The Magnus Effect

When I was a sophomore in college, I took a Creative Writing class that functioned as a writing workshop. As part of the class, we had to submit things that we wrote to get reviewed by the rest of the people in the class. For our first assignment, we had to write a 300 word or less "short." I submitted the following story: 

I twisted the ball in my hands, trying to place my fingers on the seams the way my dad had showed me seconds earlier. The waves crashing twenty feet to my right and the hard-packed sand under my feet were of no consequence at that moment. I brought my right arm back behind me in a circular motion, my elbow making a “t” in relation to my body, before bringing my hand and the ball next to my ear. At this point, I exploded my arm forward, twisting my wrist around the ball as I released it into the thick, coastal air. The baseball, traveling about 50mph, hurtled towards my dad, before making an abrupt, sudden drop, with a slight left-hand turn. The ball seemed to defy physics, my 13-year-old mind didn’t understand how it could change direction so suddenly.

 Sitting in a AP physics class five years later, I would learn about the Magnus effect and how airflow around the seams of the ball caused it to drop and turn through the air. But at that moment, as the ball plummeted towards the earth, the only thing running through my mind was “I cant believe I just did that.” As the ball popped into my fathers catchers mitt, he shouted “Hooo boy, that one snapped off!” A grin seemed to split my face in two as I got my dads approval on my first successful curveball.

 Since that day in July on the shores of Cherry Grove beach, I have thrown many more curveballs. Some have been hit hard, others have resulted in strikeouts, and one curveball badly fooled a catcher and hit him in the mask. No curveball will ever be as special as the one I snapped off to my father for the first time. The popping of the catcher’s mitt and the coastal wind whipping across the beach are forever overmatched by my dads excited voice shouting about the first time I made a baseball bend and hook through the air. That moment is frozen in my mind, for me to look back on and smile. After all, you don’t do something for the first time very often.

After the class, the professor came up to me and said that I had produced a really good writing sample. She happened to have a contact at a online baseball journal, and wanted to know if I was interested in getting my short published. I told her absolutely, and over the next few weeks I talked with the website to get everything worked out. Eventually, this became the first thing I ever got paid to write. I looked recently to try to find this online, to have a record of my first published thing. Sadly, I couldn't find it. 

Stephen King has the opinion that if you write something, and someone gives you a check for it, and that check doesn't bounce, and you use that check to pay a bill, then you can call yourself a professional writer. I am glad to say that the words in italics are the ones that started my writing career. It might not be my best writing, but its the stuff that made me think I have a future in it. 

Yours, Ryan 

I should have watched Mr. Holland's Opus one more time

Looking out across my desk at the bunch of teenagers sitting quietly, I could almost see their thoughts in bubbles, like in comic strips.

“Oh geez, one more day of this grammar review…”

“What is for lunch, I am starving; only 4 hours to go.”

“Sweet! A sub, we won’t be getting anything done today.”

Yup, if you had told me when I was a Senior in high school that I would be on the other side of that desk just two months after getting done with college, I would have literally laughed out loud. 18 year old me knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that teaching was not for me. I would never, ever, EVER teach. Going beyond me not being the most spectacular student, I was positive that I did not have the patience or the determination to get through to students. Ryan Alexander was not meant to teach.

It is funny how much things can change. College has a way of making people grow up, in the classroom and as a person. Not everyone can be away from home for the first time and still uphold all of their responsibilities with no parents or guardians there to keep an eye on things. There is a reason that the fail rate of college freshman has been right around 33% for decades. Some kids, statistically about one out of three, cannot handle going to school on their own away from home. By all measures, I should have been one of those statistics. I wasn’t a good student in high school, I didn’t try hard enough to really do anything noteworthy during those long four years. Based on that alone, I was a contender to be out of college by Thanksgiving of my freshman year, unable to cut it.

But to the shock of literally everyone who knew me in high school, I made it through my first year at Western Carolina. And then I made it through the second. All of a sudden, barring a complete collapse, I was going to make it through college. Those four years in Cullowhee flew by, but come August 5^th 2013, I got my diploma from Western. The job market isn’t so hot at the moment, and getting into writing is more difficult than I ever imagined. After some thought, I figured trying some substitute teaching wouldn’t hurt. If I liked it, I could keep going with it, and if not I could chalk it up as a lesson learned.

So on September 27^th my career as a teacher started. All decked on in my shirt and tie, with nothing but nerves and contingency plans for unruly high school kids rattling around in my head, I stepped off into the great unknown. That first day seemed to take forever. I was nervous and timid, not sure what to say to kids that were only a few years younger than me. Having authority over  kids who looked barely younger than me was a challenge. In fairy tale world, that first day went off without a hitch. In reality, I am sure that I could have improved on my classroom management, and keeping the students busy and on task with their homework.

I have done more sub teaching over the last couple of weeks, and I find myself liking it more and more every time I do it. The teachers that I work with are incredibly helpful, and for the most part the students have been fine. I find myself being proactive and asking students questions about what they are working on, so that I can lend them a hand if they need it. I have learned that I know a lot more than I realized, and actually have some knowledge that the students can use. This past week, I helped a student with complex sentences and the use of dependent and independent clauses, stuff that I haven’t thought about in at least six or seven years.  It is still a shock to hear “Mr. Alexander” whenever kids ask me something, and I made the mistake of telling a student my first name in a conversation when I didn’t mean to say it.

I can see myself sticking to teaching, and helping kids like me be better students and avoid the mistakes that I made in high school. I don’t want these kids to surprise people when they make it through college. If I can help prepare them even a little bit, I will be happy. 

So you can call me Mr. Alexander from now on. I think I am finally used to hearing it.

Your effort is futile

I remember the last time that Western Carolina University won a Southern Conference football game.

It was homecoming weekend in Cullowhee, and The Citadel was in town to play the Catamounts of WCU. The weather was absolutely miserable, maybe 40 degrees at kickoff, even though it was only mid October. In fact, sometime during the second half, it started to snow a little bit.

At this point, Western was still able to convince students to come out to the games. We were still kind of competitive, even though the head coach was a complete jerk as well as a tub of lard. I think he weighed at least 350 pounds. But that is irrelevant to him being a truly terrible football coach and recruiter. Either way, in the good ole days of 2009, WCU was not the joke that it is now in terms of fielding a football team. The Cats could be counted on to keep thinks close most of the time, and at least keep the student body distracted long enough to get outside on the weekends for a few hours.

The Citadel rolled into town, and I remember people talking around the parking lot where my friends and I were tailgating that we might actually win the game. The Citadel was having a down year, and WCU actually had a good chance at pulling out a victory.

Western went into halftime of the game down 10-0, and as soon as the marching band wrapped up their halftime show, the stands started to empty. This happens at every single WCU football game, and is one reason in my mind that our program cannot improve. Who wants to play at a school where the majority of the crowd is there to see a bunch of skinny kids act important for 15 minutes and then go home. The answer is nobody. Until the day that fans stay in their seats past halftime at WCU football games, they will never be good. But I digress.

For once in his life, Dennis Wagner gave a effective halftime speech or made the necessary adjustments at the midpoint of the football game. The Cats came out in the second half and put a whuppin on the cadets from the Citadel. Western shut their opponents out in the second half, and scored with 10 minutes left in the fourth quarter to put the winning number, 14-10, on the board.  I remember the final whistle blowing and jumping the railing onto the field along with what seemed like every student left in the stadium. Everybody ran onto the field to celebrate our first and last victory of the season. Since that day, October 17th 2009, Western has lost every Southern Conference football game it has competed in. 23 in a row.

It is hard to do anything 23 times in a row. 23 is a lot of times to do the same thing over and over again. But WCU has managed to hit the field in the SoCon and get beat 23 times in a row. It is so pathetic it almost makes you want to laugh to keep from crying about it.

Oh yea, I almost forgot:  Go Cats

Adventures upstate

We took the scenic route in.

For an hour and a half, the only things passing by the car windows were trees that were definitely not pine and mountains that bore no resemblance to the ones that I looked at during my four years at Western Carolina University.

Yup, Upstate New York was decidedly different than what I was used to and that was the whole point of this trip. This weekend was meant to be a tour of historic baseball, starting with a ball game at Fenway Park in Boston on Sunday, and then visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown on Monday. One day was 200 miles east, the next 60 miles west of our home base: Albany, NY. In previous years, our baseball trips had been to New York City, and Atlanta on different occasions. But this trip was going to be different. None of us (3 brothers and dad) had ever been to Fenway or the Hall of Fame, so this was going to be a new experience for all involved.

Fenway Park was awesome. Everything I had read about the place beforehand was dead on the money. Yes: the seats are tiny, the fans have an incredible passion for the game, the food is expensive and worth it, the Green Monster is bigger that it looks in person, and the boston accents are really funny to listen to when 37,000 of them are shouting at once. Fenway was as good as advertised.

The really special part of the trip was the Hall of Fame. Words don't really do justice to how excited I was as we drove west from Albany, heading towards a place I had only read about in books and seen on TV. The first thing that hit me when we walked in the front door was the people. Old people, young people, 3 and 4 generations of people waiting to see this hallowed place where America's past time is celebrated.

One thing about Hall of Fames: Most of them are placed terribly. Canton, eh. The basketball Hall of Fame looks like a warehouse on the side of the Mass Turnpike, and that says everything you need about the Naismith Hall of Fame. But Cooperstown is special. It is in the middle of nowhere, so the anticipation builds as you drive 90 minutes from Albany to get to it. And the town of Cooperstown itself is straight out of a Walt Whitman piece about small town America, with storefronts and old tiny ballparks running along side a one lane road, and a beautiful lake sitting just behind the line of trees across the street from the Hall of  Fame.

Walking in to the building was like walking into a church in Rome or something. Knowing that you are about to see history right in front of you was enough of a thought to draw goosebumps. Everything about the place was magical. Seeing the relics from over 150 years ago depicting a game that really didn't look like the baseball I played was incredible, as well as seeing things from the Negro leagues and the dead ball era. Going through 100 years of baseball records with my 13 year old brother was cool, telling him about players that played before my great grandmother was born and relating to players that we saw yesterday in Fenway Park.

The thing about the place that brought tears to my eyes was the plaque room. One huge room shaped like a church sanctuary lined with nothing but the greatest players of the greatest game. Dimaggio, Mantle, Clemente, Gibson, Seaver, all of the players that are the giants of the game are on the walls, with nothing but their likeness in bronze and some letters stamped on steel to show of their mark on the game. And at the front, like the baptismal fount at the front of a church, was the original 5 players inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1936. Wagner, Mathewson, Ruth, Cobb, and Johnson, men who are to baseball what Old Testament heroes are to christians, stand out among the hundreds of standouts that share a room with them.

The thing that I will never forget as long as I live is walking into the plaque room and seeing all of the men on the walls, shining in the bright lights as people shuffled by marveling at their achievements. And highlighted by the way that the room was lined up were the original 5, and it overwhelmed me. The magic of the whole place just kind of washed over me, the way that a catholic must feel looking up at the Sistine Chapel, and before I could help myself, tears were rolling down my face. I imagine that I am not the first person overcome by the Baseball Hall of Fame and the magic that it possesses.

One day, after a scenic drive from Albany into Cooperstown, past the shops and the lake glistening just out of sight, my kids will be overcome by the magic of a place that my dad shared with me. With that first glimpse into the plaque room,  the tradition of passing down the Hall of Fame from father to son will continue as another lover of the greatest game marvels in it's majesty.

My age 21 season

Last night, I sat down to watch the first couple innings of the MLB All Star game. I wanted to see how Matt Harvey would pitch, and after he was done, I kept the game on as background noise while I was piddling around on my computer.

So I am sitting on the couch of my apartment, and the first pitch of the game is a blistering 97 mile-per-hour tailing fastball on the outer half of the plate, and the batter ripped it opposite field down the first base line and busted into second base with a head first slide for a double.

That batter was Mike Trout, and he is 6 month's younger than I am. 22 year old all-stars are uncommon, but not extraordinarily rare. Al Kaline was 20 years old, and Bryce Harper was 20 when he was named last year as a rookie. In fact, Manny Machado is only 21 years old, and he was Trout's teammate last night.

What makes Mike Trout special is last year in his age 20 season, he had one of the best season's in baseball history. His 10.9 wins above replacement (by Fangraphs calculations) was good enough for 21st ALL TIME, and he came one stolen base short of joining the 30-50 club, something that has only been done twice in baseball history.

Trout is hitting at the same level this season, and playing damn good defense in the outfield on top of it all. After he hit that leadoff double, I googled some stuff about Mike Trout.  Apparently, he dates a supermodel, makes over $500,000 a year playing baseball, and is a genuinely nice guy.

Needless to say, I am a little bit jealous of Mike Trout. I don't have a job that pays $500,000 a year. In fact I am in the middle of looking for a job that pays me anything at all. Last year I finished up my last year of school, and I would say that I did pretty good in the classroom and with my on-campus job. I did not, however, have the 21st best year ever as a student, or as a journalist. Not even close.

I would feel really bad that a guy younger than me is much better at his job, at a younger age, than I ever will be at my job. But the more I think about it, some guys are just really damn good. So, Mr. Mike Trout, I will tip my hat to you and say good day sir.

Nice hit, by the way. I liked the way you went with the pitch last night.

Who says you can't go home?

Robert Frost wrote and said many brilliant things in his long life. He wrote The Mending Wall, Fire and Ice, and Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. He quipped "In three words I can sum up everything I have learned about life: it goes on," a statement that seems to grace every high school graduates Facebook wall at some point or another. He read at John F. Kennedy's inauguration and is lauded as one of the giants of American literature along with Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Twain.

That intro sounds a little bit like the intro to a American Lit paper in college, and I am sorry for that, but I must admit that Frost is probably my favorite author to read along with Stephen King and Pat Conroy. I got to thinking about old Bobby Frost tonight because I am going home for the first time in almost 2 months Wednesday, and whenever I head home one quote pops into my head.

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Every time that I get in the car, or the plane, or the whatever to go home after a long absence I think of that quote. Whether I am driving my old Buick through the Blue Ridge mountains from Western, or back to the piedmont from Chapel Hill, I think about that quote. Home is where they have to take you in. Where they won't shut the door and fasten the latch when I shake the dust from my shoes on the porch. Where I can always find something to eat without feeling guilty for mooching. Home is where things just feel right.

When I think of home, I think of a myriad of things. Home is seeing my twin brother and asking him to play catch in the front yard, whipping the ball from the driveway to the edge of our yard no matter what the weather is and how in shape our arms are. It is sitting down to talk ball with my dad and watching the hours slip away as we talk about all of the plays and stories that we've seen. Home is walking in the front door of my mom's house and talking about the books that we love and hate. Home is her helping me bust out of the terrible writers block I am stuck in, or looking over a paragraph that she can't quite end the right way. Home is knowing the way to my gramma's house even if it had been months since I have been there. It's knowing that I will smell brownies or cookies, or a delicious southern meal as I walk in the door.

It has been a shamefully long time since I have been home. I feel really bad about letting two months go by and not seeing the people who have known me the longest. I've been painfully busy with work and an internship, but I don't feel like that is a valid excuse. I should have figured out a way to make it two hours down the road at some point in the last couple of months.

The good news is that I am going home Wednesday, and spending four glorious days seeing my family without any worries of work or bills or anything. I get to chill with both of my brothers, have lunch with my gramma, and zip line; that is just Wednesday. I don't know the rest of the itinerary of my visit, but I know that it will go my much too fast and I will have to go back to the real world sooner than I would like.

Home. Just thinking about it makes me wish tomorrow flies by and I am heading west down I-40 with blue skies pointing me in the right direction.

Little brothers

"Nathan, how do you tell Jordan and Ryan apart?" my mom asked one day while we were all riding in the car somewhere.

"Talk"

It is a simple thing, but I had never really thought how my 4 year old brother told us apart when he was younger. Now that he is older, obviously he can tell us apart. Little Nate isn't so little anymore, he is 13 and about as tall as I am, which isn't saying much. 

Nathan is turning into a pretty exceptional young man. It isn't because of sports, or because he is incredibly popular, or has the most friends out of the kids that go to his school. He is exceptional in the way that should be awarded most for kids his age, the way that he is as a student. 

I remember two years ago at this time going to a 5th grade graduation ceremony for his 5th grade class, and all of the kids wanted to be president, or a dancer, or an actress, or a pro athlete. Nate stood up and said he wanted to be a doctor. Lofty goals are normal for 11 year old kids, and they don't really mean anything. A lot changes between 11 and 18. But the thing that I really remember is when they were awarding a citizenship award, something only two kids would get. And as the teacher stood up talking about this student who came in everyday with a great attitude and willingness to learn, she started to tear up. A thought crossed my mind that the kid she is talking about must really be special. So when she said "It is my honor to present this award to Na-" No way she is saying Nate, "-te Alexander," my mom let out this little gasp and started to cry, and I will admit that when my little brother walked to get that award, some dust got in my eye or my allergies kicked up all of a sudden. Nate was two out of 300 kids to get an award, and up to that point I had never been more proud of him. 

Last year I got home from school, and one day my mom asked if I was going to the award ceremony again. I told her I wouldn't miss it, and asked if I could bring my girlfriend, who Nate has always liked and I thought he would like seeing her there. My mom said that it was a surpsrise that we would be there, he didn't know he was winning an award that year. It had been his first year at our local I.B school, and he did great just like we had anticipated. He brought home the reflection award, for taking in everything that he learned and kind of synthesizing it to make it a part of his life. The awards were for the top 10% of his class, something that is pretty hard to do with all of the students competing in this academically focused environment that is an IB school. 

I saw on Facebook today that Nate brought home an award again today for the third year in a row. This time it was a "Most Principled" award, given for acting with "integrity and honesty, with a strong sense of fairness, justice and respect for the dignity of the individual, groups and communities. He takes responsibility for his own actions and the consequences that accompany them." I am sad that I wasn't able to be there to see him get his award, and when I texted him he acted like it was no big deal that he was being recognized again. When you are 13 it is hard to see the forest because of the trees sometimes, and maybe when he gets older he will realize what a big deal winning these awards is. I was never recognized in anything for my school work, it was a miracle some years that I got through the year in one piece. I think that Nate is going to do great thing, big things, things that I won't be able to do because I am not gifted with whatever it is makes him do well in school. I am really proud of him, and I cannot wait to see the man he is going to become.  

I'm proud of you Nater. 

Love, Ryan 

Fear

Fear is a funny thing. It can freeze a person in their tracks, make them unable to do the simplest things. And it can make you do truly exceptional things, like lifting a two ton truck off of an infant or fight your way out of a burning building. I got asked what I am scared of this week, and I gave the usual platitudes ... I am scared of dying, and of really deep water in the ocean. Basic, "everybody says that" stuff.

And I got to thinking about it for whatever reason it is that your mind thinks of stuff, and something breathtakingly obvious hit me like a ton of bricks. I am terrified of failure.

I should have known that already, because I have played sports my whole life. I have never been actively scared while playing a sport, never feared a curveball or a lightening quick guard, but every athlete fears not being good enough. Michael Jordan would never admit it, but when he was "cut" by his high school team, he was scared that he wasn't quite good enough. Tiger Woods has never been scared on a golf course, but I bet late at night after he is done meeting up with a waitress from Waffle House, he feels that doubt creeping in. "Can I hit that cut shot I used to, has my putting game abandoned me." To athletes that isn't fear. Doubt, sure. But when it comes down to it, doubt is fear, just not as concentrated. It is diluted, like mixing a good drink. Doubt is a Jack and Coke with a lime twist. Fear is a double shot of it straight.

I bring this up because I am pretty scared right now. I am actively fearful about what the future has in store for me. I got straight up rejected by my number one internship choice, the place that would really put me in a position to accomplish what I want to get done. I am in a new town trying to get myself settled in without a super solid job to give me any peace of mind. And the worst part, the thing that has me really scared, is I am stuck in writers hell: I want to write and cannot for the life of me come up with anything good.

My usual stand by, sports stuff, is drawing dead. I can't think of anything good to put on the page. So I have resorted to a movie review, and that has been it for the last couple of weeks. And that took a ton of effort to get done. I am not sure what the cause of this writer's block is, lord knows that I keep up with enough sports stuff on a daily basis to be able to formulate a strong opinion on something, but as of lately I am going to the well and it is coming up dry. That lack of spark, of good ideas, has me shaking in my shoes. Writer's block has me more scared than I've been in a long time, and as of right now it isn't showing any signs of going away. So here is to some good ideas hitting me over the weekend, and getting some good posts out so I can go back to posting every other day like I was last month.

Ryan

My boy is wicked smart

Sorry for the long delay between posts, I have finished up my last college classes, picked up and moved to a new town, started an internship, and landed two new jobs all in the last two weeks. So being busy is an understatement. I watched Good Will Hunting last night, and had some thoughts on it. So here ya go.

Good Will Hunting is one of my favorite movies, probably #2 behind The Shawshank Redemption. The movie is really heavy on dialogue, so the movie might drag to some people, but it has two scenes that are at direct opposites of the emotional spectrum.

The most famous scene, the one that everybody knows, is the bar scene. Ben Affleck's character tries to pick up Minnie Driver using one of those predictable "She knows it is coming but I don't care" one liners to start a conversation. After some Harvard prick interrupts and tries to humiliate him, Matt Damon's Will Hunting comes in to absolutely destroy the guy. He quotes the book the guy is plagiarizing, even telling him the page number. After the confrontation, Will Hunting get's the girls phone number and sees the doucher from earlier at a diner. He walks up to the window and gives two of the most famous lines in movies.

"Do you like apples"
Shaking his head, "Yea."
"Well I got her number. How do you like them apples!"  And scene.

That sequence has me rolling on the floor, peeing-my-pants-it-is-so-funny laughing every time that I see it. Matt Damon plays the part so well, delivers the line with just the right whatever it is to deliver a line just right, that it makes the whole movie. The scene is hysterically funny, and one of the most memorable moments in the entire 126 minute movie.

An hour later, an equally memorable scene happens, again with Minnie Driver's character and Will Hunting. I was watching it with my girlfriend's roommate, and she said something pretty deep while the movie was playing.
"This is pretty hard to watch."
It was the scene in the movie where Minnie Driver asks Matt Damon to move to California with her, and he loses his mind. He freaks out, telling her about the horrific abuse he suffered as a orphan, and how she cannot possibly understand anything that he has gone through. And when he stops screaming at her, Minnie says that she will leave him alone if he doesn't love her. At this point, everyone and their mother can tell that the couple is in love, that they have a really good thing going, and this girl is the one who is going to make Will Hunting let people inside of the bubble that he has put up for the entire 20 years of his life.
And he takes a breath, looks her square in the eyes, and says "I do not love you."

It is honestly painful to watch. The whole scene is gut wrenching, when you finally hear about the abuse Will has gone through and you see why he is the way that he is. It is borderline uncomfortable watching Will walk away from the woman he loves and seeing her crumble like a wall built on sand.

The fact that these two scenes occur within an hour of each other, and that Matt Damon is a good enough actor to play a role on such extremes of the emotional spectrum is one reason that the movie captivates me. I could watch it over and over again, and pick up on something I missed the first time, a little quote or throwaway line that ends up being incredibly insightful if you look close enough to catch it. I highly recommend the movie to anybody that has not seen it, it is an absolute classic.

The day I became a fan

I remember the day I became a baseball fan. I had always been a baseball player, and a baseball lover, but until Thursday, October 16th, 2003, I wasn’t really a baseball fan. I have had plenty of memorable days as a baseball fan since then: walking into Yankee Stadium for the first time, teasing my great-grandmother about her beloved Red Sox going down 3-0 in the 2004 American League Championship Series, heckling Boone Logan and having him respond, catching a batting practice homerun with my hat only to have to the man behind me take it from me, and watching Ubaldo Jiminez throw a no hitter are just a few of my memories as a baseball fan. But without October 16th, 2003, I may have never become as obsessed with actually watching baseball games as I am today.

I remember October 16th because it was game 7 of a series between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox to determine who would go to the World Series. My dad sat me down for the 8pm first pitch because “you have to watch Game 7’s, there is nothing better in sports.” So my 12 year old self sat and watchedPedro Martinez have a pitching performance for the ages. I was amazed at the difference in the pitchers, Roger Clemens and Martinez: Clemens getting battered by the Sox, leaving in the 4th inning after allowing 4 runs; Martinez baffling the Yankees with unhittable changeups, blazing fastballs, and breaking pitches that literally went from chin to ankle, dominating the home team for 7 innings. It was getting late, and after the 7th inning I was made to go to bed with the Red Sox ahead 5-2 and Martinez probably coming out of the game to let the relief pitchers handle the rest. My dad sent me to bed, saying, “That was about as good of pitching as it gets, I’m glad you saw that.” I laid in my bed for what seemed like hours, thinking about the game and telling myself I would see the rest on Sportscenter the next morning. I couldn’t sleep; I was too much in awe of watching such quality baseball being played in such an intense environment. I was still awake staring at the ceiling when my dad eased the door to my room open and whispered “Ryan, are you awake? You aren’t going to believe what happened, come downstairs.” I sprinted down stairs and watched highlights of Grady Little leaving Martinez in the game and having their lead evaporate and the game go to extra innings. I came downstairs for the eleventh inning, my dad figuring that I wouldn’t want to miss such a classic ballgame. I watched Mariano Rivera, the greatest closer of all time, obliterate the Sox with just one pitch. Three straight batters were retired on his legendary cutter, and I decided right then to learn that pitch for when I took the mound the following spring. In the bottom half of the inning, knuckleballer Tim Wakefield threw butterflies that, at the age of 12, I said I could hit. My dad laughed and said its harder than it looks, he would have to throw me some knucklers one day and we would see how I did. I watched Aaron Boone come to the plate, and in one moment, seal my fate as a baseball fan forever. He hit a bomb to left field, over the famous short porch, and sending the Bronx Bombers to the World Series. I was in shock. I had never seen such a dramatic moment in my entire life. I went to bed and didn’t sleep at all, I couldn’t stop thinking about the game and imagining myself in Aaron Boone’s shoes.

 10 years later, I can still remember every second of that game. It was such a impactful thing to a 12 year old, to be struck in awe by a baseball game on television. It made me fall in love with the watching of baseball games, something I had never done because my baseball-playing career wasn’t over yet. Now, my baseball playing days are over, but I still sit down and watch baseball while I’m reading for class, or when the Yankees are on cable. Every time I watch, I see something new. I see a new situation, or watch a pitcher twist the batter into a pretzel with a curveball at his shoelaces. And every time baseball strikes me with wonder, I remember watching Aaron Boone, and I thank my dad for sitting me down to watch that game.

"Look, there is Lou Gehrig's bat"

The concourses were really small, and the bathrooms still had those troughs where everyone had to line up in the men's room. I knew immediately why they were building a new one, and at the same time I couldn't figure out why they would build a new one. It was the first time I had seen the place, this building that held more baseball history than any other, and it only had one more month left for the Bleacher Creatures to do the roll call during the top of the 1st inning. Yankee Stadium only had 13 more regular season games left, and it was the first time I had seen it.

My dad, my twin brother, and myself were finally making the trek up to New York City from North Carolina to see Yankee Stadium before they tore it down. My dad had been there years before, but it was a totally new experience for me and my brother. We went up on a Saturday morning to catch two day games against the Blue Jays, with Roy Halladay going in the second game. As soon as we deplaned at LaGuardia, all we could talk about was the history we knew about the stadium: Mantle almost hitting a ball out of the whole thing, Ruth and Gehrig as part of the Murderer's Row teams, and Munson and Bench battling it out for catcher supremacy. The cab ride to the stadium was almost a blur, all I could think about was going to a place I had only seen in pictures and on TV.  We walked up to the stadium, and I could barely contain my excitement. We walked in the front doors underneath the iconic Yankee Stadium sign, and towards our seats behind first base on the middle deck. We looked out and saw Monument Park, the impossibly short porches in the corners and the way the wall just kept going and going in left center field. The thing that I remember most about sitting in my seat two hours before first pitch isn't the conversation. It was soaking in so many baseball memories with my dad who taught me how to play the game, and my brother who I had always played it with. Everywhere I looked something new, something I had only read about caught my eye. As cliche as it sounds, it was almost like going to a really old cathedral and seeing all of the history in the place.

The first game featured two nobodies as starting pitchers, John Parrish for the Jays and Darrell Rasner for the Yankees. And yea, I just had to look up who started the game. That first game I was so overwhelmed with just being in the building, all I can remember is what happened in the eighth inning. The Blue Jays brought in a reliever who I had never heard of, some guy named League, and I was talking with my brother when I heard my dad tell us to watch this guy warm up. I caught the next throw, and it was absolute gas. We all wondered how hard he threw, and were taking guesses when Mr. Steroids himself, A-Rod stepped up. The first pitch was a blur, and got clocked at 99 miles per hour. A-Rod couldn't handle the heat, and went down swinging, along with Jason Giambi and Xavier Nady. To this day, the only thing I remember baseball wise about my first game at Yankee Stadium was some guy named Brandon League throwing 100 mile per hour heat past 2 would be hall of famers, and a scrub named Xavier Nady.

League ended up being the winning pitcher.

Everything else I remember about that day is the sheer joy I felt in experiencing one of baseball's treasures with the two people I had learned to love baseball with.

Stephen Curry

I went to high school in Davidson, NC, and our basketball coach had some connections in the athletic department at Davidson College. Before our conference tournament my Senior year, he took us on a "field trip" to watch a Davidson basketball practice and maybe shoot with them a little bit. We walked into the practice gym and watched the Wildcats go through all of their drills and game planning for their next game against whatever over matched SoCon team they were about to play. As they split off into shooting groups, I followed the skinny kid in the #30 jersey who looked like he was about 15 years old and 150 pounds soaking wet.

I am talking, of course, about Stephen Curry.

He had just become a national superstar the previous year by almost single handedly dragging Davidson to the Final Four, and was becoming one of the best shooters anybody had ever seen. So it was a treat when I watched him and a team manager go off to a side court and work on his shooting. He took probably 100 jump shots in 5 minutes, from close range all the way out to 40 feet. And until he got waaaay past the three point line, he never missed two shots in a row. Almost every attempt barely moved the net as it went through the basket, and I was in awe seeing someone shoot a basketball like that. It almost looked effortless as he shot the ball off cuts, off the dribble, spotting up, putting the ball in the basket like some sort of robot.

Sunday night, Stephen Curry had a game for the ages in the NBA playoffs. He scored 22 points in the third quarter, and pretty much buried the Memphis Grizzlies by himself. Every time I watch him shoot, I think back to watching him in that little side court at Davidson College, making the act of shooting a basketball look impossibly easy.

After they were done practicing, my high school team had a short little scrimmage out on the floor, and being the three point shooter on the team, I tried to make at least a couple of shots in front of a guy who literally missed maybe 10 times out of a hundred in his shoot around. I made a shot or two, and was very happy with the fact that we even got to play on a college basketball floor in front of players who were much better than I could ever hope to be.

After we got dont scrimmaging, all of the Davidson players said hello and talked with us for a few minutes, and I was struck by how down to earth Curry was. He knew how good he was going to be, probably more than all of the NBA scouts who watched him play and saw the same thing that the ACC coaches saw in him when he played in high school. Looking back and seeing him like a basketball metronome, swishing shot after shot from ridiculous distances, I probably should have seen the talent that all of America saw on Sunday night.

I see him on tv scorching NBA players and think back to that humble kid who had a supernatural ability to throw a ball through a basket on a side gym during a rainy day in Davidson, NC. He probably doesn't remember that day, but I guarantee that all of us who were there remember it like it was yesterday.

It makes me really happy when good people find success in whatever they do. Stephen Curry is one of those good people, and that is why I root for him whenever I watch him play.

Turner Field Memories

I caught the ball with my hat

I was sitting maybe 5 rows back in left field in the bleachers, and some player for the Los Angeles Dodgers had blasted a ball right at me. My dad and my twin brother both gave a little shout when they saw where the ball was headed, but all I was doing was tracking the ball and figuring out what I was going to catch it with. I had maybe 4 seconds to make a decision, and the only thing handy was my hat. So I whipped it off, and reached out to catch it, not noticing the man behind me getting ready to catch it. We both got to it at the same time, and he pulled the ball out of my hat and claimed the batting practice ball as his own. I didn't want to deprive the man, or his kid of the prize, so I let it go knowing that I had made a memory.

I have been to Turner Field in Atlanta 4 or 5 times, and every time I go I have a good time. Whether it was sitting next to my 11 year old brother experiencing his first major league game, or tailgating with my roommates on a beautiful April day, Turner Field has been good to me. My brother got to see Tim Hudson throw a gem and Billy Wagner throw gas during his first big time baseball experience, and Ubaldo Jimenez decided to be historic and throw a no hitter for my friends and I. Two wholly different experiences, and two different kinds of good times.

I am heading back down there on Friday as a kind of end of college event with my buddies, and I am anticipating having a good time when the Braves play the Mets. I don't really care one way or the other who wins, or who's pitching. I just hope that Turner Field delivers a good time on the last Friday of my college career.

I'll post here and let you know.