I was horrified to see my that my dad’s car was missing. Was he out looking for me? Could this get any worse? I turned my key in the lock to open the door and then walked through the threshold of doom. I heard my mom upstairs give a loud huff. She walked to the top of the stairs and glared down at me, saying nothing, and then finally,
“I don’t think you know how much trouble you’re in. You’re father has been trying to get a-hold of you on the phone since 3am, and he’s been out looking for you since four.”
Oh shit. It was six now. I ran into the kitchen there my phone charger lay on the table; I plugged in my phone and turned it on. Oh no. Seven texts, 23 missed calls, and 2 voicemails! My life was officially over. My phone started to vibrate in my hand. It was Matt.
“Yeah?”
“I just passed your dad on Cloverland; he looks pissed.”
“Awesome! Thanks for the good news. I’ll call you back after the beating.”
I hung up as I heard the front door open, then I felt my lungs depress and my stomach bottom out. Here it comes, the yelling, the screaming, the total imprisonment for the rest of the summer and maybe even my life, goodbye world, hello Alcatraz. Then I saw my dad walk in the kitchen. He did look really mad, good call Matt.
“Have you lost your mind? What the hell were you thinking? Your mother has been crying all morning, she’s sick to her stomach. We thought you had been abducted, Sinclair. I went to the studio and saw your car, but you weren’t there. I drove to Matt’s and his car was there, but there were no lights on in his house. I was on my way back there to beat down his door and get him to tell me where he thought you might be. I was about to call the police. We thought you were dead somewhere.”
I stood there just listening to him, I didn’t say anything. Then something weird happened: He came up to me and gave me a hug.
“We didn’t know where you were, your phone was off, and we had no idea what happened to you,” he said still holding me. “We want to know where you are.”
Then I realized that, even though I was still in major trouble, it wasn’t that I was just getting yelled at for doing something stupid. My dad was just glad to know that I was safe. If I had called to tell him where I was none of this would have happened. If I had just kept in touch with them like they wanted, I wouldn’t be in the trouble I was in. From then on, I was going to always have my phone charger with me and always let my dad know where I was. For the rest of the summer I had better be in that house at or before 11:59 pm, from then on I would always always always keep them posted.
by sinclair dotson
After work one night, around 9:30ish, I had made plans to go out with some friends to a field party. One of those parties that I should have probably worn a good sturdy pair of and pair of shoes that I really didn’t care to see the true color of after the night was said and done. I told my dad where I was going: “to a party somewhere in West Nashville”; also that I was going to be with my best friend Matt, who, at times, I think my parents love more than me, and our go-to-guy friend Chris; therefore I’d be well protected. My dad agreed, finishing our little phone conversation with his I’m-being-a-good-parent-phrase, “you shouldn’t stay out all night”, but I took that as more of a suggestion, rather than a command; as most teenagers would. All summer I had been coming in at around 4 or 5 am, so I thought this night was not going to be an exception. After clocking out, locking up and hopping into Matt’s car we were on our way. Forty-five minutes later, after watching the darkness get darker on the way to this “party”, we came across what was said to be the entrance to the field: a space in the trees, gravel path, marked with a small American flag stuck in the ground. How patriotic. We turned in thinking that the party was going to be just around the corner, but instead we drove for about eight more minutes through what looked like scenes from Jurassic Park: a huge barn, abandoned cars, turned over boats, a couple of broken down trailers, all surrounded by intense foliage.
I said, “If we break down we’re calling 9-1-1, and no ones opening the doors to this car until day light”.
Finally we started to see cars, ones that weren’t sitting on blocks, lots of them. Once parked, we walked to the main clearing. There we found about 250 plus drunken kids, stumbling about, laughing and chattering away with friends. To the left: a huge generator in the back of a fire-truck-red Jeep Wrangler truck with a spot light shined directly at the party, and at the small bonfire, as if the heat itself wouldn’t keep the drinkers from wobbling towards it; loud speakers blasting top 40; and to the right: two huge coolers filled with a mixture of who-knows-what punch, surrounded by half empty cases of beer. We couldn’t walk ten steps without crunching on one of those all-too-familiar and way-inconspicuous red cups. It had rained almost all that week, so the ground was extremely muddy and slick. While attempting to mingle gracefully I lost a flip-flop to the brown grassy gook more than a couple times and the bottom half of the legs to my jeans were soaked all the way through. Oh, the outfits we ruin to be able to say, “We were there”. After a couple cups of the bitter red juice, I was definitely networking my way to the top of the party, too bad I wouldn’t remember anyone’s name I shook hands with. I met a couple of Vandy kids, some from UT Knoxville, Chattanooga, some from Brentwood and Franklin, and some were just too drunk to function and could barely state their names.
After stumbling and stuttering a tad myself we decided the party was dying down and that it’d be a really great idea if we headed out before some of the other dizzy kids decided to try their luck at escaping the jungle. Matt, being the only sober one, was our driver. With Chris in the back-seat, and I riding shotgun we were off over the rocky bumps and slushy turns, back through entrance of Wrong Turn to Dead End; luckily escaping any run-ins with inbreeds and the sound of banjo music. On the long ride back to civilization, I wore Matt’s sunglasses while we all tried a butchered attempt at a Jackson Five song. I remembered that my phone had died earlier at the party, I think I remember something about Matt’s dying too. Oh well, I thought, as long as my parents knew I was with Matt then I didn’t think they’d care. We dropped Chris off, and decided to just leave my car at the studio where I worked; I’d get it tomorrow, since I was working again. We then went to Matt’s house, where I guess we thought we would sit out my intoxication. We turned on Law and Order SVU, our favorite show, and that was the last thing I remember.
I pulled my eyes open as a very pale blue peeked through the window. Oh my God. It was morning; I must have fallen asleep on the floor. I felt my face grow hot, my heart pumping faster, my ears rang, and a vein pulsated in my temple. I jerked up and ran over to the chair where Matt was sprawled on, his head hanging slightly. I shook him and yelled.
“It’s morning! Oh my God, my parents are going to kill me; they’re going to kill us both! We have to get back to my car!” He started to move, but I was already waiting to go. My phone was still dead, no telling how many times my dad had probably tried to reach me; and with Matt’s phone dead too; oh God, this could not end well. We rushed to the studio to get my car; I was definitely more than awake and aware enough to operate a vehicle. In our separate cars we both rushed to the end of the parking lot. It was times like these where I truly wish my car could teleport. I was half way home before I realized my music was on, but when I did I immediately shut it off; I felt even more nervous with it playing the songs from last night. When I pulled into my driveway I half expected to just be able to just sneak in through the garage and my parents to still be asleep, but I was horrified to see my that my dad’s car was missing. Was he out looking for me? Could this get any worse? I turned my key in the lock to open the door and then walked through the threshold of doom. I heard my mom upstairs give a loud huff. She walked to the top of the stairs and glared down at me, saying nothing, and then finally,
“I don’t think you know how much trouble you’re in. You’re father has been trying to get a-hold of you on the phone since 3am, and he’s been out looking for you since four.”
Oh shit. It was six now. I ran into the kitchen there my phone charger lay on the table; I plugged in my phone and turned it on. Oh no. Seven texts, 23 missed calls, and 2 voicemails! My life was officially over. My phone started to vibrate in my hand. It was Matt.
“Yeah?”
“I just passed your dad on Cloverland; he looks pissed.”
“Awesome! Thanks for the good news. I’ll call you back after the beating.”
I hung up as I heard the front door open, then I felt my lungs depress and my stomach bottom out. Here it comes, the yelling, the screaming, the total imprisonment for the rest of the summer and maybe even my life, goodbye world, hello Alcatraz. Then I saw my dad walk in the kitchen. He did look really mad, good call Matt.
“Have you lost your mind? What the hell were you thinking? Your mother has been crying all morning, she’s sick to her stomach. We thought you had been abducted, Sinclair. I went to the studio and saw your car, but you weren’t there. I drove to Matt’s and his car was there, but there were no lights on in his house. I was on my way back there to beat down his door and get him to tell me where he thought you might be. I was about to call the police. We thought you were dead somewhere.”
I stood there just listening to him, I didn’t say anything. Then something weird happened: He came up to me and gave me a hug.
“We didn’t know where you were, your phone was off, and we had no idea what happened to you,” he said still holding me. “We want to know where you are.”
Then I realized that, even though I was still in major trouble, it wasn’t that I was just getting yelled at for doing something stupid. My dad was just glad to know that I was safe. If I had called to tell him where I was none of this would have happened. If I had just kept in touch with them like they wanted, I wouldn’t be in the trouble I was in. From then on, I was going to always have my phone charger with me and always let my dad know where I was. For the rest of the summer I had better be in that house at or before 11:59 pm, from then on I would always always always keep them posted.
by sinclair dotson
Monday, September 28, 2009
Living With The Regret
Lacey Hutchison
Professor McCaffrey
ENG 100
October 6, 2009
As the song Watching Airplanes by Jason Aldean was playing on my voicemail, my eyes started tearing up because I knew it was Jamie. We were fighting once again. I couldn’t keep going back and forth with him. Either we were together or not. But, we could never make up our minds to be apart. We were never happy apart. So, these fights always ended happily together. A week of contemplation went on.
On October 8th, a week later, I was sitting in a Glasgow High School cheerleading meeting discussing nationals. The meeting started at 5:30 pm and was suppose to be over an hour later. Of course it was now 6:50. We were finally leaving. Saying my goodbyes my phone was receiving call after call, but I kept pushing the ignore button. That conversation could wait.
Obviously, Brittni needed to talk to me because she called my moms phone when we were on our way home. I was driving down the road and I could hear Brittni crying on the other side of the phone. Mom handed me the phone because she couldn’t understand her. Being as close as sisters I could usually make her sentences out. Putting the pieces together, I heard her say car wreck, Jamie, and not making it. Enough was said. My stomach dropped. Tears started flooding my eyes. I lost it. Pulling into the house, I was numb. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t have the strength to walk. I couldn’t think of what I needed to do. I couldn’t function. My step dad had to remove me from the car and place me on the couch. I laid there mute with tears rolling down my face. The only thoughts were this couldn’t be true, and I had to get to him.
Moving me back to the car, now in the back seat, I had to be at the hospital. I was reciting everything in my head and what needed to be said. (Jamie you are everything I want and more. You are my first, true, and only love. I couldn’t imagine being without you.) As we were pulling up to the hospital I felt like I saw the whole town of Glasgow standing around just waiting for answers. I just wanted to hear that he was alive. He couldn’t leave me with a little fight. It was so stupid and pointless. I just wanted to be hardheaded. But now in my situation I am trying to remember the point of being hardheaded. I walked through the double doors of horror to find Momma Sue, Papa Jack, and Jackie. Nothing could ever explain the dismay I saw in their teary eyed faces with the sounds of hysterical screams. The coroner was standing outside of his room. I wanted reasons, answers, and explanations. I wanted to know why my Jamie wasn’t here with me to help me through this like he always had. Trying to pull myself together, the coroner starts to tell me that two guys called in…
“One driver swerved to miss the impact. Jamie swerved the opposite. At that very moment, the wheel was taken over, unfortunately not by his hands. Jamie’s vehicle began a series of flips and turns. While the vehicle was crashing in on him, he was thrown out and forced onto the ground. When his body skidded across asphalt, and tumbled through the grass it made it hard to recognize his facial area. From all the flips in the vehicle, then being ejected from the vehicle, it had crushed his skull. He didn’t have a chance at life.” Jamie was demolished finally after the world stopped turning around him. The coroner pronounced Jamie Adams dead on scene at 6:36pm on October 8th, 2007.
Once again in tears, I didn’t know where to begin. In less than a two hour period I saw my whole life crumble before me. This all came about over an unconscious fight. Five years of my life just disappeared in an instant. The thought of that stupid fight just kept flashing in my head. The thought of never being able to take that fight back. Life was short and taken so soon. Now, two years later, I still live with the memories, the hurt, and the regret.
Lacey Hutchison
Professor McCaffrey
ENG 100
October 6, 2009
As the song Watching Airplanes by Jason Aldean was playing on my voicemail, my eyes started tearing up because I knew it was Jamie. We were fighting once again. I couldn’t keep going back and forth with him. Either we were together or not. But, we could never make up our minds to be apart. We were never happy apart. So, these fights always ended happily together. A week of contemplation went on.
On October 8th, a week later, I was sitting in a Glasgow High School cheerleading meeting discussing nationals. The meeting started at 5:30 pm and was suppose to be over an hour later. Of course it was now 6:50. We were finally leaving. Saying my goodbyes my phone was receiving call after call, but I kept pushing the ignore button. That conversation could wait.
Obviously, Brittni needed to talk to me because she called my moms phone when we were on our way home. I was driving down the road and I could hear Brittni crying on the other side of the phone. Mom handed me the phone because she couldn’t understand her. Being as close as sisters I could usually make her sentences out. Putting the pieces together, I heard her say car wreck, Jamie, and not making it. Enough was said. My stomach dropped. Tears started flooding my eyes. I lost it. Pulling into the house, I was numb. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t have the strength to walk. I couldn’t think of what I needed to do. I couldn’t function. My step dad had to remove me from the car and place me on the couch. I laid there mute with tears rolling down my face. The only thoughts were this couldn’t be true, and I had to get to him.
Moving me back to the car, now in the back seat, I had to be at the hospital. I was reciting everything in my head and what needed to be said. (Jamie you are everything I want and more. You are my first, true, and only love. I couldn’t imagine being without you.) As we were pulling up to the hospital I felt like I saw the whole town of Glasgow standing around just waiting for answers. I just wanted to hear that he was alive. He couldn’t leave me with a little fight. It was so stupid and pointless. I just wanted to be hardheaded. But now in my situation I am trying to remember the point of being hardheaded. I walked through the double doors of horror to find Momma Sue, Papa Jack, and Jackie. Nothing could ever explain the dismay I saw in their teary eyed faces with the sounds of hysterical screams. The coroner was standing outside of his room. I wanted reasons, answers, and explanations. I wanted to know why my Jamie wasn’t here with me to help me through this like he always had. Trying to pull myself together, the coroner starts to tell me that two guys called in…
“One driver swerved to miss the impact. Jamie swerved the opposite. At that very moment, the wheel was taken over, unfortunately not by his hands. Jamie’s vehicle began a series of flips and turns. While the vehicle was crashing in on him, he was thrown out and forced onto the ground. When his body skidded across asphalt, and tumbled through the grass it made it hard to recognize his facial area. From all the flips in the vehicle, then being ejected from the vehicle, it had crushed his skull. He didn’t have a chance at life.” Jamie was demolished finally after the world stopped turning around him. The coroner pronounced Jamie Adams dead on scene at 6:36pm on October 8th, 2007.
Once again in tears, I didn’t know where to begin. In less than a two hour period I saw my whole life crumble before me. This all came about over an unconscious fight. Five years of my life just disappeared in an instant. The thought of that stupid fight just kept flashing in my head. The thought of never being able to take that fight back. Life was short and taken so soon. Now, two years later, I still live with the memories, the hurt, and the regret.
Lacey Hutchison
Pessimism at its Finest
My second semester of senior year was a bit of a joke. My first block, I aided for a gym teacher who had a free period first block. Meaning I could come in late and when I did get there, I could watch sports center for an hour and a half. My second class of the day was a cooking class in which participation was the grade. My third class of the day was basically a student run psychology class where we could virtually talk the teacher out of giving us any work whatsoever, and my last class of the day was my only "real" class, and unfortunately was calculus.
On thursday I received an unusually large amount of homework one night and decided to put it off until my free hour and a half at the beginning of the day the following morning. There was my first mistake. I stroll into the gym the next day only to find out that there is a school wide assembly going on and was scheduled to take up all of first block. No problem, I think to myself, I'll just do it during second block. Wrong. I forgot we were cooking a big meal for one of our exams that day, which also took up the whole block. Now onto psychology where, first thing, my teacher collects the writing assignment that we were supposed to do last night. Needless to say, I didn't have it. So now, over the weekend, I had to finish the assignment that was due, and do ANOTHER one due to the fact that I didn't turn the first one in on time. Awesome. Now onto calculus where, again, my teacher collects homework first thing. I get a zero on the assignment and she proceeds to pass out tests from last week, which I found out that I failed. After receiving the tests, she gives us a new one to take. I didn't know this at the time, but I would end up failing that one as well. Now so far my day has consisted of a plethora of late grades on homework and two failing test grades. And I haven't even been to wrestling practice yet...
Now that you've seen my day through the school aspect, I'll walk you through my day through a wrestling perspective. The first thing that hits me this morning, and every morning, is the hunger. The last thing I ate was a granola bar at 8pm the night before. I get to have two pieces of bread for breakfast today, which needless to say, does absolutely nothing to help my hunger. All day I am hungry and dehydrated and tired and keep losing the little focus I have. At lunch, I'm forced to sit and watch my friends eat from the taco bar, which is absolutely superb by the way, while I eat my canned chicken and an apple.
Finally, school lets out and it's time to go to wrestling practice. I wrestle in 171 pound weight class, meaning that on saturday morning I have to weigh 171 pounds exactly or less in order to be qualified for the tournament. It's kind of an unspoken rule that if you don't make weight, coach beats your ass in practice the following week, and let's just say you never miss weight again. So before practice, I weigh myself hoping to see maybe 174 or 175 pop up on the red and black digital screen. When I saw the number, my stomach dropped. I weighed in before practice at a staggering 178.2 pounds. My coach peeks as the scale and just laughs. I had to lose 7.2 pounds before the following morning. Man, this day just keeps getting better and better. I layer myself in sweats and start running before practice begins. Then, a two hour practice ensues, and I stay after for about forty-five minutes and jumprope non-stop. When I'm done jump roping, I just lay down on the mat. I'm pretty sure I was paralyzed for a couple minutes. I had been running on empty all day and was ready to quit wrestling and school forever. As I was looking up at the fluorescent lights, I was wondering why I put myself through all this, and if it was worth it. I strip down and walk slowly over to the scale. 171.2. Good enough for me, I'll lose two pounds in my sleep.
I have can of chicken and a small glass of water for dinner, and as I'm laying in bed, pondering the universe, thinking about the fact that I have to wake up at five the next morning, I realized that the best thing that happened today was that I was only .2 pounds overweight at the end of wrestling practice, what a shitty day...
By Kyle Knight
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