I'm bored

You ever feel like you should be into someone? Like they're really awesome, and yet you're not particularly interested? I feel that way all the time. I'm kind of apathetic when it comes to going for the knockouts. Even though I shouldn't be. Weird shit, isn't it? It's like when you try and get a treasure, only to realize it's just a shiny hunk of metal and you can't really do anything with it. Or the girls who spend their whole life wishing for a diamond, when in the end it's just a clear shiny hunk of rock that's basically not even as good for anything as glass. I wonder why things that are so useless in society are so valued, beyond any intrinsic value or practical use they may have. This is not a knock on pretty girls, I love you, I just don't feel inclined to toss money after you. This is more just a reflection on how treasures soon lose their luster once possessed, and that my desire for you is fading like that of a possessed treasure, and I haven't even possessed you yet. That's really interesting. We place value on things that are worthless.

so, I really wanted to post this video, and I figure I'm just using this poem as an excuse to do it. I wrote this about a special friend who helped me find my way again, before I lost it again recently. But yeah, I think it is pretty good going with this, and yes, I think CGI videos of flaming dragons totally kick ass.




When first we met, we talked of storms,
And fire, the fire within,
How mine was gone, and puttered out,
Leaving my heart cold and dead;
We also talked of how a storm,
Can light the fire, kindle it inside,
But you told me you weren’t my storm,
But you also taught me to try again,
And fight again, to love myself and others once again,
Once again, because you were my friend,
And you weren’t afraid to love me,
Just for whom I am inside,
This innocent affection lit a spark,
And fun and smiles and laughter made it flame,
It burned brighter in me every day, and lifted me from the gloom;
The god in your smile made me see the god in me, reflected in your eyes,
You reminded me how to enjoy my life and reach for my goals,
Your ambition woke a kindred spirit locked deep inside within a frozen prison,
Made me resolve to follow after dreams,
Dreams that I had given up for dead,
You changed my life for good in many ways,
In the end you were wrong, my friend, you always were my storm,
And now I’m burning bright again.

What's wrong with me?

You ever look back at some people you liked and wonder what in the hell you liked about them that way? I do all the time, but then again that might just be because I can't possibly look back and see what I found attractive about anyone that I've been attracted to the last year. I've had some really good friendships come out of this year, but having recently seen both of the people that I had been really into, I'm finding myself hard pressed to figure out why. I mean, they are both really cute girls, it's just that I feel absolutely no spark or attraction to them now, so it just makes me wonder how that possibly could have been there, or maybe it wasn't, or maybe I'm a sociopath? I do like to push people away, it's actually something I don't think I can not do. But what ever. I am how I am and who I am. Everyone else will just have to deal, I make no apologies for myself.

Morning After

So I went to a party last night for my friend Ashley, she's pretty awesome, but just like me, is having trouble trying to find where she fits in this big old jigsaw puzzle of a world we inhabit. Sometimes you just have to follow where the wind takes you, and while it may not seem like you're going in the right direction, you're actually going where you've always been supposed to go. Life is funny, ain't it?



George RR Martin is about to finish a Dance With Dragons, it's about fucking time. And you heard it here first, Jon Snow is Rhaegar Targaryen and Leanna Stark's child. Well, you probably didn't hear it here first if you've ever read the books, but just for the record. I can't wait to read this book. If you don't know what it is, check out this clip and see for yourself.




Yeah, good shit huh?

Also, BYU better win the New Mexico bowl today. What a disgrace. Who goes to the New Mexico Bowl? There should be some serious coaching turnover because this whole season has been a clusterfuck.

Lord, I hope we aren't stupid enough to listen to Sarah Palin

I recently saw a facebook post from a friend saying that they were attending a Sarah Palin book signing? Really? You seem like an intelligent person, how in the world is the inanity that this woman spews actually penetrating your psyche and making you think that she has something worthwhile to say and a good idea of how to run the country? I mean, hell she ended up catfighting with the former first lady, for heaven's sake. I'm actually kind of hoping she gets the nomination, because she'd be handily defeated by the sitting president. But if she ever did end up as president, it would most definitely be the beginning of the end.

For everyone who hasn't done any research and thinks that Palin could do a better job running the country than President Obama, the stock market has increased 40% since he was elected and jobless numbers are on the decline now. Also, if that's not enough for you, spend some time here: http://whatthefuckhasobamadonesofar.com/

What's wrong with people?

So, lately, and in general, I have a lot of awesome female friends who were married and are now divorced. In most of the cases, it's because the guy was either abusive, neglectful, had an addiction to pornography, or a combination of the three. What in the world is wrong with these idiots? And how are they able to fool some of the smartest and most amazing women that I know into marrying them? Maybe they changed, or maybe the seeds were already planted, I have no way of knowing, but I just wanted to say that everybody plays the fool, and my friends shouldn't feel foolish or like it was their fault for getting into this kind of situation. This kind of thing happens to everyone where you get into an unhealthy relationship, it can happen no matter how smart you are, no matter how wise you are, and no matter how good of a person you are. This goes to my guy friends who had to suffer as well, I'm not just bagging on you guys. Seems like a lot of people are getting married to people who don't appreciate what they are worth. Maybe it's because as a church we try and encourage people to get married young so as to avoid sexual immorality. In my mind, I think that rushing into something that should be thoughtfully planned out and ending up in a bad marriage that causes all kinds of psychological and sometimes physical damage to both parties could be worse than letting it slip once or twice (no pun intended). Just a thought. But remember, just like a pair of vintage jeans is prized by clothing collectors (yeah, I went there) for the fading and fraying, so we are more complete and beautiful people for the challenges we have to go through.

Left with more questions than answers.

I just realized today, that I probably shouldn't look at pictures of my friends and their young families anymore. Its weird looking at people my age, slightly older and younger, holding little bouncing babies on their laps. Maybe it's just part of the religion under which I was raised, but I really feel that parenthood is the ultimate reason that we exist. Biologically, as well, for those of you for whom religion isn't a valid worldview. We exist, solely, to pass on our genetic markers to the next generation. Evolutionarily speaking, anyone who doesn't do this is a failure. That's very cut and dried, and not intended as an insult to those of us who either choose not to or cannot pass on our genes. It's just my way of establishing that there is a deep primal drive within our DNA to have children, as well as the conditioning of belief and religion on top of that. This makes one of the few cases in which belief and biology are not at odds. That's some pretty powerful stuff to try to overcome if you want to stay living the bachelor's life forever, which, if anyone has ever read my blog, they know is not my ultimate goal, just one that I've resigned myself to at this point. I think I need to take a longer break.
I'm really sick of people saying, "We should just be friends." Before they even get a chance to know me. Hey, if there wasn't any interest, just don't give me your number, don't decide that before even really going on a date after you give it to me. I have a pretty thick skin, but if you hear shit like that enough, it definitely hurts. So, this is frustration of the accumulation of pinpricks, not one giant wound. Maybe that's why I'm more crotchety lately, but yeah, if I approach you as wanting to see if things can work, do me a favor and don't be my friend if they don't. I have plenty of friends already.
So, yeah, I'm a little bitter and a little angry, I'm kinda sick of seeing happy photos of smiling one and two year olds. Yeah, I am happy for you, but I'm definitely taking shots from all sides here, wondering what the fuck is so wrong with me that I can't ever have what other people have. It's not for lack of trying, I just can't really seem to find anyone who catches my interest enough that I want to seriously date them, or the shit falls apart before I even get a chance to formulate an opinion. But that's neither here nor there, and being bitter doesn't help anything. I still need to figure out more about myself before I'm ready for any of that. It's funny, i'm closer to 26 than to 25 now, which means I'm closer to 30 than 20, and if anything, life has more questions than answers for me now than it did when I was 20. I graduated almost four years ago, and I'm just barely finding something that I want to do that I can make money at. I laugh when people say you'll understand someday, because the proliferation of confusion definitely means that someday doesn't ever come.

Referees

I just wanna say how much I hate referees. BYU totally had a chance to win that game and the referees just handed it to Utah. Godfuckingdamnit. Oh well. UW won, Oregon won, Auburn won, Boise lost, it's a pretty decent weekend. If UW beats WSU they can go to the first bowl game of Jake Locker's career.

Too Busy

Sorry y'all I'm too busy lately to figure out what's up. So basically, life is the same, working all the time, working out, and unfulfilled. Still don't believe in love, waiting on something that's never coming. Same old. :).

Daylight Savings

So curse you, Daylight Savings Time! Or standard time. Or whatever has me awake at 6:30 in the morning feeling fully rested! Just finished our Turkey Bowl, and I had a great deal of fun, it was good playing with a bunch of guys who hadn't ever played together before and going all the way to the quarterfinals, with losses to the eventual runner up and tournament champions! :). Yeah, I put in a smiley. Deal with it. Bloody and beaten (literally), but not defeated, I had a great week. I'm killing the incentives on the teller line, and I can't wait to either move up or get that incentive check!

Quack

So, I've swallowed the Oregon Ducks Koolaid in buckets, and with all respect to my father and others who can't stand them, I just love watching their style of football. I really wish it were WSU or BYU, or another team who ran the shotgun spread option no huddle point a minute score-fest that Oregon runs, but it isn't. They score points in bunches and they do it with electrifying big play runs that come from a tired defense trying to adjust at the line. I think the only thing that this offense is missing is a single wing spread option look. That would make it even harder to stop, with the quarterback split out to slot and laMichael James taking shotgun snaps and running over right tackle, or winging it out to Darron Thomas, who flings a laser to Jeff Maehl for the td?

I'm definitely rooting for them this year. They are simply too fun to watch.

Keepin on keepin on

Something is missing. I know what that is. I think it's funny, I have a friend with the exact same problem that I have right now. It's ironic that we both have the same problem, two lonely people who can do nothing to help alleviate the others' loneliness. Two people yearning for another that can't be that person for the other, and can only encourage and cheer the other in their search. I find that kind of funny, also sad.

But it is what it is. The only thing I can do is trust in God's plan for me, and keep on keepin on until He reveals that plan to me. I've had a lot of blessings come pouring out in the last couple weeks, so I am sure that they will keep coming. Even if sometimes I feel like I'm one of those people who's always going to be alone. I think the deep void of loneliness in my soul is the reason why I identify with certain characters that I do. Tim Riggins, Wolverine, Greg House, Harry Bosch... loners all of them. It's interesting when there's a great epic story, but it lacks that romantic element that generally acts as a foil for the heroes of most epic tales. Aragorn had Arwen, Drizzt has Catti-Brie, Michael Corleone had Kay. Hell, Bosch even had Eleanor Wish for a little while, and House now finally has Cuddy. So that gives me a modicum of hope, I wonder if in our minds we expect people to find love and happiness because we are programmed to be helpless romantics? Are we programmed to believe in love as a possibility for everyone? Or is it something that only a select few truly get to enjoy. Falling in and out of love is something that has heretofore defined my life until the past few years, when liaisons have been few and far between. I'm wondering if that's a result of me looking too hard and being too specific, or if it's a side effect of having withdrawn into myself after the failure of my engagement?

Either way, it's interesting. Half of me just wants to walk the earth. Roaming from town to town and doing good. I feel that might fill the void up. But of course, in order to do that I would have to sever all ties with twenty first century life. I think if I'm thirty-five and still feeling this way, then that's definitely an option I will consider. But I guess we will see.

Why do I always want a gf for the holidays

So, why do I always want a girlfriend come holiday time? Is it because I really want to be with someone? Or is it just that the atmosphere or love and happiness and togetherness makes me want someone to share it with? Someone to cuddle up in my snuggie with and watch the snow fall? It's an interesting concept, and one that I'll have to get back to you on.

Rock You Like A Hurricane

Like I said it's in attitude. I just had a really good day in front of the guy who can control my fast ascent through the company. So I feel like I'm gonna keep rockin it. :). I really appreciate that God has given me this opportunity. The only problem is that between two jobs, I haven't really had much time to write. I really should fix that. It's starting to get cold outside, and the sad part is that's the only time that I miss the company. We'll see how it goes by Christmas this year.

paralysis

Sometimes paralysis can keep us from that which we want most:

Have you ever felt that you wanted to tell someone that in your eyes, she was the most beautiful person you'd ever seen, but kept silent because you were afraid of a potentially negative reaction?

Have you ever felt like you don't deserve to be happy? Or that it was too much of a risk to lay your heart out there?

Have you ever felt your heart break for someone who you knew was lonely, knowing that your touch or your words wouldn't help them, so you hold your peace?

Have you ever been afraid to tell someone you love them?

Have you ever felt the aching sting of loneliness, made all the more poignant because you know that the cure to your loneliness lies just out of your reach, suffering from the same pain?

Have you ever felt like you would always be alone?

Have you ever wondered if you would get the chance to have someone you love in your arms one more time?

Have you ever worried every time you kiss someone that it would be the last time?

Have you ever felt like you try to hard to hold a relationship together, only to end up pushing the other person away?

Have you ever felt like you are standing in the way of your own happiness?

If you've ever felt this way, I wish I could help you, I'm still trying to help myself with this one.

Like a Boss

It's crazy how when your foot gets in the door, that doors just start flying open all over the place. You keep finding new opportunities and blessings around every corner. I guess what I'm trying to say is that don't ever give up. You have the power within yourself to affect your environment positively or negatively. If you finally get up off your ass and get to work, then opportunities will start falling like rain. It's crazy. I was so stagnant a month ago, but I guess that I was only sitting in the eye of the storm. I mean, it's not like I just blew up or anything, but I'm seeing a ton of opportunities, and I finally have a job with some potential for upward mobility. The sky is the limit at present, and it's really hard for me to not be optimistic about my future. It's the first time in a few years that I've actually been able to say that. I'm really grateful for everyone who's been here for me when I wasn't myself, when I was down and out and when I was stagnant. Special thanks to those who reminded me that the key in life lies within you. No one else can get you out of your funk. And a particular thanks to a dear friend of mine who's words served as the lightning to get my pilot light going again. Once it was lit, it took a few months for it to get going again, but it's burning just as bright as ever. Because of that, I'm seeing a shift back to the attitude that I had when I was nineteen and the world was wide open. It's amazing. To the people who say that I have to be happy with what I got, I have to quote Tony Montana: "You be happy, me, I want what's coming to me... The world, chico, and everything in it." I'm riding high, my vision is clear, I can see nothing but bright eyes and clear skies in front of me. I can only go higher, and I ain't ever coming back down.

Be a baller

I'm a baller. It goes to more than the fact that I like to play ball, watch ball, etc. Whatever. It's an attitude you have to have in order to keep facing forward in this world. You only have a 5% chance to make it into the program you want to get into, or that you don't have a chance to be with the person you want to be with. It doesn't matter, you have to have to have the attitude that you can do it. If someone tells you that you can't do something, you have to be able to look them in the eyes and say, "Fuck you, I can do whatever I put my mind to, I'm a baller."

Maybe that's a silly way to put it, but it's true. There has to be a moment where you say, fuck it, I'm going balls out (actually a phrase from steam engines, not vulgar) and I'm going to succeed against all odds. No matter what, or who, the obstacle, I'm going to make it. I don't exactly know what making it means, all I know is that it's something that was definitely missing from my attitude before. You have to own it, be a man, and put your name on it. To quote one of my heroes, the quintessential, prototypical baller, Deion Sanders: "I built this place, and this is my house!"

No matter where you are, when you are, you should be able to own what you do. Don't let anyone or anything stand in the way of what you want to be, what you want to do. I used to be able to slice through a defense like butter, and fly down a track like a bat out of hell. There's no reason I can't be in that kind of shape again, or attack my work and my future with the same kind of tenacity that I used to carry a ball with. It's a matter of perspective. The true measurement is what's inside. So, whether it's on the ball field or in the board room, be a baller.

Catharsis

So, I had a moment of true catharsis today. I talked to someone who had hurt me in my past. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't be angry. I don't know if that's some fault of mine, that outside of the moment I can't nurse anger or hate. The more I think, the more I try and put myself in the other person's position, and the more that I end up forgiving that person, no matter the seriousness of the offense. Some might say that I'm weak because of this, but I think it takes true strength to swallow your pride. A lot of times pride makes you do things to balance the scales and you only end up hurting yourself.

When you purge yourself of anger and hatred, you end up with more empathy and understanding. It doesn't serve to try and make someone feel worse for something if they already feel horribly about it. At that point, any additional bad feelings you try and give them will just push the balance over into the red. Turning the other cheek really does help you to be able to get over something. Turns out that Jesus was on to something. If you don't continue to hurt others, then you break the cycle. Throughout the world, we see the problems that happen when people follow the doctrine of an eye for an eye. So, the next time that you feel someone has wronged you, instead of seeking to wrong them, try to forgive them, and embrace them. It breaks the cycle. Just try it, and see how good it feels.

I hate being sick

Creeping, sluggish, detestable phlegm. Damn it! Get out of my lungs. I always hate being sick, because I never feel like I remember what not sick felt like. Never a good thing. I'm not a fan. Hopefully it goes away by Saturday. :(. On a side note, work is good. And I have a rendezvous with a particularly cute/fun friend of mine on Saturday night. :).

Back to the Professional World

I'm heading back to the professional world. Now all I need is a girlfriend. I wonder if, now that I have a job there will be any takers? Haha we shall see. I guess now I'm back on the market.

broken pieces

A man once collected damaged porcelain dolls, they could have been cracked, missing paint, missing small pieces, or even missing limbs, but the man collected them just the same. He placed the small, damaged pieces on his shelf in his bedroom. It didn't matter to him where he found it. He could have been walking along the road and seen one missing a right arm on the sidewalk. He could have been in the woods on a trail, and found another piece with a cracked face. What was important was that the damage to each figurine made it more precious in the eyes of the man. He would cradle each piece like it was made of gold, and then he would take them home and reverently place them on the shelves.

It doesn't matter how damaged we are. Everyone is special. I've never been with anyone that couldn't be described as damaged in one way or another. That's because we're all damaged. We all have cracks, some of us are even missing pretty big pieces. What's important is to realize that despite the cracks, despite the missing paint, or missing limbs, that without those details we wouldn't be who we are. Don't expect someone to be perfect, don't be upset because the person you love may be broken. They'll love you all the more for loving them, cracks and all.

So, in the past couple weeks, I've had two job offers, which is nice, I accepted both, as they are both for part time positions. And what's nice, is that I'm working again. It's an amazing feeling. Between the two, I'll probably have a 40 hour work week, something I haven't had with regularity since the spring of 2008, when the recession hit the newspaper business especially hard. It's been a humbling experience. I used to think that I was too good to work retail again, but, you know what? I'm good at it, and I'm really going to enjoy myself.

hmmm...

people always say that God works in mysterious ways, it seems to me that this only makes sense when our will and God's are at cross purposes? Just something to think about. Night.

Yay!

Hawks won 27-20, Pac 10 looks solid. It's gonna be a good week!

House

Sometimes I feel a strange kinship with Greg House (before he got together with Cuddy), and Harry Bosch. Seems like the liaisons and connections are only bus stops along a long and winding road that each of us had to travel alone. That said, sometimes it sure is nice to see a diner's lights in the distance sometimes. Most of the time, however, I'm a one man wolf pack.

Hell

Like I said before. Sleep is no refuge. In sleep the hell is distorted into places you could only imagine in your nightmares. I guess that's what it becomes. A nightmare.

Hmm... it sucks

You ever really want that one thing that you KNOW you can't ever have? It's kind of lame. You try not to think about it, to put it out of your mind and just move on, but it won't let you. It's always there, teasing you, mocking you. Driving you insane. You can't ever seem ti find it. Or if you find it, it remains just out of your reach. Always there but never really yours. Sometimes you want it so bad that your body aches. Deep in the region between your chest and your stomach. But there's never any way to make the pain go away. The only thing that would make it go away is to possess the coveted, forbidden treasure, the forbidden fruit, if you want to be cliche about it. It just keeps taunting you. Sitting there, staring at you. The more you try and put it out of your mind, the more it stays there, always under your consciousness, festering like a canker. It's the first thing you think of when you wake up, and the last thing that you think of before you go to bed at night. Even sleep is no escape, as it haunts your dreams, continually manifesting inches from your nose, even within your grasp, only be snatched away from your hands by the returning lucidity of the waking hours. Pain and pleasure, love and hate, desire and repulsion all intermix within the need for this thing. And the desire for it leads you into purgatory, a specialized hell of your own making. Sometimes it feels like the only escape is to end your consciousness, and thus end your thoughts. It's just as easy as dining on the barrel of a twenty two. I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you care.

Brother Elijah

Brother Elijah

A story of a Brother I will tell,

Born as a slave upon the Southern fields,

Escaping, through the railroad, North to dwell,

To become the first colored man in Gospel yields,

Named for Elijah, mighty priest of Old,

And named for Abel, Adam’s beloved son,

This steadfast brother, by Joseph Smith was told,

To go forth and preach the Word to everyone,

A priest, an Elder, and a Seventy,

Elijah Abel walked strong and true, upright,

And he was not alone, nor had to be,

As a brother walking in God’s holy light,

For Walker Lewis, and Joseph Freeman too,

Held power of God on the Earth to do,

His will, His works and preach His wisdom true,

This sacred trust that by no means was new,

For Jethro, Moses’ good-father did hail,

From Africa, and Tzipporah, his wife,

Long dwelt in the horn of that land round which ships sail,

And was black of countenance and full of life,

This steadfast brother, ever strong remained,

For even when adversity did call,

Elijah never lost his sacred claim,

Alone, against his foe, he did not fall,

In time, Elijah’s story will see light,

And prove in God’s eyes, that black is pure as white.

Football!

It feels so good to be playing ball again! :). I know it's only flag, but it feels amazing! I can't wait to get back in shape

Generalization and Xenophobia

So what's up with everyone making sweeping generalizations about immigrants and Muslims? I don't understand it. We feel that since we have the privilege of being American we can label other groups of people? A people as diverse as us should be the last to do that. Do we judge all whites by the actions of the white supremacists and white nationalist churches? Do we judge all the Germans by the actions of the Third Reich? No, we don't. We allow these people the opportunity to prove themselves individually in our eyes and the eyes of the community. Why can we not extend the same courtesy to Muslim Americans and Mexican Americans? There are over 1.5 billion Muslims in the world. Are we really going to believe that ALL of these people hate America and wish to destroy it? That's bull shit. Sorry. It is. That's like saying that every black man wants to rape a white woman, when in fact violent crime is intra-racial, not interracial. Intolerance is born of ignorance. We can't let fear and ignorance keep us from extending a hand of fellowship to those who are Americans, just like the rest of us. Why should we deny those who come here the same opportunities our forebears had? Opportunities that they got by killing and displacing the Native American tribes who lived here for thousands of years. And don't give me any of that Manifest Destiny shit. God didn't give us the right to give blankets full of smallpox to villages and massacre women and children at Wounded Knee. Our past is hardly spotless, so I believe we owe those who come to this country the right to help make America great again.

Michael Vick

So, everyone knows that I'm a fan of letting people have second chances. Particularly people who commit crimes of ignorance. Michael Vick for example. Lots of people feel very strongly about animals, and so this might offend some people. However, I feel that people should have a chance to prove that they learned their lesson when they serve their time. Unfortunately, the prison system, which claims to be a tool of rehabilitation, most often ends up with people in and out of jail because of how hard you have to be to survive inside. Adjusting to life on the outside is near impossible.

Michael Vick has done a very good job of turning his life around and keeping his nose clean since he's gotten out of prison. He's been a model citizen and a good team player, as well as a leader. He's shown the last few weeks that he can still lead a team. I'm glad that Andy Reid has decided to give him a chance to prove that he can win. He didn't bench him when he had the hot hand. It's no secret that if he had benched him, there would have been discussions about the racial issues. Benching the black quarterback for the white one even though the black quarterback was winning. So, I'm glad it didn't come to that. I hope number seven keeps showing us that redemption is always possible.

New Life

So, my best friend/big brother Marcus McCoy, and his wife, Maybelline had a baby this last weekend. Micah Octavio Morris McCoy. I'm so happy for them! Having a child is something amazingly special, and I think something that more people should put serious thought into. It's really something special. Two people coming together and creating a small, miniature life with pieces of both of them. To use the music metaphor I established last night. Two people's songs blending in harmony to create a new, entirely different song, which grows and develops independently of its parental refrains.

I know that there's a deep-seated biological drive to reproduce, but I think there's also a spiritual component as well. In creating new life, we are emulating God. That's part of what makes having children so special, and the reason that we should all take this more seriously. I know that someday I want to hold my own child in my arms. Who knows if I'll ever get that chance, though. I'll have to find someone first. I'm also not trying to downplay the virtues of adoption, which I wholeheartedly support. But there is something innately wonderful and special in the creation of your own child of your own flesh and blood. It's something that someday I hope to experience. I've always wanted to be a dad more than anything else. As much as I try to deny it, it's always there.

disharmony

Why is it that music affects us more deeply than the written or spoken word? I'm a writer, yet I feel that my words on a page affect someone far less than the resonating tone of a note. Music speaks to the centers of our souls in a way that words never can. Whether it's song, or instrumentals, music is the way that our souls talk. That's interesting, since, sound is simply vibration. Maybe the essence of our intelligence isn't something physical, or something intangible. Maybe it's a wave, a vibration that's tangible to others around us. Maybe we meet others whose waves vibrate in the same frequency as ours and thus we make connections. The music in our souls has found harmonious notes with which to be associated in a symphony of life. Maybe love works the same way. We meet people who vibrate on our same frequency, and then we meet people who we can be with. That would go a great way towards explaining why I haven't been able to find someone. Maybe my music is off key, out of tune, somehow in disharmony. Maybe, when I bring it in contact with the music of another, it creates discord instead of harmony, the notes shrieking like an out of tune violin in the hands of an inexperienced player. I haven't been able to find anyone who's song is affected by mine like I'm affected by theirs. If we're here to find love, then my song is doing a lousy job of finding instruments to harmonize with. This leads me to believe that the vibrations within us that proclaim our comrades are different than the ones which proclaim us to our lovers. Friends I seem to have no shortage of, yet, when it comes to love, the deep, resonating, passionate, and powerful love of which poets (ironically since I am one) write of, I've experienced this feeling reciprocated only one time; this one time, it rang out as clearly as the resonant chords of Beethoven's 9th Symphony, but came crashing to a halt during the refrain. Ever since then, I have been weaving a song of discord, unable to come into harmony with someone, those to which I desire to attune my song have no ear for the notes in my soul. I've been trying to perfect my own song, but this seems to reinforce the notion that my music may be deeply, fundamentally damaged beyond repair. The notes so twisted and jumbled that I'll never be able to find another piece to match with, no matter how hard I search, or how much I try to change the song. My song will always be out of tune. And because of that, it will never be part of a harmony.

Every time that I hear the song, Suteki Da Ne, I'm reminded of a love that will never happen, one that never was. I think it's silly that this is the case for a song to which I don't even know the words, but it's true. That song, to me, rings of real love. I'm forever cursed to sit and wonder what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to open my mouth and say how I felt. Could I have found the harmony, or is the fact that I'm too afraid to let this happen to myself again keeping me from ever being able to risk enough to find my song? Maybe someday I'll be willing to go out into the storm and brave the lightning. The lightning flashing in the smokestack, the winds of change and the capriciousness of fate. Is it fate, or do I make my own fate? Do I take it in my hands and create the love, the harmony that I'm so afraid of losing that I won't even look for it? Does it even work that way? I've always heard that it finds us when we don't look for it. If that's the case, then I wonder what happens to those of us that within are so desperately lonely that we try to talk ourselves into thinking that we're better off that way. We make the excuse that our loneliness is the human condition at its most simplistic level. When in actuality, only in individual accountability are we meant to be alone. Maybe that's why it feels so right when you hold a girl in your arms, even if it's only a friend. It's a finger in the dike that's holding back the sea of despair. Maybe that's why I love hugs. They just keep me going until i can find someone to fill that hole and keep the sea out for good. But nothing in this world is ever for keeps. There are no happy endings. The achievement of one goal simply reveals another behind it. Is this endless chase something that we really want? Is there ever a time when we can rest, or is there no rest until our eyes close and never open again? No true peace. Sorry, I got off track, but I thought it was interesting.

Che?

So does it make me a bad person that I really admire Che Guevara? I think that socialism is how the government can protect the people from the greed of big business. Lots of people seem to look at the government as the problem, but the government exists to serve the people, and it answers to the people. It's our tool. The private sector has no such checks on it. It answers only to profits and its stockholders. So I'm sorry if I want the government to protect the people from companies who are out to make money no matter the cost. Healthcare, for example. It's a big business. Like any business, hospitals and insurance companies are there to make a profit. Who wins? The businesses. Who loses? The population. The difference between having private, profit driven companies to control things like this and then the government is that the government is elected by the people. If people don't like what the government is doing they need to become more active. Corruption in government is bred by apathy. Corruption in business is there to begin with. The private sector is not there to look out for the interests of the little man. The motto of the private sector is to make money, and the consequences be damned. I'd rather trust people I elected and whose job depends on how well they serve the people than people who want to exploit us for monetary gain. That's why I don't understand those who feel that the private sector is going to look out for the interests of the common people. It's not good business to do so, which is part of why government is profitable, but why it's also necessary. So, if that makes me a socialist, then so be it. I'm a socialist.

Why I Wouldn't Raise a Family in Utah

I wrote this back in July. At the time I hadn't thought that I'd ever want to go back to Utah. Since then, I've had a change of heart at least as far as going back there for school. I still wouldn't ever raise my family there. But it's not that bad when you have friends and family. They help you overlook some of the worst parts. I think that the companionship is the important part. We're social creatures, as primates, after all. And so, while I might be returning to the Y to finish my Masters, I still probably won't live there unless BYU offers me a teaching position.

It’s cloudy out, but I can feel the sun. People say that we don’t have sun in Seattle. I love this city. The clouds really do suck sometimes, but you get used to it. I’m grateful that I grew up in this place. Of all the areas in this country, I think that this was the friendliest place I could have possibly grown up. My parents, in contrast, grew up in both a very different place, and a very different time. I felt some of that time when I went to Utah for school. In Seattle, race and ethnicity stare us in the face every time we leave the house. It’s a multi-cultural, multi-racial city, a true melting pot—I love it. I was far from the only mixed race child in any of my classes. Because it was so normal, because everyone looked different, it wasn’t necessarily something that divided any of us growing up. My best friends in elementary school, Michael and David, were both white kids. I’m still friends with them now. I don’t think that the topic of race as ever come up between us, whether positive or negative. Maybe I was just being naive, but I never had to deal with any of that. In high school, we just asked kids what they were, and it was pretty cool to find out everyone’s differing heritage. Even going from Seattle to the more affluent suburb of Bellevue, I didn’t really notice the difference. People were just people. It didn’t matter if they were black or white. I didn’t see color. This is part of what makes Seattle so beautiful to me. It doesn’t matter who I marry, I am pretty sure that my children won’t experience the stark, harsh realities of racism and discrimination until they are old enough to deal with it.
Unfortunately, I found out that I was different for the first time when I was about six years old. At my grandmother’s house, one of the places where you’d figure a young boy would be safest. My mom had just gotten married to my step dad, Mark (who was a white man, but honestly, it’s never even something I’ve thought about). I was playing in my grandma’s woodpile with my cousin, Ryan. He was a few years older than me, about eight or nine. We were playing knights. We would take the sticks that looked the most like swords, and duel with them until we got called to eat meals in the evening. These meals were usually pretty good, except for when my cousin Kelly was making her famous (or infamous) macaroni-ramen. I was the only person who couldn’t stand it. It’s probably a good thing, since a serving of this culinary chimera contained about two week’s worth of sodium. It was just after one such meal, and we were playing down in the woodpile, engaged in a furious display of juvenile swordplay, when the neighbor boy from the trailer down the road approached, his dirty clothes and greasy blonde hair were a stark contrast to both Ryan and I, who were dressed in clean new clothes despite the fresh dusting of Idaho dirt that covered the both of us.
“Hey, Ryan!” He called out in a country drawl. “Come play!”
Ryan groaned. He had never liked this boy. One of the Barney kids. They were bad news. He called back at him “I can’t, I’m playing already.”
He looked at me, and made a face. “Why you playing with a nigger?”
It didn’t really sink in exactly what he was saying, at least, not to me. Ryan knew exactly what he was saying, and he was pretty deeply offended on my behalf. “He’s my cousin,” he said. I heard the anger in his voice, but I was only six at the time, and I hadn’t quite connected the anger in his voice with what the other boy had said.
The boy made another face, his dirty, freckly nose crinkling. “You got a nigger for a cousin?”
I heard it that time. I hadn’t heard that word in real life before. I’d heard it on TV. I knew that it meant something bad. I knew he was calling me something bad because my skin was browner than his. I didn’t even really understand the implications. All I knew at the time was that he was calling me a name. I didn’t like it. I felt my eyes tearing up, and my lip quivered. I didn’t want to cry, I just knew that boy was being mean.
“Shut up!” Ryan yelled at the other boy. The other boy looked mad. He noticed that I had started crying.
“Hey, the nigger is crying!”
Something snapped inside me. I picked up my stick, and I ran toward him. I swung it as hard as I could, and my stick connected solidly with his nose and mouth. The boy fell backward onto his rump in the dust. I dropped my stick and ran toward my grandparents’ house. I could hear him scrambling after me as I bounded up the steps two at a time. Ryan yelled frantically at the other boy to leave me alone. I tore through the door and the first person I saw was Mark. I threw myself around his waist and started crying. He asked what was wrong. I told him what the other boy had said. His face clouded over and he looked at the other boy, whose face was framed in the screen door. The boy shrunk back from the anger in that gaze. Mark walked outside and began yelling at the other boy in my defense. This experience taught me quite a few things. I was different than a lot of people, and some people would be mean to me because of it. It had also taught me that some people don’t see differences at all and are willing to look after you just the same.
I was a lot older before it made a difference again. This time, I was in Utah, at Brigham Young University. I remember driving through the gates of the university, having no idea what to expect. I definitely wasn’t expecting my roommates to be inordinately excited to have a black roommate. Until this time, I hadn’t really thought that much about how race is part of self definition, particularly for black men. If I’d lived my entire life in Seattle, I’m sure that I would have experienced some different treatment with regards to race. After all, this is America, and if recent political events have taught us anything, the race question is inseparably entwined with the culture of this country. Even in a place that’s seemingly as colorblind as Seattle, it becomes an issue. This issue is probably magnified by my religion. I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—also known as Mormons, a religion with a history fraught with racial conflict and inequality. Despite this, it’s the only church where I feel comfortable with the backbone of the doctrines. That is why I am a member. There isn’t a logical explanation. Logic kept me away from the church for five years. Against all the logic, it’s the only place that I’ve really felt happy. That said, the Mormons that I know back home in Seattle are far different from the ones that I met in Utah.
I don’t like Utah. I think it's boring. I think that Provo is only a fun place for those people who can't bring themselves to grow up. I think it’s ugly, brown, and full of self righteous conservative idiots. This is not to say that every person that’s a conservative is an idiot. Quite to the contrary, I know several conservatives that are probably more intelligent than I am. I also know many liberals that live in Utah, who are also more intelligent than me. However, I do know that there is a large number of people who I find disagreeable. I got called the infamous “N-word” a lot more when I was in Utah than any time since. My freshman year, I hung out with a group of students who weren’t very good people, simply because they were the “cool” group to hang with. We did a lot of stupid things, including driving around with a megaphone hollering at cute girls. I’m pretty certain that a lot of the people that I know now wouldn’t have been friends with me back then. One of the things that led to me leaving this “crew” was the fact that so many of my “friends” would make racist jokes simply to see my reaction. I have a good sense of humor, but the jokes grew more and more mean spirited, and the words used more and more offensive. These boys regularly made it clear that they only found white women attractive, and held white people in higher esteem than other ethnicities. To be fair, not all of these boys were from Utah, but they also weren’t from the place that I call home. That doesn’t help how I feel about the place.
To be fair, I met a lot of really good people there too. My track teammates were all awesome people, as well as my coaches. And the friends that I met after my freshman year and lots of the guys from my ward that I got closer to later in the year were great as well. Even so, if I had known what Utah was going to be like, I probably wouldn’t have gone. That’s probably good that I didn’t know, because I do have a lot of good friends that I met down there, people who changed my life positively, as well as people who changed my life negatively.
Some of these people who changed my life positively were my fellow Black students at the Y. Despite the small number of black students at BYU, the few of us that lived there tended to bond together. We formed a tight knit community in order to escape the discrimination and ostracizing of our peers. Several of my closest friends, whom I consider family, I met in Utah. Although I have made some of my greatest friends there (black, white and many other ethnicities), I would never want to put my children through the racist environment that I encountered. Give me Seattle, Washington, and more people like my friends that I grew up with, of all colors and hues, than the homogenous environment of Utah, with its intolerance and bigotry any day. To get away from this, I would gladly take the rain. Am I bitter? Yes, I would say that I am. But that’s all right. I would rather be bitter at a state and an idea of the type of person that I don’t like, than to be prejudiced against all the people that are different from me. Utah can be a good place, and I’m sure that some people had better experiences than I had. But, I wouldn’t want to bank my kids’ happiness on it.

Is Love Worth it?

The old adage goes that it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. That it’s better to know the highs of love and to have to endure the lows of losing said love, than to have never experienced it. In my most humble opinion, this is complete, total, bull shit. I would have to say that those who haven’t ever had their hearts pricked by Cupid’s darts definitely hold an advantage over those of us who have. I think that of all the diverse pains I’ve had to endure—from appendicitis, to collateral ligament micro-tears, to pneumonia—the pain of losing someone you love is most definitely the worst. Two years later, and the pain still isn’t all the way gone. I feel it every time that I see a happy couple holding hands. I feel it every time that I see a couple with a new baby. I hate engagement photos; I hate the smiling, happy girls, with the bright flashing rings on their hands. They just serve to remind me of the one who I used to make smile. I used to love watching her eyes flash. I loved playing with her son. I loved hearing her tell me she loved me. I really wonder now if she ever actually did. My heart likes to tell me that she did, but I don’t think my head would let me believe it. I don’t think if she ever loved me she would have ended things like she did; without ever really giving me a reason, without giving the ring back. She kept the ring and she kept my heart, or the best part of it. There’s been a hole inside that I’ve been trying in vain to fill with many different things. I’ve tried to fill it with everything, except for filling it with myself. My father told me recently that we never truly get over those that we love; we just learn to live without them. I believe that, yet I hope that that’s not always true. I don’t want to spend my life with this hole, loving her for loving me and hating her for leaving me. That just feeds the pain. You can’t close the hole and keep it open at the same time. So what I’ve tried to do is close the gap by loving myself. It’s been a long, hard road, and I wonder if I’m brave for trying to move on, or a coward for being so affected by this for so long. Something dies inside you when you love deeply, and then that love is lost. I envy the man who’s never felt this type of love. I think he’s better off. I don’t know if or when I’ll let myself love someone again. I don’t think that it’s worth it. But who knows, I could be wrong. But I doubt it.

Football Stuff

So, I'm a pretty big football fan, and today my beloved Seahawks went up to Mile High Stadium and got drubbed 31-14. Lovely. Despite the final score, we made a lot of mistakes in this game that handed it to Denver. We came right out the gate with guns blazing and scored on our opening drive. But then there was that little piece of yellow laundry on the field that every fan hates. Holding. The next play we got intercepted on the 4. Denver took over and we stopped them. They punted. We muffed it. Three plays later, Denver TD. Shitstorm. I could tell it was going to be a long game, and we ended up losing with a few more turnovers along the way. Unfortunately I didn't get to watch most of it, as I was at church. Lovely language from a churchgoing man, I know. We all knew this was going to be a rebuilding year, and shooting yourself in the foot on the road with turnovers and penalties is better than playing your best and being outclassed (A La the Washington Huskies and BYU yesterday).
But you know, the thing that makes it a little better is that the damn Cowboys are 0-2. Looking at all those irritating Cowboys updates on Facebook really makes me want to delete some people. So, from where I'm sitting a 1-1 record and a 1-0 division record aren't things to worry about too much. We all knew from the beginning when Pete Carroll overhauled this team that it wasn't going to be a super bowl year. Honestly, I am okay with us taking some lumps because our young players are getting valuable reps that will help make them better. A 6-10 record is nice to me this year because I don't really see any marquee, can't miss QB prospects coming out of the NCAA this season, and we'll likely pick up a quarterback in the second round. I think we should use our first round pick to further shore up our lines.
Speaking of college, I'm loving this year, despite the fact that both my Cougs (BYU, WSU) are positively awful. Oregon, who I should burn forever in the seventh circle of hell for rooting for, is on a positive tear, scoring 189 points in a 180 minutes of football and pitching two shutouts. Not to mention, they bent Tennessee over out behind the woodshed in their own house. In three games, Oregon has outscored their opponents 189-13, while piling up 611.7 yards per game and averaging 63 points. LaMichael James has 361 yards on 30 carries--a 12 ypc average--and three TDs in 2 games. Running roughshod comes to mind, as Oregon is leading the nation in both offense and scoring, showing no signs of slowing down, and is second in rushing at 380 yards per game. The other teams in the top 5 in rushing don't also pass for over 200 yards a game. Boss stuff.
Michigan quarterback Denard Robinson is a one man show. He's single-handedly produced more offense than all but 43 schools in division 1-A! That means Robinson has accounted for 1,231 yards of total offense, and 8 tds in 3 games! Book that man a plane to New York for the Heisman ceremony now! So... enough of my ranting... my top 25.

1. Alabama
2. Oregon
3. Ohio State
4. Nebraska
5. Boise State
6. TCU
7. Texas
8. Oklahoma
9. Wisconsin
10. Utah
11. Florida
12. Stanford
13. Arizona
14. Arkansas
15. Nevada
16. South Carolina
17. Auburn
18. USC
19. Miami
20. LSU
21. Iowa
22. Michigan
23. West Virginia
24. Oregon State
25. Penn State

Those are my votes. :). Have a great Sunday, I'll probably write something substantive later, I've been kicking around something to do with my hatred of the concept of true love and soul mates. We'll see.

Hope vs. Nihilism\

I don't really understand the purpose of life. I find it interesting that I continually oscillate between two very different thoughts regarding the purpose of life, and our reasons for being here. The thought which I most often embrace, and the one that I truly, dearly hope is the right one, is that God put us here for a probationary period in which we can prove our worthiness to come and live with Him in the next life. Most of the time, I accept this thought without question, feeling it reinforced by a feeling deep within my soul. A "burning in my bosom" if we're going to be using hackneyed cliches. I love this particular thought because it ascribes some higher purpose and meaning to my own existence. This leads me to my other thought. The other thought that I have is that we delude ourselves into the existence of a higher being and life after death because we are afraid to accept our existence as finite. We are self aware, so how could we possibly lose this awareness after death? Maybe the whole existence of religion is just a thought that we have had in order to lend more importance to our lives. I mean, without something higher, a greater purpose to provide meaning, there is very little meaning in life. We're one small speck of dust on a slightly larger speck of dust rotating around a ball of gas in the middle of an inconceivably vast vacuum. Nothing that we do in life can affect the universe in a measurable way. Even the climate change which we are inflicting on our planet through indiscriminate use of resources won't much outlast us as a species. We haven't been on earth very long. If earth's history were a clock, running from midnight to midnight, human beings would have existed for the last half of the last second before midnight. Without God, there isn't really anything significant about us. The planet would easily forget about us within a few thousand years. And within a few hundred thousand even our mighty stone monuments would be unrecognizable. We might not even be the first intelligent beings to have inhabited this planet, given the inconsistency of fossilization and the readiness with which the Earth can hide her secrets with regards to the artificial monoliths of civilization. To put it bluntly, without God, we're nothing. Just dust floating in a vacuum. Something interesting to think about next time you pick up the vacuum to clean your living room. To quote one of my favorite lines from the movie Collateral:

I could have done anything i wanted to... but you know what? New news. It doesn't matter anyway, if we're all insignificant in this big ass nowhere... says the bad-ass sociopath in my back seat. But you know what? That's one thing I gotta thank you for, bro, because until now I hadn't looked at it that way. What does it matter... what do we got to lose anyway?

This quote pretty much epitomizes my second thought. It's the essence of nihilism. If there's not a plan, an overarching purpose for our existence, why do we even exist at all? If there's not a reason, then we're just here, and that seems like a cruel joke to me. If we're just here, if we're just floating on a rock in the middle of a cold, dark emptiness, then is there really an objective meaning and purpose to what we do? Honestly, if this is the case, why should someone bother adhering to any code of mores and values. Integrity gets you nothing if nothing exists after you're dead. If it stops with your final breath, what purpose does living for others server other than making you feel better about this existence which we all have the misfortune of inhabiting. It's something that I don't think my mind can truly process. That way lies madness. I wonder, if when we die, our conscious will continue to exist, and we'll return to God; or if we return to the void from which our consciousness sprang? The universe is vast, cold, and dangerous. It's uncaring, unending, but constantly changing. There's an underlying order in what appears to be chaos. This order is what gives me hope. I believe that the order we see both in our world and the larger universe comes from God. If morals and values serve no purpose without a higher power or a reward or punishment in a subsequent existence, then why do we have morals and values? Did these things come from God? I would like to think so. Of course, I won't truly know the answer until I die. So, until then, I'll try to have faith, and ignore the darker paths of my thoughts.

We're all alone

So, I'm sitting here listening to the rain. The persistent drumming of the droplets on my roof has always been a comforting feeling to me. I just came in the door from some adventure or other. I'm sitting here contemplating what directions my life should take. I've always been a fairly gregarious person, but I don't really like to share my inner thoughts and feelings with people. In fact, I don't really know if I've ever truly shared the true essence of myself with anyone. Maybe I'm frightened. Maybe, I'm simply the type of person that knows that no one else could possibly understand my thoughts. The avenues upon which they meander slowly through my head. This is probably for the best. We all, when it comes down to it in this world, live, and die, alone.

Loneliness and the state of being alone are two different things. Loneliness, by its very definition, reflects a person's desire to be with and around other people. We miss our friends, we miss our families, in the case of some people, we miss our significant others. Sometimes I feel loneliness, but it's always a temporary feeling. When the shroud of social niceties and interactions is stripped away, all we have in the end is ourselves. I think that recognizing our true state as one of singularity, of, ultimately, lonesomeness, not loneliness, is essential to finding peace in our lives. We may have companionship, friendships, families and coworkers, but in the end, our actions and by extension our successes or failures are ours alone. We bear the final responsibility. Support is always nice, but the final decision, the final resolve, rests with the individual. I think if more people realized that they are alone, they would be happier. They'd be fulfilled in their own desire to bring about their own happiness. Happiness, like any emotion, is a choice that rests with the individual. If we can learn to be happy alone, we can be happy under any circumstances. I believe this is important, because at the moment when we exercise our reason for existence--free will--we are always alone. No one can make a choice for us. For me, or for you. The choice rests with you, alone.

Angst in Autumn

Isaiah Moorhouse walked out toward the bus. The thought of the conversation with his father that morning dominated his thoughts. The usual speech about how he had to play his heart out. How he had to play better than Tracy Knight. He’d heard the same old speech from his dad every game day for the past four years. The fact that his dad and Knight’s dad had played ball together in college at Washington State only made things worse. They carried their rivalry down to their sons. It didn’t matter how he played, Isaiah would have to come home to Nestor Moorhouse asking him why he didn’t play better than Knight. His dad didn’t seem to care too much that the team only threw about ten passes a game while the tailbacks got about twenty carries apiece. He’d get the same speech again tonight. Bullshit.

He couldn’t ever say, “Good game, son.” Isaiah had heard the speech one time too many. He’d walked around with a chip on his shoulder all day. He had even blown up at his girlfriend, Lauren Parsons. He felt pretty horrible about that, she hadn’t deserved any of that.

Things didn’t get any better when Isaiah got on the bus. He tried to sit up front with the rest of the starters, but Knight pulled rank.

“This seat is reserved for receivers who can catch the ball,” Knight scoffed. He wobbled as the bus lurched into motion.

Isaiah swung his gear onto the seat in front of Knight. “I do catch the ball.”

“Practice don’t mean shit Moorhouse,” Knight reached over, snatched Isaiah’s pads and threw them into the aisle. “Sit in the back with the Jayvees.”

Isaiah hesitated, then scooped up his pads and strode all the way to the back of the bus. He threw someone’s pads into the aisle in front of him and sat down. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids hard. He sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of the team, especially now that they were on their way to the game with no escape from the taunting if someone saw him.

Isaiah pressed his face to the glass stared out one of the rear bus windows at the cars racing past on the freeway. It was about six forty-five. Forty-five minutes until kickoff. He leaned back against his pads, stowed in the seat next to him, and sighed. A road sign flashed by: Duvall, 15 miles. He felt sick.

“Twenty minutes until we get there,” he breathed. The head coach insisted that the bus ride to the game be completely silent. Helps the team focus, he said, or some other bullshit like that. Isaiah didn’t really buy into all of Coach Warner’s “motivational techniques.” Humiliating a player, or busting them down with up downs after practice, anything to move credit for the wins off the player’s shoulders and onto Coach’s. He flipped his CD player over, it was the only sound he’d hear the whole ride. Isaiah shifted again and skipped to the next song, DMX, to distract himself and concentrate on the game. Well, he was freed from every thought but one.

“Knight’s a bastard,” Isaiah said, glancing up at the front. “I should be up there with them.” He stared at the intricate pattern of cornrows on the back of Tracy Knight’s head.

Isaiah ran a hand through his nappy afro and scraped his fingernails across his scalp, like he was trying to rake his brain.

The bus jerked to a stop and Isaiah looked up toward the front of the bus and stuffed his CD player into his bag. Coach Warner stood up, tucking his paunch into his belt. “Alright, everybody into the locker room!”

Twenty minutes later, Isaiah streaked out on a post pattern. He burned the corner with fancy footwork and turned to find the ball. The wobbly spiral hit him right in the numbers—and bounced down onto the turf. Isaiah cursed. A Third down and a dropped pass—time to punt. He jogged back to the huddle,. As he took his spot, Knight piped up. “That’s one, chicken-shit.”

It was going to be a long night.

The time ticked steadily toward half. Less than a minute to go, and Isaiah had two more dropped passes, one of them a tip that the Wolves had returned for their only score of the game.

“Goddammit Moorhouse, if you drop the ball you can at least not tip it to the other fucking team!” Knight said when the offense took the field after the kickoff. Easy for Knight to criticize, he had three touchdowns. The play came in with Rowe: 232 counter boot at eight. Finally, Isaiah had a chance to redeem himself. Coach Warner apparently thought that the running backs deserved a break after such a good performance.

Isaiah jogged out to the line. He kept his eyes on the ball, and sprinted off the line when it snapped. Isaiah weaved his route expertly and found himself wide open downfield, looking up though the blinding white lights, searching for the spinning football in the dark sky. He glanced over his shoulder, looking for the ball. All he had to do was catch the ball and then . . . Touchdown! He blinked a bead of sweat off his eyelash, finally saw Jared Rowe’s prefect spiral and swore because he hadn’t run hard enough to catch it. He kicked hard the last five yards, and dove, hands out, stretching—but the ball smacked off his fingers while he hit the turf hard, raising a small cloud of rubber dust. Isaiah spit the rubber out of his mouth. He didn’t want to get up. He knew he would get chewed out for missing his fourth catch that night. He sighed, choking back a sob and pushing himself to his knees before climbing to his feet. His dad was watching and he just blew it—again! He knew Tracy Knight was waiting to lay into him. He slowly tucked his red and white number 1 jersey back into his shiny white pants. He didn’t feel like a number one.

Sure enough, soon as he reached the huddle, Knight shoved his oddly colored blue eyes into Isaiah’s grill and rapped the back on his helmet. “Way to go, chicken-shit, you can’t even catch it when you open!” Knight sneered and spread his palms. “That’s number four!” Knight grinned, perfect white teeth in a light brown face. He grabbed the collar off his number 33 jersey and flipped it toward Isaiah’s face, tipping his helmet down so Isaiah could get a good look at his pride stickers, a gesture of seniority, and Isaiah knew it. Although he was five or six inches shorter than Isaiah, he more than made up for it in weight. But that didn’t slow Knight, who also ran track, and had won the hundred meter dash the year before. Isaiah, finishing in fifth place, was stuck playing second fiddle to Knight in track too.

Isaiah fiddled with his gloves and took his spot in the huddle right next to Knight. “You ain’t got nothing to say to me, dog,” he muttered, choking back another sob and blinking his eyes against the tears. He didn’t hold a candle to the tailbacks in importance to the offense, as the Pirates were a running team. He also couldn’t hold a candle to them, at least not to Knight, in ego either.

“What you mean I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you, Moorhouse? You musta busted your head on that play, son!” Knight latched onto Isaiah’s facemask and yanked him down the five-inch difference in their heights, and his eyes burned into Isaiah’s. “You drop another third down pass and we’ll be doin’ a three-legged hop to the hospital at half time to get my foot out your black ass!”

Isaiah had had enough. “Get off me, fool!” he said. He pushed Knight backwards into Lance Thompson.

Thompson turned and grabbed Knight by the pads. Knight spat at Isaiah and broke Thompson’s grip easily. Thompson reached up to wipe a blond bang out of his green eyes. He looked Isaiah in the eye; Isaiah slumped but held his gaze. Knight straightened and stared Thompson right back. “You two gonna run your holes all night or play ball?” Thompson asked, and a few of the big linemen in front of them growled and grunted.

Isaiah bit his lip and looked down. He couldn’t cry now. His dad probably saw it all. He snapped his head up when he heard Rowe’s voice barking orders, and caught the last half of the play call. “—Alright, twins right, Hail Mary on two. Twins righ—”

“Fuck that!” Knight spat with a glance in Isaiah’s direction. “Fourth down, Rowe, and I know just what to throw at those pussies over there—the 144 reverse, they won’t know what the hell hit ‘em.”

Rowe bobbed his head. “Alright, your call, Tracy, you’d better bust this for at least ten yards, I don’t give a shit if there’s only ten seconds left until half, if you can’t take it all the way you’d better get out of bounds Trace. If I change the play and it gets blown up it’s my ass!”

“I got you,” Knight said.

Isaiah let a soft smile show on his face at Knight’s arrogance, then he focused on the play.

“Block your asses off, guys,” Rowe said as he leaned over the linemen. “Wing Formation, 144 reverse on set . . .”

Isaiah stuffed his mouthpiece in and split out to the weak side of the line, sizing up his blocking assignment, the outside backer. Number 55, the linebacker wasn’t even looking at him, focused instead on Thompson, lined up in the halfback position. Isaiah was glad it was a run and he couldn’t mess the play up, well, not unless he didn’t block. He checked to make sure he was on the line, and then glanced at the bald man in the leather jacket standing just beyond the fence. He also looked to the stands behind the man, where a blond girl in a black number 1 jersey clapped and cheered. He smiled and glanced back down at the man before focusing again. At least his dad could see him block like a star.

“Set!” Rowe barked as the center snapped the ball.

Isaiah ran toward number 55, and hit him at full speed, catching him off balance and knocking him down. He snapped his head around and saw Knight cutting hard to the outside off tackle to get around the unblocked defensive end. He was going to get trapped between the corner and the end. Isaiah could have sprung him for a big run if he just blocked that dude, but it might serve Knight well to get stuffed. Isaiah ran at the defensive end full speed. The end never saw what hit him as Isaiah caught him in the side of the helmet and sent him rolling along the turf. Isaiah rolled up with a whoop and watched Knight launch into the much smaller cornerback full speed. No contest, at least forty pounds in his favor, Knight bowled the defender over without losing a step.

Isaiah raised his hands to signal touchdown, watching Knight showcase his speed in a nearly uncontested footrace into the red turf. Knight stopped in the end zone, turned around and pointed the ball at Isaiah, pumping his fist before tossing it to the official. Isaiah spared a quick glance at his father, who nodded. Isaiah sprinted off into the end zone to smack Knight’s hand as the siren blew two long sustained notes.

At the beginning of the second half Isaiah and Knight burst onto the field side by side. They jumped and whooped, taking the center position as the team pressed into a big circle, screaming and butting heads.

The wall at the center of the press opened up and Rowe stepped through, carrying his helmet. He ran a hand through his straight black hair, then pulled the helmet over his head. He held up his fist. “Alright boys, the score is thirty-five, seven!” he announced. The team exploded. “But we’ve only played twenty-four minutes of football, boys! We kicked their ass the first half, and if we’re not careful they might come back!”

“Hell no!” came a voice from the back.

“That’s right! We’re gonna show these fools that the first half was a warm-up!” Rowe shoved his fist into the air. “Bring it in! We’re gonna make them wish they quit playin’ football at the first half. This may be their stadium, but it’s the Pirates’ house tonight!”

The team crushed in on the center spot, sweeping Isaiah in so he was face to face with Rowe, who winked and cried, “Pirates!” Isaiah and the rest of the team yelled, “Pirates!” so loud that Isaiah wouldn’t have known his voice was among those cheering if it weren’t for his raw throat. He pressed along with the team to the visitor’s sideline. When he reached the water cooler, a heavy weight slammed onto his back, nearly dropping him.

“Way to block back on that last play,” Knight said, dropping off Isaiah’s back and slapping him on the rear. He stuck out his hand, looking Isaiah in the eye when he clasped it. “I know I wouldn’t have busted that shit back there if it wasn’t for you. I appreciate it, dog. We cool?”

Isaiah hesitated, then slapped Knight’s butt and grinned. “Yeah, we cool.”

“That’s good, now we actin’ like teammates,” Knight smiled, breaking the handshake and stuffing his helmet on. The ref’s whistle sounded, and Knight offered a cursory wave to Isaiah, then turned and ran out to take his spot on the kick return team.

Behind the fence Isaiah could see his father standing in the exact same spot, but with a look on his face Isaiah couldn’t exactly read. He’s not disappointed, Isaiah thought, and then it hit him. He hadn’t seen that look in a very long time. “He’s proud,” Isaiah said, hardly daring to believe. His dad’s expression darkened when he noticed Isaiah staring at him. He pointed back out to the field, his lips moving. Isaiah caught the message and whipped his head around in time to catch the kickoff.

The Wolves’ kicker launched the ball into the air, a deep kick that threatened to go into the end zone. Knight caught it leaning backward on one foot to avoid the touchback and sprinted up into the wedge. Isaiah lost sight of him for a second, and thought he had been tackled. Then Knight burst out of a press of defenders at the thirty-yard line, dragging one from his right leg as he rumbled forward.

“Fight ‘em off, Knight!” Isaiah cheered, cupping his hands in front of his face like a bullhorn. Knight slipped the defender and took a beeline down the sideline at the forty. He fought for yardage before being shoved out of bounds right in front of where Isaiah stood. The Wolves’ thirty-eight yard line.

“Lets go, O!” Isaiah cried as he bounced out to the sideline. “Thirty-eight yards! We a hop, skip, and a jump away from six points!”

The offense congregated seven yards back from the ball. Knight staggered up, breathing heavily, amidst smacks and words of congratulations. Knight exhaled and spoke up. “Rowe, I can’t run this play, man, I’m tired as hell.”

“That’s alright, Trace, you and your four touchdowns get a rest this down,” Rowe said, clapping Knight on the pads and stepping in front of the huddle. “We’re passing this play—coach wants a one-play strike to the end zone!”

Isaiah’s head popped up. Rowe had the fire in his eyes. “Let’s do it,” he said, his own gaze matching Rowe’s. He tightened the last snap on his chinstrap. “I’m ready.”

“Trace, all you gotta do is block on this play,” Rowe said. He motioned for the linemen to duck their heads and leaned forward. “Flexbone, slot right, 221 bootleg on three! Flexbone, slot right, 221 bootleg, on three! Ready? Break!”

Isaiah took his spot, split out wide to the right side of the formation. He looked across the line at the defender, who backed off another two yards. You’d best respect my speed, mused Isaiah. He tightened the straps on his gloves, listening carefully to Rowe’s cadence.

“Down . . . set . . . hut! Hut! Hut!”

Isaiah ran out ten yards, then stopped, and cut back hard, hands up to catch the pass that wasn’t there. Turning just long enough to see Rowe’s pump fake, he cut back downfield and sprinted down the sideline past the faked-out defensive back. Isaiah turned back to find the ball already on its way, a wobbly spiral that he had to adjust his route to catch. The ball hit his hands just like before, but this time Isaiah cradled it softly, tucking it under his arm. He ran outside, toward the corner of the end zone. The safety came in hard. Isaiah leapt toward the pylon in the corner of the end zone, the ball outstretched. The safety slammed into him like a wrecking ball, a devastating blow that sent him flying toward the sideline. Out of bounds, Isaiah managed to wedge the ball inside the pylon, knocking it over. He rolled to a stop, ball still in his hand, and a throbbing pain in his side.

He propped himself up on his elbow, glancing back. The referee raised both arms on either side of his head. Touchdown! Isaiah fell back to the turf, dropped the ball and brought a hand up to wipe the tears from his eyes. So what if he dropped four balls, his first catch of the game was a touchdown! He leapt to his feet and raised his hand, his index finger pointing skyward. He ran back to the sideline. Knight bounded up to him, embracing him in a crunch of plastic.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! That’s number one, baby!” he said. “You just getting started tonight—this is your half, cuz!”

Isaiah caught Knight’s open palm in a high five. “You damn right!” he said. “Second half is my time!” His eyes found his father’s again, and this time Nestor Moorhouse was clapping. He called out again, and this time Isaiah heard.

“Nice catch, son!”

Twenty-three minutes later, fourth quarter, the Pirates had increased their lead fifty-six to ten. The game was pretty much over over, but Isaiah wanted to make one last statement. He cut confidently toward the sideline on a short pattern. The ball streaked toward his outstretched hands, and caught it with a soft thud, tucking it and shaking off a weak tackle by the defender. He dashed forward ten yards before a flying tackler knocked him out of bounds.

He grabbed the hand in front of his face to climb to his feet. His helper was Knight, still fired up. “Nice catch, homie! What’s that, six in a row?” Knight said with a grin.

Isaiah tossed the ball to the referee and joined the team. Rowe winked at Isaiah before he announced the play: “Wing right, 228 boot at nine on two. Isaiah, watch for the ball on the post-corner!”

Isaiah jogged out to the left side of the formation, sizing up the small corner lined up five yards in front of him. He looked down his nose at the defender, who wasn’t even six feet tall. I own this guy, he thought, grinning. When Rowe called out the second “hut,” Isaiah snapped forward, sprinted ten yards, then cut a forty-five degree angle inside. The defender shadowed him without losing a step. On his fifth step inside, Isaiah planted his knee and cut hard at the same angle back outside. The ball was in the air as he turned around, hands up, and thudded into his gloves with a smack. He put a quick juke on the corner and turned up the sideline toward the end zone. He scanned inside and saw the safety headed toward him at an angle sure to stop him short of a score. He also saw another shadow moving parallel to the safety, one that the single-minded defender didn’t notice.

He cut back inside, sprinting full speed for the red turf. The safety mirrored his move, turning back inside—and ran headlong into Knight, who had come across the field on a post route. The safety went down hard, and Isaiah cut up again inside Knight, high-stepping into the red as time expired.

Isaiah jumped up and slammed the ball over the top of the goal post like a basketball. The officials didn’t even bother to flag the offense, they just signaled the end of the game.

Isaiah ran back toward midfield to join the press of his teammates as they sang the West High fight song all the way back to their bus. Even though he wouldn’t get a chance to wash the stink off until the team got back home, he stopped at the gate for a quick kiss from Lauren when she ran up to him.

“Good job, baby,” she said. She jumped up and wrapped him in a tight embrace. “I’ll be waiting later tonight.” She dropped down out of the hug, her lips brushing against his cheek.

Isaiah returned her kiss and walked toward the bus. He tried to step inside when a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder pads, yanking him down from the steps. He looked around into his father’s face.

“Hey dad,” he said with a weak wave.

His father’s hand descended on his shoulder with a crunch. “Nice work today, son,” he said.

Isaiah’s cheeks grew hot. He dropped his gaze and said, “It was alright.”

His dad raised his chin to look into his eyes, smiling. “Three touchdowns is more than alright, son.”

Isaiah shook his head sheepishly. “Knight had four. I thought you wanted me to do better than him,” he said, and shrugged.

His father pulled him into an embrace. “You played your heart out, son. You did your old man proud.” His father released him. “I’ll see you at home.”

Tears pricking at his eyes for the last time that night, Isaiah climbed the steps to the bus. He took a seat behind Knight in the front, exchanging high fives with his teammates. He looked out the window, catching a glimpse of his father weaving his way though the crowd.