[Ed. note: I can't believe I'm about to show this. I'm must be mad-tits-crazy INSANE!]
It's been more than four years since I wrote and submitted my first-ever journalism assignment. It was March 2007 and I was 18, still a young what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life college student. I thought I had it all figured out the semester before. I was hooked on science and looking to be the next top-knotch CSI investigator, rivaling Gil Grissom. Only my plan didn't work out as hoped.
The 16-hours of semester-long science classes, spanning from 8 a.m.-5 p.m. everyday, took their toll; I knew that I wasn't cut out for chemical formulas, biology mumbo jumbo and the headache of all the labs. [Note: For a while there I thought I could get away with sleeping in my 8 a.m. chemistry class MWF, but my teacher was all against that. Every time a student tried to fall asleep, he'd slap his hand on a desk and yell "HELLOOOOOOOO! CAN YOU HEAR ME? AM I BORING YOU???" in his thick African accent. It was brutal, man.]
Fuck that. I left that faster than a crop-dusted beer fart.
So I spent the Christmas break trying to figure out what I enjoyed. I knew I always had writing in my blood, I had just never actually considered it as a career. As long as I remembered as a young Keyser, I loved to read the morning paper, specifically heading straight for the sports section––the most important section of all, I thought at the time. Psh, who needed front page news. Plus the semester before, as I was wasting away in the science building, feeling my soul slowly being eaten away by test tubes and beakers and other nonsense, I'd crossed the newsroom of the school's newspaper, the News-Register, quite often and always wondered, "What if?"
That next semester I took the plunge and signed up for my first journalism class and gave writing its well-deserved chance. Those first few weeks of class I nearly shit myself, and then once more when my professor, the great Bill Lodge who turned out to be my biggest and greatest mentor, handed me my first assignment: cover a spring symposium.
Wait! You want me to go sit in a room full of people, cover what happened, and then TALK to those people after it's all over. You people must be crazy!
By no means growing up was I a journalism junkie. Sure I read the sports pages often, but my knowledge of journalism never stretched past that. I never sat and broke down stories like I've heard other future writers doing. I had no idea what a lede was, a nut graf*, or the importance of quoting people.
[*Funny thing about nut grafs: Coming off a semester of nothing but science classes, my first thought of a nut graf was actually grafing a guy's family jewels. True story. I quickly found out that wasn't the case.]
I covered the event, wrote my story and turned it in, feeling as accomplished as I ever had in my 18 years. I knew I was hooked. Journalism sunk her dirty rotten teeth in me and there was no letting go. As soon as fall classes opened, I registered for every journalism class I could take. Then, to my surprise, I was offered to write a few stories for the summer issue.
Bill invited me in to the newsroom, handed me two stories and gave me the rundown of how the writing process goes: talk with a few sources and piece together 500 coherent words in beautifully crafted sentences.
The thought of walking up to a total stranger for a quote petrified me.
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! You mean I have to go back out and talk to more people! What happened to my understanding that these stories just pieced themselves together?! You people really are crazy!
But to my surprise, I did it––shaky voice, hands and all––and my stories ran, both on the front page! Riding on Cloud 9, HA! The way I felt even Cloud 9 couldn't understand. Not only did I have three stories under my belt, but the smell of formaldehyde and failed science experiments had finally left my nostrils.
Now, here I am, four years later and doing this 'professionally.'**
[**I say 'professionally' because I get paid for a living to write by an actual newspaper, but I still don't feel like a professional yet; I have too much to learn.]
So, here it is, in its bad spelling, grammar, AP style and all.
[Ed. note: I'm sorry in advance.]
****
Spring Symposium Goes Political: The Politics of Gender*
[*I don't know what I was thinking here. But I assumed I should sent a title in with my story. Stupid me. Even as a headline this sucks.]
"We do this to raise discussion. Not to force beliefs on each other."
-Christan Amundsen*
[*I thought it would be a good idea to insert a quote here––later on did I figure out it's called a pull quote. For some reason, I thought all stories got one of these.]
On Wednesday March 21, 2007 North Lake held its annual Spring Symposium. Moderated by Christan Amundsen (Social Sciences-Psychology), along with seven panelists: Tiffany Anderson ( ), Paul Magee (Sociology), Amy Bacio (Government), Avis Rupert (English), Ivan Dole (Developmental Reading), and Marcos Arandia (Philosophy). The discussion topic: The Politics of Gender.*
[*This could quite possibly be the most God-awful lede written in the history of journalism. What the fuck was I thinking. The lede that ran is a helluva lot better than this (thanks, Bill).]
Before we can dive into this we must distinguish the difference between gender and sex. Gender is more of what feel inside, whether we feel male or female. Where a persons sex is physical, proving that we are either male or female. Ivan Dole gave two examples: "Women give birth to babies, men don't." "Girls are weak, boys are tough." The first being a sexual fact whereas the other could be considered as a bias gender statement. Now as the discussion grew, along did its audience. Topping somewhere close to 50-60 students. Numerous ideas arose as the panelist and students voiced their opinions. A major discussion was whether or not we as a society are ready for a female president. With Hilary Clinton stating she will run for Presidency in the upcoming 2008 election has struck controversy over the United States and over the students and faculty at North Lake. Paul Magee went on to say that "We guys are going to have to start learning how to say ma'am." Magee also threw around the phrase Madam President. Is he right? Do we as a society have to start accepting the fact that a female president will soon be inevitable? A quick show of hands proved that most of North Lake students would not vote for Hilary Clinton in the upcoming election, no matter the circumstances. Leading one student to say: "People are told not to like her. She shows no emotion. Whenever you see her on T.V. her face is a stone. At least let us see your smile Hilary." Yet doesn't her being a woman open her to more criticism? Does showing emotion make her weak? And don't we hold higher standards since she is a woman, especially if she is to win office?
[*I don't think there is one thing right with this entire paragraph. Not only is it well above the 70-word limit that most newspapers follow, but holy shit talk about editorialized. I should have just quit before I even wrote this.]
Look at society today, are we not criticizing the president now for lying to us about the war in Iraq? One student feels that Hilary could potentially make a good president. Stating that she was there while Bill was in office, and now we look at Bill as being a good president.
Couldn't she of learned a few things while Bill was in office? Or what about the possibility she was running the country while we thought Bill was the one. It wasn't just Hilary who ran the whole discussion; the topic of religion in politics arose. Should politicians' religious
views determine whether they get elected to office? Should they run office based on their religious views? Magee stood firm as he said "It doesn't matter a politicians faith as long as they can run the government! When you're about to go in for open heart surgery you aren't going to ask how often do you go to church? You're going to ask how many times you done this, and how many deaths?" One student went on to say "I feel along with many others that religion and politics do not mix. But how is it possible to take the religion out of politics? When a senator makes a vote on a bill, isn't somewhere deep down their religious views helping with that decision?"
No matter the topic, the Symposium is a great way to gather students and have them voice their opinions over events going on in the world today. Whether you are able to catch five minutes before class or stay the whole time. Stop by, stir up your beliefs, and see what your fellow students feel. As Amundsen put it "We do this to raise discussion, not to force beliefs upon each other."*
[*I think the only right thing I did in this entire article was actually end it on a decent quote. The sentences leading up to the quote are terrible, but the quote isn't awful.]
****
Monday, June 27, 2011
VOICE
There used to be a time when I'd read a Gary Smith story and fume about how great of a writer he is. About how through his 5,000-plus word narratives he could mix-and-match his words into a story that is nearly impossible to put down.
As I flipped through the pages of Sports Illustrated and reading Gary's words, I'd go off on how great he is and how much I suck rather than try and figure out what made him so great. How is it that HE is a four-time National Magazine Award winner, and little ol' me is still working my way to the top. I've grown up a bit since then, though, and these days, there isn't as much fuming as there is mesmerizing.
What strikes me about Gary Smith being as great a writer as he is is his understanding of life around him, of being able to look at a story, pick out its underlying themes and incorporate his voice, albeit very subtle, and turn it into a very powerful narrative.
And while most of his narratives have enough drama to run the course of the story, his added touch with his voice, dropping in a brief question or slipping in a clever line that makes you sit back and say, 'Whoa!', is just incredible.
The thing I'm beginning to realize with voice*––thanks largely in part to Gary Smith– –is how powerful it can be. Sure, a narrative can survive on its own and still be great, but voice gives it that little extra flair. It's like ice cream, for example, great on its own but adding some chocolate, pecans and whip cream make it that much better.
[*When I say voice I don't mean it in the sense of first person and using 'I' in a narrative. I'm with David Granger, editor-in-chief of Esquire, when he says that first person is killing journalism***.]
Being 22, though, and just getting started in this business––more so just getting started with narrative––I'm still working to develop my voice, to develop my writing style. So far I've been like a mutt, I guess you can say, taking pieces from "Rapture of the Deep" by Gary Smith, a dose of "The Things That Carried Him" by Chris Jones, a chapter from "The Rapist Says He's Sorry" by Tom Junod, "Staying the Course" by Wright Thompson, "Frank Sinatra Has A Cold" by Gay Talese, among all the other fine narrative writers to ever grace the pages with their words.
So with great hope, I imagine that one day I will join their ranks. That one day I'll be able to write like this:
"When it's all done, you'll have to decide which side of the water's surface to see the myth through, and who got the moral of the story right. Those who see the half-naked woman inside the hammerhead shark and say, "Of course, because that's where she lives now." Or those who see it and say, "Of course, she was devoured.' Remember one thing: It was Audrey who drew the picture."*
[*An excerpt from Gary Smith's "Rapture of the Deep".]
–––
***Having said that, I do believe that there are those cases where 'I' works (see "Rapture of the Deep"* when Gary writes, "But I've always felt it was best to start with the half-naked woman."), but even so those cases are so rare that it's probably best not to use it at all.
*For the record, "Rapture of the Deep" is probably my all-time favorite narrative, in case you haven't already noticed.
As I flipped through the pages of Sports Illustrated and reading Gary's words, I'd go off on how great he is and how much I suck rather than try and figure out what made him so great. How is it that HE is a four-time National Magazine Award winner, and little ol' me is still working my way to the top. I've grown up a bit since then, though, and these days, there isn't as much fuming as there is mesmerizing.
What strikes me about Gary Smith being as great a writer as he is is his understanding of life around him, of being able to look at a story, pick out its underlying themes and incorporate his voice, albeit very subtle, and turn it into a very powerful narrative.
And while most of his narratives have enough drama to run the course of the story, his added touch with his voice, dropping in a brief question or slipping in a clever line that makes you sit back and say, 'Whoa!', is just incredible.
The thing I'm beginning to realize with voice*––thanks largely in part to Gary Smith– –is how powerful it can be. Sure, a narrative can survive on its own and still be great, but voice gives it that little extra flair. It's like ice cream, for example, great on its own but adding some chocolate, pecans and whip cream make it that much better.
[*When I say voice I don't mean it in the sense of first person and using 'I' in a narrative. I'm with David Granger, editor-in-chief of Esquire, when he says that first person is killing journalism***.]
Being 22, though, and just getting started in this business––more so just getting started with narrative––I'm still working to develop my voice, to develop my writing style. So far I've been like a mutt, I guess you can say, taking pieces from "Rapture of the Deep" by Gary Smith, a dose of "The Things That Carried Him" by Chris Jones, a chapter from "The Rapist Says He's Sorry" by Tom Junod, "Staying the Course" by Wright Thompson, "Frank Sinatra Has A Cold" by Gay Talese, among all the other fine narrative writers to ever grace the pages with their words.
So with great hope, I imagine that one day I will join their ranks. That one day I'll be able to write like this:
"When it's all done, you'll have to decide which side of the water's surface to see the myth through, and who got the moral of the story right. Those who see the half-naked woman inside the hammerhead shark and say, "Of course, because that's where she lives now." Or those who see it and say, "Of course, she was devoured.' Remember one thing: It was Audrey who drew the picture."*
[*An excerpt from Gary Smith's "Rapture of the Deep".]
–––
***Having said that, I do believe that there are those cases where 'I' works (see "Rapture of the Deep"* when Gary writes, "But I've always felt it was best to start with the half-naked woman."), but even so those cases are so rare that it's probably best not to use it at all.
*For the record, "Rapture of the Deep" is probably my all-time favorite narrative, in case you haven't already noticed.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tigerless Field
The U.S. Open is less than 24 hours away from teeing off. You know, one of the four majors in golf, arguably the biggest golf tournament of the year.
This tournament brings out the biggest names in the game, except this year the most recognizable won't be in the field. Tiger Woods.
Most know, golf fans or not, what kind of hype Tiger brings to the world of golf––the way he can bend and shape a golf ball, pulling off miraculous shots most of us can't even fathom trying as Tiger on Xbox. And most, no matter how ignorant to the game, surely have noticed with Tiger in a total downward spiral in his career that the hype surrounding the game has died down in recent years.
Golf just isn't the same without Tiger Woods.
So when I learned of Tiger's absence at the Open this year, I couldn't helped but feel a bit let down. Even through all his mishaps and downfalls I remained a Tiger fan. Sure he slept with 17 women and blew it with his smokin' model wife, but he was still the greatest golfer to ever play the game––I was happy to look past his off-the-course shenanigans to watch him perform magic with the little white dimpled ball.
Yet that Tiger has never returned.
It started with the yips over the putter. Then neck and knee problems that forced him to withdraw from tournaments. Soon he was pulling out (probably not the best term to be used here) before the tournaments began––Jack Nikulas' Memorial, the U.S. Open. And to make matters just a bit worse, his caddy, Steve Willams, is caddying for Adam Scott this week. Both sides said that the move is temporary because Scott is in between caddys at the moment, but could it be another pawn in Tiger's collapse?
Metaphorically speaking, Tiger is in the rough, needing to carry 200 yards of water to reach the green, and all he has is a 9-iron. It's your shot, Tiger.
I can't help but think, and I hate to admit this, that my inner Tiger fan is looping into its own downward spiral. The lingering thought of will Tiger return to the greatness he once achieved––even half the player he once was?––lingers in my mind. The one, the dominating force on tour that fellow golfers knew to be aware of as he roared up the leaderboard, so carefully planning his prowl to snatch the leader of the pack by the throat with viscous swings and deadly clutch putts.
And so this weekend, with the entire golf community tuned in on Father's Day Sunday, we'll all be left to wonder: Is this the moment when Tiger would make his move? To fire a ridiculous 7-iron from 200 yards out to four feet from the pin and snatch another win from the helpless field?
Unfortunately, we'll never know.
This tournament brings out the biggest names in the game, except this year the most recognizable won't be in the field. Tiger Woods.
Most know, golf fans or not, what kind of hype Tiger brings to the world of golf––the way he can bend and shape a golf ball, pulling off miraculous shots most of us can't even fathom trying as Tiger on Xbox. And most, no matter how ignorant to the game, surely have noticed with Tiger in a total downward spiral in his career that the hype surrounding the game has died down in recent years.
Golf just isn't the same without Tiger Woods.
So when I learned of Tiger's absence at the Open this year, I couldn't helped but feel a bit let down. Even through all his mishaps and downfalls I remained a Tiger fan. Sure he slept with 17 women and blew it with his smokin' model wife, but he was still the greatest golfer to ever play the game––I was happy to look past his off-the-course shenanigans to watch him perform magic with the little white dimpled ball.
Yet that Tiger has never returned.
It started with the yips over the putter. Then neck and knee problems that forced him to withdraw from tournaments. Soon he was pulling out (probably not the best term to be used here) before the tournaments began––Jack Nikulas' Memorial, the U.S. Open. And to make matters just a bit worse, his caddy, Steve Willams, is caddying for Adam Scott this week. Both sides said that the move is temporary because Scott is in between caddys at the moment, but could it be another pawn in Tiger's collapse?
Metaphorically speaking, Tiger is in the rough, needing to carry 200 yards of water to reach the green, and all he has is a 9-iron. It's your shot, Tiger.
I can't help but think, and I hate to admit this, that my inner Tiger fan is looping into its own downward spiral. The lingering thought of will Tiger return to the greatness he once achieved––even half the player he once was?––lingers in my mind. The one, the dominating force on tour that fellow golfers knew to be aware of as he roared up the leaderboard, so carefully planning his prowl to snatch the leader of the pack by the throat with viscous swings and deadly clutch putts.
And so this weekend, with the entire golf community tuned in on Father's Day Sunday, we'll all be left to wonder: Is this the moment when Tiger would make his move? To fire a ridiculous 7-iron from 200 yards out to four feet from the pin and snatch another win from the helpless field?
Unfortunately, we'll never know.
Monday, June 13, 2011
HEATED NO MORE
For the past 1,817 days, my inner basketball fan has been shackled, thrown into a dark room, where the air is thin and the darkness suffocates the light. I've all but left him for dead.
You see, when the Dallas Mavericks fell to the one-headed beast that was the Miami Heat that day, June 20, 2006, all my love for basketball was sent into that tiny chamber in the depths of sporting hell. I felt betrayed and used, shocked and hurt to my very core. I felt as if the only agenda those Mavericks had was to get my hopes at an all-time high through the season and playoffs and then crush them in explosive fashion with a four-game losing streak to lose the NBA title.
I was sick. From that moment I tore up my Mavs Fan For Life membership, scratched Dirk off my list of heroes and vowed to never cheer for the Dallas team that had forsaken me.
For the last five years, that proved true.
The Mavs followed up the Finals loss with a first-round exit to Baron Davis and the eight-seeded Golden State Warriors the following year, despite compiling 67 wins and the NBA's No. 1 team that season. I knew I had made the right decision.
The following years continued that trend – success during the season but ended with playoff flops. I laughed at the fans who continually said that "This is our year!", wondering why they put themselves through such a heartbreak.
Then the tide started to turn this year, even I could feel it. But I refused to let myself to buy into the hype only to be crushed once more. I kept my TV tuned into the Mavs-Trail Blazers series, only to discover that Dallas had blown a 23-point lead to give Portland a win. I wrote it off as another choke job playoff loss for the Mavs and I would leave my MFFL shackled in that dark chamber for another season.
But these Mavs came back to beat Portland in six games and advance to take on the Los Angeles Lakers and Kobe Bryant. Surely Bryant and the defending champs would stop the heated Mavs in their tracks. Dallas went on to sweep L.A. out of the playoffs – a nice retirement gift for Phil Jackson.
OK, I thought. This team has my attention. But the young Thunder looked to be a good test, with the title-hungry Kevin Durant and Russell Westbrook at the helm. Yet, once again, the veteran Mavs struck the Thunder to advance to a Finals series that I couldn't even ignore.
Even so, the three-headed beast that was the Miami Heat was definitely going to be too much for Dirk Nowitzki and the Mavs. After all, the Heat's Big 3 – LeBron James, Dewayne Wade and Chris Bosh – all signed together in Miami for that one reason: to be NBA champions. If Dallas couldn't beat the Heat when it was just a one-headed beast in Wade, why was I to believe that the Mavs could slay it when it sprouted two more heads?
I vowed that it would be Miami in six games.
And with a Game 1 victory by the Heat, I was all but certain the dagger had already struck. Then Game 2 came and the Mavs mounted a 15-point fourth-quarter comeback to steal a win in Miami. A valiant effort, no doubt, but could the Mavs sustain that level of play for the remainder of the series? Surely not, I thought. And so when the Heat took Game 3, albeit a two-point victory, once again, I was sure Dallas had been torched.
Man, am I proud to say I was wrong.
For the first time I can ever remember, the Mavs looked like the team they preached. Dirk finally had his backup in Jason Terry, J.J. Barea, Jason Kidd, Tyson Chandler – hell, the whole bench. But Dirk was still Dirk, 101-degree fever or not. My locked-up MFFL made his biggest cheer in five years when Jet nailed a three in Game 5 over the outstretched reach of LeBron that gave the Mavs a 3-2 series advantage.
No way, I thought. This can't be happening.
But there were still two potential games to be played – both down in south beach. James was sure to come out of his slump and attack the Dallas defense for 40 points, 10 rebounds and 12 assists. Wade would be there to add another 30 points and Bosh might even throw in another 15. And the miraculous Mavs would crumble at the three-headed monster with its back against the wall.
Not so.
Dallas won Game 6 for a 4-2 series victory to claim the first NBA title in franchise history. Dirk, Terry, Kidd all got their ring, and Dirk was crowned Finals MVP – and rightfully so.
My inner MFFL is happy once again, too. Not only have the shackles been released and he's back in the light of day, but the pain from that 2006 series loss is gone. All is right in Mavs country again.
So, I have to ask, does anyone know how much a MFFL membership is going these days?
I seem to have lost mine.
You see, when the Dallas Mavericks fell to the one-headed beast that was the Miami Heat that day, June 20, 2006, all my love for basketball was sent into that tiny chamber in the depths of sporting hell. I felt betrayed and used, shocked and hurt to my very core. I felt as if the only agenda those Mavericks had was to get my hopes at an all-time high through the season and playoffs and then crush them in explosive fashion with a four-game losing streak to lose the NBA title.
I was sick. From that moment I tore up my Mavs Fan For Life membership, scratched Dirk off my list of heroes and vowed to never cheer for the Dallas team that had forsaken me.
For the last five years, that proved true.
The Mavs followed up the Finals loss with a first-round exit to Baron Davis and the eight-seeded Golden State Warriors the following year, despite compiling 67 wins and the NBA's No. 1 team that season. I knew I had made the right decision.
The following years continued that trend – success during the season but ended with playoff flops. I laughed at the fans who continually said that "This is our year!", wondering why they put themselves through such a heartbreak.
Then the tide started to turn this year, even I could feel it. But I refused to let myself to buy into the hype only to be crushed once more. I kept my TV tuned into the Mavs-Trail Blazers series, only to discover that Dallas had blown a 23-point lead to give Portland a win. I wrote it off as another choke job playoff loss for the Mavs and I would leave my MFFL shackled in that dark chamber for another season.
But these Mavs came back to beat Portland in six games and advance to take on the Los Angeles Lakers and Kobe Bryant. Surely Bryant and the defending champs would stop the heated Mavs in their tracks. Dallas went on to sweep L.A. out of the playoffs – a nice retirement gift for Phil Jackson.
OK, I thought. This team has my attention. But the young Thunder looked to be a good test, with the title-hungry Kevin Durant and Russell Westbrook at the helm. Yet, once again, the veteran Mavs struck the Thunder to advance to a Finals series that I couldn't even ignore.
Even so, the three-headed beast that was the Miami Heat was definitely going to be too much for Dirk Nowitzki and the Mavs. After all, the Heat's Big 3 – LeBron James, Dewayne Wade and Chris Bosh – all signed together in Miami for that one reason: to be NBA champions. If Dallas couldn't beat the Heat when it was just a one-headed beast in Wade, why was I to believe that the Mavs could slay it when it sprouted two more heads?
I vowed that it would be Miami in six games.
And with a Game 1 victory by the Heat, I was all but certain the dagger had already struck. Then Game 2 came and the Mavs mounted a 15-point fourth-quarter comeback to steal a win in Miami. A valiant effort, no doubt, but could the Mavs sustain that level of play for the remainder of the series? Surely not, I thought. And so when the Heat took Game 3, albeit a two-point victory, once again, I was sure Dallas had been torched.
Man, am I proud to say I was wrong.
For the first time I can ever remember, the Mavs looked like the team they preached. Dirk finally had his backup in Jason Terry, J.J. Barea, Jason Kidd, Tyson Chandler – hell, the whole bench. But Dirk was still Dirk, 101-degree fever or not. My locked-up MFFL made his biggest cheer in five years when Jet nailed a three in Game 5 over the outstretched reach of LeBron that gave the Mavs a 3-2 series advantage.
No way, I thought. This can't be happening.
But there were still two potential games to be played – both down in south beach. James was sure to come out of his slump and attack the Dallas defense for 40 points, 10 rebounds and 12 assists. Wade would be there to add another 30 points and Bosh might even throw in another 15. And the miraculous Mavs would crumble at the three-headed monster with its back against the wall.
Not so.
Dallas won Game 6 for a 4-2 series victory to claim the first NBA title in franchise history. Dirk, Terry, Kidd all got their ring, and Dirk was crowned Finals MVP – and rightfully so.
My inner MFFL is happy once again, too. Not only have the shackles been released and he's back in the light of day, but the pain from that 2006 series loss is gone. All is right in Mavs country again.
So, I have to ask, does anyone know how much a MFFL membership is going these days?
I seem to have lost mine.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
NERD ALERT: My Zelda Reunion
I've spent the past three days reliving an important part of my childhood.
I've fought through temples, saved towns, saw an old friend and mentor die, and went on and freed an entire land from an evil king.
For those unaware what I'm getting to, I've gone back and played Zelda: Ocarina of Time, the Nintendo 64 game that was released in 1998 and made me realize my first real hero as a kid was Link, the brave Hyrulian boy tasked with saving all of Hyrule from the evil that was Ganaondorf.
Running through Hyrule field once more; defeating the madness that rested inside Jabu-Jabu, the giant fish in Zora's Domain; and, of course, fishing at the small shop in Lake Hylia, brought back a time in my life when all seemed perfect. I was once again a 10-year-old boy saving he world.
I have even a greater appreciation for Zelda these days. The story line is killer and insanely well written with all sorts of twists and turns. In fact, I consider Shiek turning out to be Zelda bigger than Darth Vader turning out to be Luke's father – it blew my mind as a kid, man.
And not just that, but the game made you think, and challenges and fights just weren't handed over like in so many games today. What I really love – well love/hate – is that when Link dies in a temple, he doesn't respawn back to where he died. Instead, he's sent back to the temple's entrance to find that spot again. It's frustrating as hell at the time, ESPECIALLY if you're close to getting to the boss, but it let's you know that you better do your best not to die.
But I realized something in that three-day period, too. I've done quite a bit of growing up since those days. The difficulty of saving Hyrule when I was younger was so much that, despite my best efforts, I had to rely on a strategy guide to get me through the temples and challenges that Link faced.
Remember, for example, when Link had to meet Saria in the Lost Woods to get the wooden ocarina – and also later to get to the Forest Temple – there was a certain path he had to take or he would get lost and return to the village? Never in my adolescent life could I had figured that out without some form of help. And only recently did I find out that the trick is to walk down the tunnels and see if the tune got louder or vanished – if it got louder, Link was headed in the right direction. But my trusty guide gave me all the help I needed – left, right, left, right, center, left, right. I remember for a solid week I would walk to the bus stop two blocks away rehearsing those directions so I wouldn't forget.
And then, without question the most difficult part of the game, the Water Temple. Even with the strategy guide here I struggled to get through a place that's water levels changed more than Tiger Woods' current golf swing. I must admit, I still struggled through that damned place this most recent time through – although it was mainly because of my dumbassness and overthinking things.
But for the most part, this go-round – some 12 years later – was much easier than the previous two times. I don't know if it's because I've played the game twice before and my brain kept it hidden deep in its hidden depths – highly unlikely – or if in that 12-year timeframe, I've become smarter – also very unlikely.
Yet the bosses seemed easier, and the temples, what would take me two or three days to complete one as a kid, I was racing through two or three in a day. Hell, in the last battle with Ganondorf, where I died countless times as a kid, I defeated him and returned Hyrule to its former glory in less than 20 minutes.
I will now be known as Matt: Zelda's Ultimate Hero.
Now, if I could only find a way to find the Master Sword and drop it back in the Temple of Time so I can return to my 10-year-old self.
[/endnerdalert]
I've fought through temples, saved towns, saw an old friend and mentor die, and went on and freed an entire land from an evil king.
For those unaware what I'm getting to, I've gone back and played Zelda: Ocarina of Time, the Nintendo 64 game that was released in 1998 and made me realize my first real hero as a kid was Link, the brave Hyrulian boy tasked with saving all of Hyrule from the evil that was Ganaondorf.
Running through Hyrule field once more; defeating the madness that rested inside Jabu-Jabu, the giant fish in Zora's Domain; and, of course, fishing at the small shop in Lake Hylia, brought back a time in my life when all seemed perfect. I was once again a 10-year-old boy saving he world.
I have even a greater appreciation for Zelda these days. The story line is killer and insanely well written with all sorts of twists and turns. In fact, I consider Shiek turning out to be Zelda bigger than Darth Vader turning out to be Luke's father – it blew my mind as a kid, man.
And not just that, but the game made you think, and challenges and fights just weren't handed over like in so many games today. What I really love – well love/hate – is that when Link dies in a temple, he doesn't respawn back to where he died. Instead, he's sent back to the temple's entrance to find that spot again. It's frustrating as hell at the time, ESPECIALLY if you're close to getting to the boss, but it let's you know that you better do your best not to die.
But I realized something in that three-day period, too. I've done quite a bit of growing up since those days. The difficulty of saving Hyrule when I was younger was so much that, despite my best efforts, I had to rely on a strategy guide to get me through the temples and challenges that Link faced.
Remember, for example, when Link had to meet Saria in the Lost Woods to get the wooden ocarina – and also later to get to the Forest Temple – there was a certain path he had to take or he would get lost and return to the village? Never in my adolescent life could I had figured that out without some form of help. And only recently did I find out that the trick is to walk down the tunnels and see if the tune got louder or vanished – if it got louder, Link was headed in the right direction. But my trusty guide gave me all the help I needed – left, right, left, right, center, left, right. I remember for a solid week I would walk to the bus stop two blocks away rehearsing those directions so I wouldn't forget.
And then, without question the most difficult part of the game, the Water Temple. Even with the strategy guide here I struggled to get through a place that's water levels changed more than Tiger Woods' current golf swing. I must admit, I still struggled through that damned place this most recent time through – although it was mainly because of my dumbassness and overthinking things.
But for the most part, this go-round – some 12 years later – was much easier than the previous two times. I don't know if it's because I've played the game twice before and my brain kept it hidden deep in its hidden depths – highly unlikely – or if in that 12-year timeframe, I've become smarter – also very unlikely.
Yet the bosses seemed easier, and the temples, what would take me two or three days to complete one as a kid, I was racing through two or three in a day. Hell, in the last battle with Ganondorf, where I died countless times as a kid, I defeated him and returned Hyrule to its former glory in less than 20 minutes.
I will now be known as Matt: Zelda's Ultimate Hero.
Now, if I could only find a way to find the Master Sword and drop it back in the Temple of Time so I can return to my 10-year-old self.
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Friday, June 3, 2011
A Heated Dilemma
I'm in a bit of a dilemma here.
You see, five years ago when the Dallas Mavericks lost in six games after the Miami Heat completed a four-game comeback to win the NBA Finals – mainly on the lone shoulders of Dwayne Wade – I lost all willingness to be a Mavs fan. I was crushed, unsure if I would ever recover.
The dagger through my heart came the following year when the Mavs were knocked out of the first round of playoffs after finishing the season the No. 1 team in the NBA. I immediately canceled my membership as a MFFL, and from that moment on, I would no longer root for my once beloved Mavs. And the following years, I had no regrets. Dallas dominated the season but choked hard in the playoffs. I knew I wasn't missing much and I kept my heart heavily guarded and didn't root for such a choke-job team.
But now it looks as if this Mavs team is maybe turning the tide, and the inner Mavs fan inside of me that remained dormant for so many years is quietly letting me know he's still there – eagerly awaiting me to let him out of his cage. But even so, I'm not sold on this Mavs team; I refuse to let myself go through the heartbreak I suffered in the 2006 Finals, and even so in 2007.
Yet I've kept a close eye on these playoffs and watched as the Mavs rallied to beat Portland after losing two games at home and the choke job seemingly in full effect (I admit, I even wrote the Mavs off at this point. Who was to say that this year would be any different from the rest?). But they finished out the series. And then, even more impressive, followed it up with a sweep of the defending champion Los Angeles Lakers, the first time a team coached by the legendary Phil Jackson had been swept out of the playoffs – what a nice retirement gift! And the club kept it going in an utter domination of a young team that is the Oklahoma City Thunder, mounting heroic fourth-quarter comebacks that showed the Thunder that although it was a talented bunch, veterans rule the game of basketball (also see the Heat v. Chicago Bulls series as LeBron and Wade took down the MVP Derrik Rose as an example).
Then the Mavs fell in Game 1 to the Heat; I was all but sure it was over. That is, until Thursday night. I returned home from work at 11 and turned on SportsCenter to see the Mavs had ended the game on a 22-5 run, mounting a 15-point comeback, and stole a game in Miami. Yes, I won't lie, my inner Mavs fan let out a small victory roar.
And today, June 3, all is good in Mavs' nation as the Mavs head back to Dallas to open a three-game home stand that, in all reality if they swept all three games, could send the Heat back to Miami all flamed out, leaving LeBron and the Big 3 hoping that next year they live up to all the hype.
Yet there's still been too many letdowns in the past for me to let myself, or my inner Mavs fan, get excited and root for this team. But I'll anxiously watch and sit with anticipation that this is the year the Mavs start the healing process.
You see, five years ago when the Dallas Mavericks lost in six games after the Miami Heat completed a four-game comeback to win the NBA Finals – mainly on the lone shoulders of Dwayne Wade – I lost all willingness to be a Mavs fan. I was crushed, unsure if I would ever recover.
The dagger through my heart came the following year when the Mavs were knocked out of the first round of playoffs after finishing the season the No. 1 team in the NBA. I immediately canceled my membership as a MFFL, and from that moment on, I would no longer root for my once beloved Mavs. And the following years, I had no regrets. Dallas dominated the season but choked hard in the playoffs. I knew I wasn't missing much and I kept my heart heavily guarded and didn't root for such a choke-job team.
But now it looks as if this Mavs team is maybe turning the tide, and the inner Mavs fan inside of me that remained dormant for so many years is quietly letting me know he's still there – eagerly awaiting me to let him out of his cage. But even so, I'm not sold on this Mavs team; I refuse to let myself go through the heartbreak I suffered in the 2006 Finals, and even so in 2007.
Yet I've kept a close eye on these playoffs and watched as the Mavs rallied to beat Portland after losing two games at home and the choke job seemingly in full effect (I admit, I even wrote the Mavs off at this point. Who was to say that this year would be any different from the rest?). But they finished out the series. And then, even more impressive, followed it up with a sweep of the defending champion Los Angeles Lakers, the first time a team coached by the legendary Phil Jackson had been swept out of the playoffs – what a nice retirement gift! And the club kept it going in an utter domination of a young team that is the Oklahoma City Thunder, mounting heroic fourth-quarter comebacks that showed the Thunder that although it was a talented bunch, veterans rule the game of basketball (also see the Heat v. Chicago Bulls series as LeBron and Wade took down the MVP Derrik Rose as an example).
Then the Mavs fell in Game 1 to the Heat; I was all but sure it was over. That is, until Thursday night. I returned home from work at 11 and turned on SportsCenter to see the Mavs had ended the game on a 22-5 run, mounting a 15-point comeback, and stole a game in Miami. Yes, I won't lie, my inner Mavs fan let out a small victory roar.
And today, June 3, all is good in Mavs' nation as the Mavs head back to Dallas to open a three-game home stand that, in all reality if they swept all three games, could send the Heat back to Miami all flamed out, leaving LeBron and the Big 3 hoping that next year they live up to all the hype.
Yet there's still been too many letdowns in the past for me to let myself, or my inner Mavs fan, get excited and root for this team. But I'll anxiously watch and sit with anticipation that this is the year the Mavs start the healing process.
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