A man of might might be a weakling in disguise,
But a man of means can be the meanest of men.
A man of might might be a weakling in disguise,
A man of might might be a weakling in disguise,
But a man of means can be the meanest of men.
The NBA All Star Game is quickly approaching and the fans submitted their votes for who they’d like to see start in the greatest showcase of basketball. But one player, a player who was the fans’ choice to Make Basketball Great Again, will not be in the starting lineup.
Zach Pachulia represents change. Many NBA fans are tired of the status quo for what defines basketball greatness. They don’t want to see players who can simply launch the ball into the hoop from 35 feet away or who display dazzling athleticism in averaging nearly a triple-double. They demanded a departure from rigid definitions of greatness in basketball that value athleticism and skill over facial stubble and Russian toughness. They demanded Zach Pachulia. They demanded a player like Pachulia who makes the most out of his 18 minutes a game and who stands above the so-called stars.
Zaza Pachulia stands over Russell Westbrook after foul https://t.co/caGf2E0CoF—
Round 2 (@World_Wide_Wob) January 19, 2017
They demanded a player from the Soviet bloc who shares the traditional Slavic values that we cherish.
Pachulia received the second most votes from the fans to start for the Western Conference, yet now there’s a good chance he may be watching the game from his neighborhood Chili’s.
This is because the NBA does not trust democracy. In 2016, Pachulia almost got his chance to be an All Star starter while playing for the Dallas Mavericks. Thanks to a grass roots effort, he finished 3rd place in All Star Voting for frontcourt players in the Western Conference, barely losing his spot to Kawhi Leonard. With a new team, this year he overtook The Claw in fan voting, but the NBA changed the voting rules. This year, starters were determined by a weighted system that uses player votes and media votes in a way that undermines the democratic process. Pachulia finished second in fan voting, but the elitist members of the media and the NBA had him way down on their ballots.
The NBA isn’t the first to wield its tyrannical saber at the voting process. In 2007, on American Idol, Sanjaya displayed his artistic vocal stylings in an effort to Make Music Great Again by reverting back to a day before notes and key signatures mattered. The fans loved him and voted him onward. The judges, however, did not like that. They held it against Sanjaya that he didn’t sing in a way that conformed to their view of what makes a great singer, to wit: singing on pitch. In subsequent years, they too created a weighted system that allowed the judges’ votes to potentially override the popular vote.
This is terrifying for democracy. The people obviously know best. The people wanted Zach Pachulia to Make Basketball Great Again. Thank goodness, at least in Government, the United States hasn’t limited the people’s right to decide whom they want to represent their values.
Trey’s head is hot and his feet hurt. His toes are wet and mushed together in his shoe, stinging where the blister has ripped loose on his left big toe. He’s afraid of changing out of his socks, soaked with three hours of sweat, because if he removes them he might rip away the puffy shell of blistered skin that’s delicately hanging on, the last line of defense protecting the raw skin beneath. Trey bounces the tennis ball three times. He catches it and holds it against his racket for a moment before he serves. He’s one point away from winning the Boys 18 and Under division at the Southern Open. He wants it to be over.
He considers going for a big serve and ending the match with an ace. Nagging voices inside his head persuade him to reconsider. Coach: Why go for the lowest percentage serve on the biggest point of your life? Mom: This is what we’ve been talking about. You can’t lose your focus on big points. Dad: What was going on inside your head? Mom: At least you learned something from your mistake. Dad: He never seems to learn. Coach: Eliminate thinking errors. Mom: Why do you complicate things, Trey? Coach: Keep your thoughts simple.
Standing just outside the fence with his arms folded across his chest, his coach hides his facial expressions in the shadow cast by the large straw hat atop his head. Trey’s parents are seated on a Carnival Cruise beach towel draped over a row of the aluminum bleachers on the side of the court. Trey didn’t go on that cruise. He was training for this tournament, for this moment, a moment that has left him confounded.
It’s his right quadriceps, which has been twitching, ready to seize up on him with a painful cramp, that convinces him to hit a safe, energy efficient spin serve to his opponent’s backhand. Just get the point started.
His opponent blocks the return back to Trey’s side of the court. Trey jerks his racket back and scrambles into position. His swing is no longer fluid but is now a disjointed abbreviation of the looping stroke he and his coach have been working on for the past four months in their weekly lessons. At least he strikes the ball cleanly, sending it safely across the net to the middle of the court.
Every point has been like this for the last thirty minutes. Neither player aggressive. Both terrified of making a mistake because an error would mean precious energy had been wasted, and after three hours of slugging balls back and forth, neither of them has energy to spare. Trey is aware of the obvious paradox. Because he and his opponent are playing safe, the points have become much longer and more grueling, but both still refuse to take a chance with an aggressive shot. It has become more of a demonstration of will power than skill. Trey hopes his opponent will take a rip at the ball and put an end to this torture. In the meantime, they continue lofting heavy topspin forehands, each shot comfortably clearing the net by several feet.
Trey has never made it this far in the tournament. The finals. His parents and coaches have long insisted that his game is there, telling him that he should be making it to the finals and winning tournaments. He’s not sure if this assertion is meant to be an encouragement of his abilities or an indictment on his failures. His mom has told him it’s just a mental thing. You have to want it. He doesn’t want it. He just doesn’t want to lose. He doesn’t want to come close, tease his parents with success only to fall short yet again. All the money they’ve spent. Lessons, clinics, hotels, rackets, strings, shoes…
All that he wants, all that he deep down really wants, is for this third set tiebreaker to be over so he can retreat to the bench and hide his burning face in the little rectangle of shade from the lamp head hanging high over the court. But right now he’s fighting harder than he’s ever fought for something he doesn’t want. He doesn’t want to lose.
In the humidity the ball has become shaggy and heavy, its black print nearly worn off. He watches it spinning at him through the air, a giant, yellow furball. He considers the color and texture of this ball so carefully that it becomes a blur. His next shot shanks off the frame of his racket, sending a painful jolt through his tired arm. He hears his mom gasp in disgust, or at least he senses it.
The ball zig-zags in the air like a knuckleball. It’s headed beyond the baseline. The score will be even again. All this effort will have been wasted and instead of walking away the champion, now he’ll have to win two more points in a row to win. He’s not sure if he wants to go through this again.
Somehow—maybe a gust of wind—the ball changes trajectory and falls straight down, clipping the baseline. Trey can tell his opponent wants to call the ball out, but the shot is too slow. All six people standing outside the court have a clear view of the line and know the ball landed in. It’s not a good opportunity to cheat. Still, Trey expects his opponent’s index finger to shoot up in the air, indicating a call of out. A shot that ugly should have gone out. As his opponent stumbles backward to make a last second recovery, his left hand rises into the air ambiguously. Instead of extending his finger, he launches a high, defensive forehand back towards Trey.
In a way, Trey actually regrets that his opponent had not called the ball out. It would have released all the tension, relieved all the pressure. Sure, he would have dropped his racket on the ground, clasped the top of his skull in disbelief, and charged the net yelling, “No way! That was so in.” Because there are no line judges on the court, there wouldn’t be anything he could do to reverse the call, and Trey would look back to the sidelines at his parents who would share in his anger, his dad probably muttering something about what a big cheater the other boy was. But it would have been a relief, this outcome. A win-win. If he had ended up losing, he’d have an excuse, an asterisk next to his opponent’s victory. Trey would have the moral high ground. His opponent only won because he had cheated, he’d tell people. And he would believe it and sleep easier at night knowing this. But the bastard called it in. The point continues.
Trey is even more careful now, his shots landing shorter in the court while his opponent has gone on the attack. He senses his opponent is frustrated, anxious. Trey would be too if he were him. The point should have been over after that horrible mishit. Perhaps pressure has been relieved on the other side of the court. Now, if his opponent should lose the match, he could claim that Trey had only won because he’d been lucky. That’s one thing Trey has learned. Rarely are there both winners and losers in tennis. Mostly, it seems, there are those who won and those who claim they should have won. Defeat is difficult to accept and those who do toil at the bottom of the rankings until they’re so discouraged by their lack of achievement they eventually give up.
Out of the corner of his eye, Trey sees his opponent’s parents shaking their heads, gesturing with their hands, and mouthing over and over, “That was out.” They actually want to believe that Trey’s ball had been out. They had wanted their son to cheat, and they would have accepted it. Wow.
Trey is now sprinting from corner to corner, chasing down balls, trying to hit at least one defensive shot good enough so that the attack stops. He finally hits his first decent shot in the last thirty minutes, a sharp crosscourt forehand that sends his opponent scurrying towards the sideline. The shot has taken just about everything out of Trey. If his opponent hits it back, he’s done.
His opponent does get it back, a slow, loopy shot down the line to Trey’s backhand, just enough within reach that Trey has to waddle over to it. This is it. He attempts an ill-advised, poorly executed drop shot that lands barely over the net but bounces too high, giving his opponent ample time to retrieve it. His opponent races to the net and drives a backhand into the opposite corner. Trey doesn’t make a move towards it. The ball lands squarely on the sideline. In. Trey puts up his left finger and says, “out.” It’s over. He’s won.
The United States economy has lost millions of jobs. Parking lot attendants have been replaced by automated systems. Movie theater ticket agents have been replaced by ticketing machines, grocery store cashiers replaced by self-service checkout, tens of thousands of packing jobs replaced by Amazon’s sleek automated system, airplane navigators replaced by computers, songwriters replaced by technology guided by algorithms to create music we will like. Soon, we may even see taxi drivers replaced by self-driving cars. Illegal immigrants, who are now too expensive for farmers to employ, are being replaced by picking machines. More importantly, despite manufacturing being one of the largest sectors of our economy, we’ve seen manufacturing jobs decline steadily since the 1980s thanks to robotics. There is one solution to save American jobs.
We must deport the robots. It may not be easy to find them all. Some are so inconspicuous we forget they’re there. In the name of efficiency and lower prices for all, we’ve seen our jobs sucked dry by these machines. Many of these machines are foreign born, assembled in places like China or the Philippines. Even if they were built here, they may have been assembled by robots assembled in other countries.
These robots do not know national pride. They know no religion. They do not salute our flag. It’s possible ISIS might use them to inflict terror on us. They are often rude, failing to respond to our simplest requests. They often come between personal relationships. Just the other day my wife asked me for directions. While I stopped to think about all the possible routes, she blew me off and said, “Never mind, I’ll just ask Siri.” Furthermore, these robots aren’t necessarily the best of the best. Some of them may carry infectious viruses.
Our Founding Fathers did not intend for robots to take our jobs or put a man on the moon. It’s time to go back to what made America great. It is time to save our jobs and send these advanced machines to the third world countries where they were built. Let’s see how well they do with cutting edge technology while we restore greatness to our country.
Growing up in a small town in Oklahoma, my friend Marc and I used to entertain ourselves by making up stories on the fly and recording them on a tape cassette recorder. We were seven or eight years old. On our less inspired but rambunctious days, the stories were simple and action packed, usually involving some indescribable yet inherently hideous and menacing beast chasing us through the neighborhood or our homes until we finally got away or killed it. We would dive to the floor, crash into the walls, or hurdle over the sofa to simulate our evasive maneuvers. Then, panting from our efforts, we’d whisper into the tape recorder how frightened we were as we pretended to hide. On other days we would attempt more intricate mystery stories—Scooby Doo type adventures—that routinely failed to reach a resolution before one of us was called home to dinner. When we’d meet up again, we never picked up where we left off because listening to the previous day’s recording always revealed some fatal flaw with our plotline. Before Marc moved away sometime around my third-grade year, we had compiled several cassette tapes worth of unfinished stories.
But the storytelling bug had bitten. For school, we had to write a story. Mine was called The Dog and the Bird. I don’t remember what it was about. It probably featured a dog and a bird working together to achieve some noble outcome. Whatever it was about, I just know I put a whole lot of effort into it and was really proud of the finished product. My teacher gave me some encouraging feedback which immediately inflated my writing aspirations. I asked her about getting it published.
She said, “Ok. But you’re going to have to type it up really nice.”
So I did. I typed it up, checking it multiple times for errors and letting my parents proofread it. I told them I had to get it ready for publication. The Dog and the Bird would be my breakthrough as an author. The story had to be flawless. I took it back to my teacher.
She read through it again and agreed that it was much better typed out. “But you’re going to need to bind it,” she said. “So people can read it like a book.”
That night I three-hole punched it and put the story in a report folder with a clear plastic cover. Now someone could read it like they were flipping the pages of a book. I gave it to my teacher.
Again she was impressed. “Now, you just need some cover art. Every book has a cover.”
I was stumped. I was an author, not an artist. I was also growing impatient. I wanted to be done with it. I knew drawing with crayons or pencils would look amateurish, so using the computer technology available before the days of clip art and the internet, I drew a rudimentary picture of a four-legged animal that might have resembled a dog, at least to the type of person gifted at locating constellations and finding images of animals in clouds. Next to my dog, I drew a faceless, two-stroke picture of a bird—essentially a ‘V’ with curved tips. I centered the title in big bold letters above the drawing and printed it out on my dot matrix printer which made the big letters and the drawing of the dog look hideously pixelated. It didn’t matter. I had completed a book. My book. The next day I presented it to my teacher who promised that she’d share it with all her future classes. I promised I’d work more on the artwork. I never did. But I was satisfied. I was as published as I needed to be. The project had taken all my energy for two weeks, and I needed a rest.
I owe so much to that teacher who recognized and cultivated that creative spark in me. She didn’t give me a cold dose of reality by informing me of the cruel world of publishing, or by telling me to expect a pile of rejections, or that being a published author is extremely difficult. This would have been the truth, of course, but at that age, if faced with these mountains of obstacles, I would have given up before even starting.
I think we forget sometimes that one of the primary goals of teaching is showing someone how to set a goal and complete a task. Everybody wants to achieve something. Guiding a student to find their true bliss is part of the process.
We should never forget this function of teaching. Performing well on a standardized test is an admirable goal for a school but falls way short of being inspirational for the student. If we simply grade teachers by how well they show someone where to place a comma or how to turn the remainder of a long division problem into a decimal, then we are truly selling ourselves short.
Because of my teacher, I experienced a wonderful sense of accomplishment. It was my first completed story. I’ve continued to write stories. Some have been published but most of them shared only amongst a small group of friends and fellow writers. I would have forgotten about The Dog and the Bird except that recently I was sifting through an old box of schoolwork and came across the cover art that had been hidden beneath the rubble of my life like a lost puzzle piece. I hadn’t thought of it in years. I honestly don’t recall which teacher was responsible for encouraging me to continue on the story; otherwise, I would gladly give her credit here. Until now, I didn’t recognize the value of that lesson in publishing.
The most profound moments in life are often not recognized until the moment is long gone. Insignificant and untethered memories reappear and unexpectedly reveal their importance upon distant reflection. But this, I’d argue, is where the true substance of living resides. In the end, when we sum up our histories, our purpose or meaning in life will not be perfectly articulated like a corporate mission statement but will instead be buried deep beneath the subtext of a thousand little moments and scattered memories.
As a writer I often gaze out the window while searching for something else for my characters to do besides gaze out the window. There must be something else to look at and some other way to describe seeing. Here are 31 useful words for looking or seeing. Some of these should be used more sparingly than others, and some should be used only in very specific contexts.
On my ninth birthday, I got a new bike. A Blue Mongoose. I went from having the worst, shabbiest bike in the neighborhood to having the best. I rode this bike everywhere, fearless of obstacles. I jumped curbs, zipped in and out of dry creek beds, and would sometimes just do laps around the neighborhood as fast as I could fly.
One hot summer day I rode past my friend Mark Carter’s house. With him was Brad Sinclair, my nemesis in all things sports related. Someone, probably Mark, proposed a bike race. It was a spontaneous thing, and the energy of the proposal would have been killed if we had delayed the race to allow Brad to go home and get his bike. So Brad agreed to race in Mark’s sister’s bike, a pink ride with white tires and a rainbow of ribbons on the handles.
It was going to be a short race, about 200 yards from Mark’s house to the end of the street. I was ready to put my Blue Mongoose to the test. We lined up at the imaginary starting line. Mark was to announce “GO!” which I knew would give him a slight advantage despite his assurances that he would delay his own start out of fairness. It didn’t really matter to me. I was going to win.
At Mark’s command, I began pumping my legs, but my start was slow. After twenty yards I was more than a full bike length behind both Mark and Brad. I pedaled harder, squeezed tighter, demanding more out of my Blue Mongoose. After fifty yards, I was even further behind. I couldn’t rationalize how this was happening. Something was clearly wrong with my bike. They had to know this. I gently placed my foot on the tire creating a loud, grating noise from the friction of my rubber sole rubbing against the treads.
“Wha—!” I gasped to draw attention to my clearly malfunctioning bike, which was causing me to lose the race.
Mark and Brad didn’t look back and raced on, fifty yards to go. I pressed harder on the tire to make the grinding noise louder. Suddenly, I was catapulted into the air, performing a front somersault and landing on my back with a giant thud, my bike pinning me to the pavement. It never dawned on me that this might happen. I lay there dazed as Mark and Brad came pedaling back, perhaps after finishing the race.
“Are you okay?” they asked.
“My bike messed up,” I said.