Reflections: Myself as a Writer (Portfolio Intro)

I never used to be any good at writing. English was easily my most difficult subject up until about tenth grade, and the concept of trying to explain my thoughts on paper rather than through spoken word kind of baffled me. When I did attempt to write, I liked to use big words, fancy sentences, and write things the way they would be spoken. I was such a better speaker than a writer, so I never really tried to hone my skills as a writer.  That is, until the World Cup (see final paper).

Yep, seems like that summer was the ultimate coming-of-age moment in my life, considering it not only changed my hobbies and career path but also my writing style. Journalism writing is an entirely different breed of horse to tame than, let’s say, creative righting, since one has to stay inside the limits of fact and truth and must appeal to a broad audience. As I dove more into the world of blogging and mass media, I found myself constrained by this style. You only get 160 characters. 5 paragraphs. I don’t like being told how much I can or can’t write; when I want to write, I just want to write. Even this semester, taking a media writing class, I was not pleased to be limited to one sentence leads and four-line max paragraphs. So why do I stick with it?

The meat and bones writing that you see on a lot of news stories is what most people start off with in the journalism field. Report, interview, tell it how it is and nothing more, and add a few quotes in for flavor. That’s not the kind of journalism I want to do. If you read my nine-page monstrosity of a final paper, you will see what kind of writing I want to do. I want to add that creative, wordy flair I have always leaned on while writing. I want to tell a full, vivid story while remaining inside the lines of truth and fact (This is a link to David Hershey, my favorite sports writer on ESPN. Not everyone will understand his soccer humor, but it’s that kind of creative journalistic writing I want to emulate). I can’t change what happens out on the pitch, but I want to make it sound as magical and captivating to the average fan as it was for me. That’s the goal.

I’ve picked a career field where my writing will only continue, even if it starts as a boring old reporter covering a cat stuck in a tree outside of a retirement home. But one day, I hope to advance my journalism career to the point where I can write freely, creatively, and most importantly, share the game I love with everyone. 

The South African Journey (Final Paper)

An old adage says love is spontaneous, that it can happen anywhere and at any time. For me, my first love was just as abrupt and sudden as the wise adages foretold, hitting me unexpectedly early one summer morning in 2010. Since Landon Donovan’s stoppage time goal in the USA’s FIFA World Cup match against Algeria, I have loved the game of soccer, the beautiful game, with a fervent passion. All it took was one miraculous moment in South Africa.

I was raised in a household that was crazy about baseball. My grandparents were fans of the California Angels from their inaugural season in 1961, and my family has never looked back. My dad, cut from the same cloth as my grandparents, took me to Angels games all the time and all but forced me to attach myself to his favorite pastime. Much of my early years were spent at the ballpark, either enjoying the sights and sounds of a Major League stadium or shagging fly balls myself in a Little League game. However, despite my best attempts, I could not fall in love with the game like my father had. Something about it was too slow, too predictable, and too dull for my tastes, and I decided to quit playing and following baseball closely just before high school began. I took up tennis to fulfill my high school sports requirement and keep me active, but I was still missing a sport to fall in love with in the same way my dad fell for baseball.

 For the next few years I found myself sampling a variety of teams in Los Angeles, trying everything from Lakers games at the Staples Center to a trip down to San Diego to see the Chargers. My only success came sophomore year when I went to my first Galaxy game, standing with the Riot Squad and having a great time. Despite enjoying the game, I still had a very American attitude towards the sport. Sure, getting to yell vulgar phrases at opposing teams and singing songs is fun, but in my mind soccer itself was still boring and belonged to Europe and Latin America. At this rate, I was destined to be a nomad fan, condemned to forever wander looking for my sport to love. Heck, maybe sports just weren’t my thing! However, seeing as my male peers already had found their niche sport to adore, I felt determined to continue my quest.

As I approached the end of my junior year, I still had no answers. I had been to three or four more Galaxy games and started to follow soccer a little more closely, but I wasn’t quite convinced it was for me. School began to die down, and all my friends could talk about was the upcoming World Cup in South Africa. Considering I didn’t know much about the international game except that David Beckham played for England and the United States team was awful (I remembered the last time the World Cup came around the US embarrassingly exited quickly after three straight losses), I wasn’t quite as excited as some of my peers were. After weeks of constant pestering, I agreed to watch the first match of the tournament, a midday contest between the host country South Africa and Mexico (a few of my buddies were big Mexico supporters). Early in the afternoon, twenty or so of us piled into my European History teacher’s classroom, where an old projector was hooked up to a computer that was streaming the match.

The opening match of the 2010 FIFA World Cup was underway. A few of my friends in the room, donning their black and gold Mexico jerseys with pride, were on they edge of their seats, all but praying for El Tri to put one in the back of the net. I was kinda confused at first. Isn’t this just another sporting event? Why are these people so intensely fixed to the screen, almost having small heart attacks every time the ball gets remotely close to the goal? The first half saw scoring chances for both teams wasted, and the first 45 minutes ended 0-0. I could feel the tension in the dusty, old classroom, my peers too nervous to speak. This is something special, I thought. I can’t even imagine how painful it must be for the 85,000 South African fans actually at the match right now.

The soft, nervous conversations around the classroom subsided as South Africa kicked off and started the second half. Back and forth the teams fought for possession, trying to press up the pitch and create a chance. Ten minutes into the second half, South Africa’s Siphiwe Tshabalala broke free on the left side and unleashed a rocket into the upper corner of the goal. My heart stopped. Two scenes developed in front of me: my peers in the small classroom on the verge of tears contrasted the images of celebrations and pure joy from the South Africans on the screen. Right then, it all clicked. I understood why soccer was so important to billions of people across the globe. When that ball sailed past the keeper into the net, the eleven players on the field weren’t celebrating by themselves; a country of over 50 million was cheering along with them. As the constant images of celebration in both the stadium and in the streets of Johannesburg continued to stream from the projector, I could feel my goose bumps rising. This sport was more than just kicking a ball around; it was about national pride, belonging, and patriotism, something the traditional “American” sports couldn’t match. To my friends’ delight Mexico was able to pull one back, but more importantly I was now determined to follow my country, the United States of America, in both victory and defeat through this competition. After all, it was my patriotic duty.

In the late morning of Saturday, June 12^th, I tuned into ESPN for the USA’s first contest of the tournament. Even my limited knowledge told me it was going to be a tough one, considering we were playing against England, a perennial powerhouse. Heck, even I knew that. The pregame show touted England as a “pack of superstars” and predicted an easy 3-0 win for the Three Lions. I had never heard of any of the USA players, the lone exception being Landon Donovan (captain of the Galaxy). Oh great, here we go again, I thought to myself. Just when I’m starting to get interested in this sport we are going to embarrass ourselves like last time… Sure enough, in the fourth minute, Steven Gerrard put one past the US goalkeeper Tim Howard, giving England the early 1-0 lead. Yep, guess that’s what I get for trying to be a US soccer fan. My dad came into my room and gave me the classic “told you so” look, but I still kept the game on to see it out. Meh, better luck in 2014 in Brazil I guess.

Right before halftime, midfielder Clint Dempsey collected the ball for the USA, slipped past a few defenders, turned, and fired off a weak ball from outside the box. The harmless shot looked to be headed straight into the waiting arms of GK Rob Green, but hey, at least it was an actual shot on goal. However, by some sort of miraculous working, Green took his eye off the ball for one moment, and it rolled off his hand and into the net behind him. Goal to the good.

I instantly leapt up, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. “DAD! DAD! HOLY CRAP WE ACTUALLY SCORED AGAINST THEM!” Why was I shouting? I didn’t know, but I definitely didn’t care. My heart was pounding faster than it ever had before, knowing that millions of Americans around the world were feeling the same way I was. Right then, I was ready to believe in the US men’s soccer team.

Lady luck seemed to be on our side in the second half, as the US staved off wave after wave of English attack to keep the score at 1-1 and secure that valuable first point in Group C. Six days later, I was up at the crack of dawn (literally, 7 am my time) packing for my flight to Chicago later in the morning and watching the United States take on Slovenia in the second match of the group stages. Once again my patience was tested, as the feeble US backline let in two goals before halftime. I was just about to give up on the team and the sport itself yet again until Captain America (aka Landon Donovan) single-handedly took the ball up the right flank and scored from an impossible angle three minutes into the second half. Midfielder Michael Bradley then came up with a brilliant equalizer in the 82^nd minute, sending me into the same giddy state from the week before. Four minutes later, Donovan swung a free kick into the box, connecting with the head of MF Maurice Edu, who directed it into the back of the net. “GOOOOOAAAAALLL!!!! THEY DID IT!!! THEY DID IT!!!” I proudly shouted, probably waking up half of my street. Just as I was about to break down into tears of joy, the USA players on screen stopped celebrating. What? Disallowed? What the heck happened? The goal had been disallowed for an unspecified foul, one that dozens of replays and analysis could not find. If anything, it was a foul on Slovenia. Confusion turned to anger, and when Malian referee Koman Coulibaly blew the final whistle to bring the match to an end, I was utterly inconsolable. Shaking uncontrollably, I picked up the phone and called my best friend.

“WHAT THE %$&* MAN? DID YOU SEE THAT?”

“Ugh…. what???” he replied, obviously still asleep. “Calm down bro, what are you talking about?”

“THE GAME! The US soccer game! We totally just got screwed over by this referee! Were you not watching???”

“Dude, I’ll look at it later,” he responded groggily. “But I didn’t even know you cared about soccer…” He hung up on me and went back to sleep.

Wait a second, he was kind of right. Since when have I cared this much about soccer? Since when have I let this sport dictate my emotions to this extent? Maybe, just maybe, I had finally found my love. Even though I spent the week leading up to the next match in Chicago visiting colleges, I was constantly watching replays and commentary about that missed call. It almost became an obsession, researching the rules to the game and confidently justifying that we, I mean the team, had been cheated out of the win and the full three points. The best part about this result was seeing how many new fans the US had. Many people I knew who before would never watch a soccer match were tuned in. It wasn’t about the game anymore; it was about national pride, patriotism, and American spirit. No one cheats the United States of America and gets away with it. United we stand. Just the thought of it was making me proud to call myself an American. It was safe to say that the US Men’s Soccer Team finally had an entire country behind them.

Same story, different day: I found myself once again glued to the television in the wee hours of the morning on June 23^rd, 2010. Even though my living room was filled with the familiar sounds of vuvuzelas and commentary, I couldn’t hear anything except my feet pacing back forth on the hardwood floor and my heart pounding with nervous excitement. The USA needed a win against Algeria in their final match of Group C to move onto the knockout round. On paper, it seemed easy enough. Right from the kickoff, however, Algeria pushed forward and struck the crossbar, all but causing me a nervous breakdown. It was going to be a long, long morning.

The clock kept ticking, with the score still at 0-0. Another draw wasn’t good enough; we had to win. As time went on, the US started to attack with much more urgency. Dempsey fired a rocket off the post, and skied the rebound. Herc Gomez tried to chip the keeper, who parried the shot over the crossbar. Dempsey headed a cross into the net, but the shot was ruled offside by a fractional margin.  Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

Time was getting shorter. I was locked in, experiencing agony and angst I had never felt before. I was sick to my stomach. Is this where the road ends? It can’t end like this. I FINALLY found my sport, and my country is going to let me down. I was pulling my hair out, just praying for a miracle. And I knew I wasn’t alone. 300 million were hoping for the same thing, praying that eleven men over 10,000 miles away would conjure up a miracle. I just had to keep the faith…

As the clock ticked past the 90^th minute and into stoppage time, I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. I closed my eyes, physically and emotionally distraught.

“Cross, and Dempsey is denied again!!!”…

It’s over. The sport I love, the country I love, has fallen short yet again. Once again, no one in America is going to take soccer seriously. Why should I have expected anything more than an early exit? We were defeated.

In the blink of an eye, in one moment of glory, the writhing agony turned into pure ecstasy.

“AND DONOVAN HAS SCORED!!!! OH CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!?!?! GOAL GOAL USA! CERTAINLY THROUGH!!!! OH IT’S INCREDIBLE!!!! YOU COULD NOT WRITE A SCRIPT LIKE THIS!!!!” – Ian Darke, ESPN.

Before I even realized it, I was jumping up and down like a little schoolboy and sprinting around my house. I could hear my country reveling in their savior, the greatest America soccer player to ever play. The South African journey would continue. You really couldn’t write a script like it: mere seconds from elimination, one goal changing an entire country from soccer skeptics into believers. The feeling was incredible.

I, like many other Americans, savored the victory well into the night. The next day at work, I couldn’t focus. I re-watched Donovan’s goal at least fifty times, getting chills each time I heard Darke’s legendary call. My heart and mind couldn’t deal with RFI’s, approving construction drawings, and calling subcontractors; all they wanted to do was think about the World Cup. After hours of very little production, I opened up a word document and wrote. I wrote about my story, the rollercoaster of emotion I had ridden on over the past few weeks. I wrote about the beauty of the game: the pinpoint accurate passes, the tactical runs off the ball, and the graceful skill it took to nutmeg a defender and curl a shot into the back of the net. I wrote about the goal. I wrote about America and its sudden falling in love with the sport of soccer. Before I knew it, I had written a fantastic article, almost a coming-of-age story in itself. At that moment, I realized I could do this for a living. I could write about this fantastic sport that I now love. At that moment, I decided to become a journalist. Sure journalists don’t make the most money and work tough hours, but if I could experience just a fraction of that same feeling I had when Donovan slotted that goal home and make a career writing about it, it was worth it. It was what I loved.

A few days later, the US lost in the Round of 16 to Ghana in a dramatic overtime match. Naturally, I was heartbroken, but after a few days of depression I went right back to watching the rest of the tournament. I studied the superstars, learned about different styles of play, saw some amazing goals (Giovanni van Bronckhorst against Uruguay), and witnessed some fantastic finishes (Ghana vs. Uruguay penalty kicks after a wild ending). In the end, despite seeing my team crash and burn, I tuned into the World Cup Final and watched Spain edge out Holland 1-0 in a very ugly, physical match. But it didn’t stop there. I followed my favorite players from the tournament (Wesley Snejder, Mesut Ozil, and Robin van Persie) to their club teams (Inter Milan, Real Madrid, and Arsenal respectively) and became a fan, all while keeping a special allegiance to my local team, the Galaxy. I have come to appreciate the game, the purest form of a team sport. The skill it takes to curl an accurate ball into the box or bend a free kick over a wall of defenders is difficult to master and incredible to watch. I’ve learned that one beautiful team goal in the midst of tension can be “equal to the combined forces of a hundred touchdowns, fifty homeruns, and a thousand slam dunks” (-Martin Sheen). Since that summer, I have watched a soccer match of some sort almost every week, from the MLS to Italy’s Serie A to the Women’s World Cup (the last one is a whole different story…). I am now more determined than ever to become a soccer journalist after graduation, all thanks to one glorious moment on a field of grass in Pretoria, South Africa.

After five weeks of early morning matches, late night highlight reels, and an endless stream of research, I saw my friendly acquaintance with the sport of soccer blossom into a beautiful relationship. My love for soccer, albeit fairly new, has carved my life a new road, one filled with weekly matches, endless commentary, and a new career path. One can fall in love at any time, in any situation; all it takes it one moment. All it took for me was one instant in Pretoria, when Landon Donovan stoppage time goal lifted the United States to victory over Algeria in the FIFA World Cup and shocked the world. Since then it’s been one helluva ride, my love and I, together at last.

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P.S. Before each US match, ESPN released 1-2 minute intros, sizzles for the upcoming game. Each of them basically sum up the emotions of the match before perfectly, and if you want a visual representation of this emotional journey here are the links.

US vs. England: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsaeJOGq-44

US vs. Slovenia: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-xncLe0Kg0

US vs. Algeria: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2PZ5OWE8Rw

US vs. Ghana: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bg56jPBtwgI

The Power of One

Honestly, I’m not much of a reader. I’ll read a novel for a class, but you normally couldn’t pay me to read a work of any literary value on my own. However, after reading The Power of One in my senior year lit class, I finally found a book that I will read time and time again on my own.

The Power of One, a novel by Bryce Courtney, has impacted my life significantly since reading it just about two years ago. The novel depicts the story of Peekay, a small, white South African child who was bullied quite a bit in elementary school. When he moves in with his mother, he meets a man named Hoppie who trains him to be a welterweight boxer. Against all odds, Peekay faces adversity and racism on the way to achieving his goal, becoming the welterweight champion of the world.

I could instantly relate to this novel. Until I got to high school, I was kinda like Peekay: an outcast, just trying to get through my day-to-day life. I wouldn’t say I was necessarily bullied like Peekay was, but I could definitely understand his struggles.  Also, I was really influenced by the idea of welterweight fighting. I’m no boxer, but I was able to gather that Peekay wasn’t exactly well built. Seeing my stature (pretty damn lanky), I found solace in a story that has a small guy succeeding. One of the greatest quotes in the book comes from Hoppie, when he is trying to teach Peekay how to fight larger opponents: “First with the head, then with the heart, you’ll be ahead from the start.” That quote means so much to me. Everything I do starts from within, with my mind and my passion. I know I can’t necessarily outmuscle anyone, so everything I do has to be meticulously planned out and with my whole heart. Sans the fighting, I think Peekay and I are really alike.

Since reading this novel, I have really thought differently about my life. I have come to terms about my lifestyle, and have started to embrace it. Before, I was always known as a pretty nervous, shy kid. But since I realized that you don’t need stature or bullying abilities to be confident, I have really put my best foot forward into forming my current personality. My senior year of high school and this year here at TCU have been completely different since coming out of that confidence “shell”, and I partly attribute this new me to seeing myself in Peekay.

The Power of One is by far the most influential novel I have ever read, and I have reread it a few times since. I know it’s just a book, but honestly this book helped me immensely in my growth and I’m so glad I read it. And its only just beginning. My power of one is just starting to grow.

The Road

What’s the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about California? Maybe for some it’s the beautiful beaches, gorgeous weather, or even Disneyland. But the majority of us from California think of one thing: traffic. From the 405 to the 5 to the 110, the Southern California freeways are perpetually crowded, filled with traffic jams and crazy drivers for the majority of the day. When I started my drivers training, my dad told me, “If you want to get angry at something, just drive into downtown LA and back. You’ll be angry pretty quick.” Needless to say, when I finally did get my license I was in no rush to join in on the fun that is the California “Parking Lot”.

For the first year or so of driving, I took surface streets to everything.  If there was a way to take surface streets and back roads (well, as back road-y as SoCal could be) to my destination, I was determined to take it. If there wasn’t a way, I refused to drive. Was my idea of the freeways a little exaggerated? Probably, but nothing my friends said would change my mind. Plus, my parents were huge advocates of my boycott on the freeways; they figured it kept me out of accidents. I had no problem spending the extra ten to fifteen minutes driving that it took to not utilize the freeways.

However, my fear would soon be tested. The summer before my senior year of high school I found myself a job in my dad’s company, working as an office drone. Most days I just did the basics: copying, editing, emailing, and calling clients. One day, however, my supervisor bestowed upon me the task of delivering a set of drawings to the project supervisor at one of the jobsites in Beverley Hills. I worked in their office in Orange County, so the drive was going to be about 35 miles. After looking it up on Google Maps, however, I realized the freeways were my only option. The website estimated the surface street travel time to be about an hour longer than the freeways, not to mention it had me going through the rather sketchy neighborhoods of Inglewood and Watts. After nervously pondering my options, I deduced that I would have to drive on those roads I had feared for so long.

My heart was racing as I pulled the car into the onramp. Checking all my mirrors multiple times I merged myself into the first lane. Ok, I thought, I can do this. About a mile down the road I finally realized that all the cars were passing me with ease. I then realized I had been going 45 mph on the freeway, too scared to speed up. After my shock wore off, I was able to speed up and coast. My arms, rigid and locked into position, began to loosen up. Before I knew it, I reached my exit and had conquered the Los Angeles freeway.

It took me many more occasions to feel comfortable driving on the highway, but I was able to master it before I left for college. Every time I get on the road, I still find myself humbled by the busy, fearsome monstrosity that is the Southern California freeways.