Baltimore Ravens Defeat Pittsburgh Steelers

Like Taking Candy From a Fat Kid,

it Takes a Little Luck

This was no small feat. It wasn't even supposed to happen. But somehow, the Ravens sneaked one from right under the nose of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Because I like to focus on the mundane and irrelevant, we begin with the pre-game troop greeting. I suppose this is customary, as much tradition as Faith Hill's ritual "I've been waitin' all day" song that my dad loves so much. Anyways, CBS was playing to the racial stereotypes. After showing a white soldier (of Italian descent?) waving his Terrible Towel, and ripping his camo open Superman-style to reveal what was probably a Hines Ward jersey, the camera cuts to the Ravens fan. An African-American. Not to be picky, or politically incorrect, but it struck me that there must have been some method to the network's editing that night- later, while showing black Dennis Dixon's family on camera, they would pump "We Are Family" through the speakers. It may not have been a conscious decision, but to me, these two things combined seemed inappropriate, although maybe I was just looking for something to criticize.

There was, of course, a larger problem with this troop greeting, which goes as follows- all of the pictured soldiers but that one woman were Steelers fans. To make a fully joking point, [because I have the utmost respect for our troops] I was thinking, "where are the standards for the United States Armed Forces?!" (In actuality, all troops are great people, regardless of their unfortunate upbringings that may have led to faulty choices for sporting allegiances.)

And, before we get to the game, we were stopped another time. This time, it was to "admire" Hines Ward's "charm," "class" and fake-white smile. I am sorry but I just do not buy it, and was glad to know that his NFL peers recently agreed with me, voting him the "dirtiest player in the NFL" in a Sports Illustrated poll. (Of course, we in Baltimore may be forced to reassess this title, after Brady Quinn's dirty, cheap chop-block on a Mr. Terrell Suggs. Thanks to this classless hit, Mr. T-Sizzle did not suit up last night.)

And the Ravens begin the game. Things are looking.... different! And unnaturally good! A 3 and out. Then Willis comes in as the Ravens drive down the field. Haloti Ngata joins the offensive line to complete the Mc-Mansion package, and on a second effort, McGahee scores his 8th TD (6th rushing) of the season. That's what I'm talking about, Willis.

But McGahee would not be the only graduate of "The U" to come up big against the Steelers. Tavares Gooden started making tackles early, and arguably had his best game of the season. Then, the Ravens let Mr. Dixon run. And run. And run. Like Forrest Gump or something! Luckily, a holding call on Mendenhall negated the 31 yd jaunt.

A number of good signs. Jarrett Johnson staring daggers at Hines Ward. Chris Carr holding on to the ball. Chris Carr and Lardarius Webb running decent kick returns. Ladarius Webb making tackles. Yes the Nicchols State grad did what no other Ravens CB or Safety seems able to do. Bring people down. But Foxworth would miss costly tackles as the night wore on. So, too, would Ray Lewis, and even Ed Reed. No one is perfect, but unfortunately it seems like a miraculous feat whenever the Ravens do make a good tackle. Credit goes to Chris Carr for avoiding the temptation of a pass interference call late in the game, but none to Mark Clayton, who made it his business to rack up costly penalties, drop balls, and take up space. (Space, that I think would be better filled, at least temporarily, by newly acquired Mr. Tyree, if not just to remind Mark Clayton he has to work for a living.)

Arguably, both teams are better than their 6-5 records would indicate. Unfortunately, both teams have suffered fourth-quarter collapses, psychological meltdowns, and countless injuries. But last night's game was the fully bruising, bang-up, battle royale it is perennially promised to be.

Another good sign was that until the Ravens' final drive of the game, the play-calling on the offensive side seemed to be much more inventive and varied than it has been in past weeks. Finally, Cam Cameron, the expert, decided to listen to the radio callers, and analysts, and teachers, and firefighters, and guys from Dundalk, and little kids, that have been calling for Le'Ron McClain's number all season long. Ozzie Newsome does not make many stupid decisions, but in addition to numerous other lapses this past off-season, his dismissal of Lorenzo Neal, the fullback, was not advisable. As a result, McClain has been stuck at halfback and hardly had a handoff all season. As last year's leading rusher, McClain was a welcome name returning to Cris Collinsworth's commentary.

Other bad signs? Time management. The Ravens last drive of the game was inexplicably horrendous. Part of this equation was the same old story; penalties. After the Steelers received a costly pass interference call, the Ravens, then within Billy Cundiff's proclaimed field goal range, must have decided the gift too generous. Clayton handed it right back. To be blunt, he put a stupid, ineffective hit on the Steelers, and pushed the Ravens back out of FG range. This see-saw pattern would repeat as the Ravens again advanced, and were again pushed back, this time due to Joe Flacco's exemplary play in the pocket. 5 Sacks in the game - one stat tells a story. And so Cundiff was rushed on, as time expired, and his kick just did not have the distance. Overtime.

Steelers win the toss. It's over. Or is it? Somehow, the Ravens would hold them and force a punt. Then, some terrible offensive-coordination and the Ravens were punting right on back. But it was a story of the unknowns last night, from Pittsburgh's Dennis Dixon stepping up for the concussed Ben Roethlisberger to a Mr. Paul Kruger. The big guy, who had played in just three games all season, anticipated Dixon's next pass, and somehow launched his large frame into the air, coming down with the interception, and even more impressive, running it back to put the Ravens at about the Pittsburgh 35. What a moment.

It looked like the Ravens might once again be cooked, but Ray Rice, dependable as ever, took charge and led his team down to the Red Zone. And then close enough for what should have been an easy TD. The Ravens did not get that, but set up a close-range field goal. Cundiff, we already see, likes to make things interesting, and the ball drifted far right, barely nestling itself between the goalposts. Two arms up. It's good. The game slid by the Steelers by the same margin Cundiff's kick was good.

And, of course, I have no reservations in giving all the accolades (or 99% of them?) to Derrick Mason, because that is just an unbiased and objective fact, and I do not play favorites at all. What a great touchdown pass, and at a key moment. Derrick Mason is a playmaker, and gave Baltimore the extra cushion and confidence they needed, heading into the lockeroom.

(Photo credit: Baltimore Sun)

Creative Piece: Overheard at Panera Bread #2

A man and

a girlfriend?

Maybe.

They talk about her ex. Then

"So Sheila Dixon's on trial.."

"Yeah, I think she knew what she was doing,

stealing those gift cards."

Me too, me too.

Then the guy says,

"I got fired."

Qualify that.

"I'm going to be fired."

"How do you know?!"

"Last one hired, first one fired.

That's me."

Recessions, cut-

backs.

"I just know it."

She suggests he hunt in another county-

always the solution- isn't it?

Look somewhere else.

He is a firefighter.

He's also an asshole.

But maybe he has a right to be.

"No way out."

Didn't go to college, he's young

He says something crude-

incendiary.

I turn around. He catches me.

"Hey, you! Yeah, girl with the

white polo-

fancy laptop!"

[oh God

I must look so privileged

careless

self-righteous]

I face him again

"Yeah, you--

What the fuck are you looking at?"

Is it cursing if we just borrow someone else's words?

Words are Simmering embers, Glowing, Burning-

one less person to put them out. Pour on some gasoline.

Creative Piece: Overheard at Panera Bread #1

Two girls and

an aunt-

or godmother? A writer.

"Your editor is harsh."

"Yes, he is. He wants my book to be good."

Later the girls say

they want to write too.

"Oh, girls, I know

you can write about two girls

who write a broadway show

and leave it on a table in a coffee shop.

And someone steals it!"

"No, no, no! That's already a movie!"

"Yeah, 'Big Fat Liar,'" the other interjects

(I love that movie, too)

"See, I'm sorry I didn't know that.

Okay then. Scratch that."

Minutes later-

"What would you do if you had that much money?"

They'd buy a circus, a whirling magical menagerie

of animals.

Candy colored stripes and flowing manes.

"I'd buy a car!"

"A car?! What?!

You can't even drive!"

"So?"

Long black sleek hair-

mommy-brushed.

Walking L.L.Bean Kids catalogue,

Walking smile.

Wonder.

photo: Arita S. (flickr)

Sophomore Slump: Joe Flacco's Woes Continue Following Loss to Division Rival Bengals

The Ravens appear to be stuck in a rut. Last week may have been a fluke, or an anomaly, but it definitely didn't fit the jigsaw puzzle John Harbaugh & Co. seem to be piecing together this fall. Carson Palmer and the Cincinnati Bengals started the game where they left off earlier this seasons, with two quick completions in the air. Then, the Ravens defensive line faltered, uncharacteristically, letting Cedric Benson go, and relying on Dawan Landry and Dominique Foxworth to make the tackle in some sort of sick role reversal. Terrell Suggs delivered some good pressure on Palmer to force a 3rd & 10, but soon the referees came to the rescue, nearly as dependable as a Disney Prince Charming when it comes to saving the other team. They granted Cincy a questionable timeout after originally calling a delay of game, and then allowed Cincinnati to start another play well after the clock struck zero.

At this time, the Bengals no longer needed the officials' help. Chad Johnson- I refuse to call him by his "legally changed" name and give him that satisfaction- may not know his Spanish very well but he sure knew how to make a bunch of fools out of our secondary today-- not that that's much of a secret. Johnson won his team a first down and then got the Bengals within inches of a second consecutive one on the next play. Cedric Benson got the Bengals inside the 10, and one begins to wonder whether the defense, of all units, could be the Ravens' Achilles Heel this season. But not to worry, the offense's later performance would quell all such rumors and concerns. The defense is definitely still the stronger unit.

Carson Palmer polished off a 12 play, 73 yd drive with a touchdown pass to Caldwell. It was as if Palmer was a boy scout, alone in the wilderness. He was that alone and unpressured. When the Baltimore offense took the field, things would just get worse. Tank Johnson dropped Ray Rice for a loss of yards, and despite Rice's talent and effort, this would become a pattern for the game. Derrick Mason also showed some versatility. No one was expecting Mason to have to play corner, knocking passes out of the actual corner's hands to avoid interceptions, as Flacco's passes sailed this way and that and whichever way Mason was not. A spark- fumble recovery! But no, Dawan Landry racked up another penalty. The Bengals continued to drive, and the Ravens allowed Palmer, the self-proclaimed slow kid, to slide in for a first down.

Just at this time, Johnson (Ochocinco) warmed up and put on an instructional video on how to catch- a video Kelly Washington, Derrick Mason, Mark Clayton, and their fellow WRs might just want to order off infomercial. Johnson made a series of spectacularly acrobatic catches. Fabian Washington took care of earning Baltimore its league-leading 7th pass interference call of the season. Lavernius Coles then escaped the great Ed Reed. We should have known it was over then. From the 2 yd line, Cedric Benson ran train on the Ravens defensive line, missing key starter Haloti Ngata, and waltzed into the endzone to give the Bengals a two touchdown lead. Viewers found themselves in anguish and disbelief- could it still really be the 1st Quarter?

Another penalty- this must be a typo- really? A costly penalty? No way. Yes, penalty on the Ravens receiving team backed them up again. Sam Koch was the face of the Ravens, and either he or Palmer was always on the field.

Because a backup's backup- a fully incompetent one at that- at secondary is not bad enough, Fabian Washington got injured. The Ravens turned to Chris Carr. I hate to break it to them but overextending this youngster is not the route to success. Carr already had too much to do. From here on, things quickly slipped downhill. Trevor Pryce took an inadvertent friendly fire hit and went out limping. But wait! A silver lining? Webb went in for Carr for Washington. And- he made a tackle!

Then I began looking for any possible distraction from the game. Ray Lewis's beard caught my eye. I am thinking that maybe he has decided, "hey the rest of this team's let themselves go, why not me?" Then, a Georgia Tech yellowjacket frustrated and angered me as never before. Tight End Foschi was a pest that just kept immunizing itself against the Ravens' coverage.

Soon, Derrick Mason was resembling the Ravens' secondary in more than one way, meaning that the actual Bengals' secondary actually caught the ball for a completion, I mean interception, from Joe Flacco.

By the time Ray Rice decided to take things into his own hands and score, it was far too late. Then the same story. Steve Hauschka misses. Should have kept Stover. Baltimore's on fire. Players dropping like flies. Then another near pick. Then a sack. And another. And.. another? Three?! Yes. The Bengals' unsportsmanlike conduct penalty at the end of the game was indicative of their dirty play and their team's less than spotless record. But at the same time, it was indicative of the entire game. The penalty ultimately cost them nothing, nor did any of their other mistakes, due to the Ravens' substantially longer list of screw-ups, penalties, and missed opportunities. So the game came to a fitting end, and the Ravens hobbled bloody, battered, and, yes, beaten into the locker room. Are they settling for .500? I thought that was a standard held only for the Orioles..

photo credit [WR Derrick Mason playing DEFENSE?]: Baltimore Sun

My Sister's Circle: Tutoring at Dallas Nicholas Elementary in Baltimore City

"I Did All My Homework Already.. In Class"


Yesterday I took a trip downtown. Not to Fell's Point. Not to Hampden. Or Federal Hill. Or the National Aquarium. I went to Dallas Nicholas Elementary School down on E. 21st street. There's something happening there. Girls with dazzling smiles. Flashing grins. Tremendous talent. Back in 2000, Dallas principal Irma Johnson started a program. The program grew, and today My Sister's Circle volunteers reach out to girls in more than forty local schools. These girls are selected by their teachers because they show intellect, talent, and promise. Our school works with fifth grade girls specifically, in hopes of helping them enter private and charter schools in sixth grade. Last year, one program member was granted a full-scholarship to the prestigious Calvert School in North Baltimore, which she is attending this fall.

As we walked into Dallas, one could not help but notice the striking disparities between these girls' school and our own. Dilapidated, out-dated, falling apart. Dirt streaked windows, barred doors, dusty floors. Worn wooden furniture in the front office. One is definitely not in private school anymore. At Dallas, you have to press an intercom button to be admitted and sign in at the desk as a safety precaution. Winding your ways down the dank halls, illuminated by a few sparse, faltering fluorescent lighting fixtures, you catch sight of little girls peering around corners, walking in single file lines. There's the straggler, the little one whose white polo is too big for her little frame, and who stops, filled with curiosity, as you pass. She's never seen you before? What are you doing here?

In the classroom, packed with boxes, old art supplies, and dusty toys, we sit at miniature tables, in chairs with broken legs, and teach. Really, we just help with some mechanics, remind them how to do division or to multiply by 12 to get "x" by itself. They teach us. There was the little girl with big, round, chocolate eyes standing in the corner playing house and washing dishes in the little play-sink. She watches us. "What's your name?" No answer. "Do you have a sister in this program." She just blinks back at you. No one is looking for her, no one seems to be troubled by her presence. She's just there, under the radar, quietly playing make believe by herself. She stands in the corner while her imagination runs wild. She's in a kitchen. She's a grown-up. She's pretending she has a simple, domesticated life, one of those ones moms usually complain about.

The little girl entertains herself with the wooden kitchen set for the duration of the tutoring session. You never learn her name or her business. The other girls file in, but four are missing. No one knows where they are. Doesn't that trouble anyone? Did they go home? Are they wandering the halls or out in the street? No one made sure they came to their tutoring program?

One girl has her homework all done already. She sits and cracks jokes while the others flip through their binders and settle down to spelling homework. One can already tell she is the class clown. A little heavy set, but bubbling and happy. The girls know all the spelling words. They know the definitions. Value. This week it's the "ue" words. Soon the others finish, and we play games. One tells us her nickname is Randy Moss, and so to include the other girl, we name her Ray Lewis. Randy Moss says she got her name because whenever they play football with the boys at recess she always catches the ball. Her dad takes her downtown to watch the Ravens every sunday. She and her friend both live in the county. They went trick-or-treating there last weekend. One went to her cousin's house. He had a haunted house in his basement.

The girls say they like Miley Cyrus, just like the privileged Lower School girls at my school do. One tells me I have the same color hair as Hannah Montana. Another says she hates "Party in the U.S.A." We go to look for the other girls but they are nowhere to be found. Brianna swears they were all in school today. Brianna also tells us about their skating field trip this Friday. She's never been before. She's excited. She doesn't even need help with her homework, it turns out. It's funny because 90% of the time they don't. They're pretty self-sufficient. When we leave, we promise more time for games and singing next week. They polish off the left-over Halloween candy we brought them. Brianna tells us she didn't get nearly enough last week, and, plus, she had to share with her brothers and sisters.

We walk out to the parking lot, turn on our iPods, and drive back. Through Charles Village. College students amble, sit at cafes, drink lattes in cable knit sweaters, and pore over chemistry books, cramming for their tests. Back through North Baltimore. The houses get bigger, the communities more sheltered. More gates. More white-washed walls, and wooden shutters, and manicured lawns. City parks turn to professionally clipped lawns. Roses grow up lattices. BMWs in the driveway. Soon enough, Dallas has been left in the dust. So long. See you next Wednesday..

Bryn Mawr Field Hockey: Defeating the Undefeated

Last Sunday, a disappointingly small, but dedicated group of fans got to witness a spectacular comeback, a miracle victory for the field hockey team. They became conference champions, as they took down the two-time defending champions, the team who was as of yet undefeated, and to whom they had lost twice. By all accounts, this season should have been a transitional year for our team. With few upperclassmen and numerous freshmen joining the Varsity squad, none, except perhaps the members of the actual team, expected such success. To be sure, very few members of the team ever envisioned taking back the crown come November 1.

But proving that hard work pays off, the girls did just that. With a rejuvenated student section in attendance at big games, capes, gold paint, and creative cheers to boot, field hockey charged into Sunday's finals, and then, quite literally, stole the title from under their opponents' noses, knocking in a goal during a climactic second overtime period. All season, the team drilled hard, staying for late practices, running, thinking about the playoffs. Senior captains worked to welcome and include the freshmen, and these youngsters fast became an integral part of the team. Numerous underclassmen racked up goals, steals, and saves, and experienced seniors helped make them even smarter players.

The parents coordinated team dinners and the players decorated shirts for one another, put notes in players' mailboxes, made inside jokes. The team became a family. Furthermore, the team was hungry to prove local newspapers, college recruiters, and conference administrators wrong. Inspired by a former players' severe illness, the team came together and played for her, literally throwing themselves this way and that. Countless bruises, injuries to the mouth, two broken thumbs, a black eye, and 12 stitches later, the team emerged- not beaten.

As they dogpiled at in front of the goal, girls collapsed to the ground sobbing with disbelief at what they had accomplished. The only ones more disbelieving than these champions were the runners-up, who perhaps had underestimated the talent and persistence, but also the intangible strengths, of the team they had just lost to. It was a happy ending, then, one brought about by a miraculous string of goal-line stands, skillful stickwork, and timely luck. Mostly, however, this team proved that Dumbledore is always right; love is always the most powerful force. The girls harnessed this love and converted it into an unforgettable championship that will be remembered long after the dust accumulates on the crystal trophy.

Gilman Volleyball: Better Than Friday Night Lights

I don't live in Texas. I probably never will. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate great high school sporting events when I see them. There's something magical, enchanting even, about seeing your school win a championship. There's something a little crazy about being in classes with, standing in line with, and going to parties with people you idolize once they're out on the field, or the court, or the ice.

This fall, play at the Gilman has been disappointing. The football team did not live up to the hype and lost an especially painful homecoming game. The soccer team suffered key injuries. But for all the disappointment, there was a silver lining. The volleyball team put on a spectacularly riveting show, one that lifted our spirits, and entertained its audience with theatrics and drama that Spielberg could not have directed better. And their success was so unexpected, at least to those of us unfamiliar to the team. With so many seniors graduating from last year's team of conference champions, this year was supposed to be a rebuilding year. But volleyball took everyone by surprise, and took the court by storm, setting, passing, blocking, and acing their way into the conference finals and the hearts of all who watched. Led by a team of strong, dedicated, and inspiring veterans, underclassmen followed the lead of those invested and passionate players, channeling not only their skills on the court but their energy. Returning coach Neil Gabbey once again led the team to success, and strengthened his bonds with players, as well as fostering new bonds with incoming players. Both the team's hard work, and its cohesiveness, allowed for communication and a dedication to the game that was undoubtedly an important factor in Gilman's success.

Their season was one of those little things that make high school worth enduring. To not even attend the school and yet be so fully captivated by, so enamored with, this team speaks volumes about what the group accomplished. They made their fall sports season a memorable one, they gave people something to look forward to on Wednesday afternoons, to talk trash about, to lose their voices for, and reason to paint their bodies unnatural hues of grey and blue. Heated arguments with referees that made Ron Winter look good. Obnoxious opposing teams. Chokes. Line judges. Missed calls. Make-up calls. Coaches out of their seats. Deafening noise. Authentic World War II air raid sirens. Trashcan drums. Cheers (and jeers) that put the Cameron Crazies to shame.

The Spirit Committee and cheering section made nearly as great a contribution as did the actual team. Referees frequently tried to silence this group, but to no effect. The passion and dedication and pride exhibited by those in the student section was in and of itself something to be in awe of. And the small, tight knit community, the familiar brown interior of the old gym, and the stained, scratched hardwood floors, made the experience all the more personal. Everything one could want in a high school experience, he got in coming to these volleyball games. The soul. The comradeship. The ups and downs and smiles and tears. The fist pumps and the temper tantrums. The boy from your English class who gets jammed on one play and comes back with a kill so powerful that you momentarily lose sight of the ball. Volleyball inspired in us the range of emotions that are a part of human life.

Literally, volleyball was fun. But then again, it's always fun to see a team that wins. For me, it was less about the team and more about the grace and precision and finesse of the sport, the sounds from the sidelines- and the bench. The sweat running down your forehead because you are packed like sardines among hundreds of other spectators in an old, poorly ventilated gymnasium. It was about the parents' mutters and prayers and sharp inhalations as their sons served. Students dancing. Girls holding hands in anticipation, collectively holding their breath, as the server sets the ball in motion. Volleyball was an art that rewarded all the senses, appealed to the most primal and most refined of emotions and instincts simultaneously. Volleyball brought my friends and me closer together. It took our minds off of Early Decision applications, and AP Statistics tests and gossip, and we momentarily lived, suspended in the moment, forgetting the long hours of history homework that awaited us that night.

We watched the games together, riding the emotional roller coaster with the team and bonding with one another. We formed bonds with parents, faculty- everyone else as long as he was rooting for the right team. We watched our friends on the team learn from one another and trust one another. We watched their acrobatics and watched as their tempers flared. Their elation after pulling out a fantastic semifinal victory.
Although Gilman lost to Calvert Hall in the MIAA Conference finals, they accomplished so much more than earning a letter jacket or their names on a cup. They accomplished something great both for themselves and their surrounding community. It was a good run, and all who watched were glad to come along for the ride.

Volleyball was comfortingly simple- although sometimes the refs didn't seem to understand the simplest of rules- it was a refuge for all of us. It was that high school experience you never want to end, the one you'll remember for years to come. Amongst the followers of the traditionally popular football and soccer teams, volleyball drew crowds just as large, and certainly louder. Volleyball delivered a lift (a legal one) to our spirits and reminded me of just exactly why we put up with these four years.

Ravens Fall to Vikings on Another Missed Field Goal: Yes, Brett, They Missed It..

So it appears that the Baltimore Ravens are up to their old tricks. Or, rather, their old sloppy game of football. From top-down and bottom-up, the Ravens have made bad decisions over the course of the season, and particularly during Sunday's game against the Minnesota Vikings, that have been rather costly. The front office failed to make a move on resigning Matt Stover, and now he's off in Indianapolis, playing for "the dolts." Worse still, we signed David Tyree last week, when we really need a cornerback. Any cornerback. Our secondary's performances are difficult to watch. The Ravens really should be kicking themselves, literally, this week, after the secondary failed, again, (Mike Preston of The Baltimore Sun gave the unit an "F,") and Steve Houschka missed the game winning field goal from 44 yards out with 0:02 remaining on the clock. Houschka may be younger, fresher, stronger, and even generally more consistent than Stover is in his old age, but Stover had the experience and knowledge to make a game winning kick in a must-win game played in a dome. There is no doubt that Stover is a "clutch" player, as much as Adam Vinateri during the Patriots' Lombardi Trophy reign or as David Ortiz was for the Red Sox in the 2004 ALCS. Stover was also, surely, the quiet leader of the team. While more outspoken players like Ray, Ed Reed, and Bart Scott certainly got most of the limelight for their inspirational roles, I think Stover played a key role as a cornerstone for the team, a solidly dependable old-timer. Matt Stover, who came with the Browns team when it became the Baltimore Ravens, more than anyone, save perhaps Jonathon Ogden, was the face of the franchise. And incidentally, it seems that the Ravens are suffering from a poorly-timed identity crisis.

Until the fourth quarter, offensive production was nearly as miserable as was watching the Ravens defense collapse repeatedly. Derrick Mason dropped passes that were probably just as crucial as the drops Mark Clayton made in previous games. McGahee's production was nonexistent, and Le'Ron McClain did not make big plays. In fact, McClain has yet to have a big game this season, something that is much needed and long overdue. Ray Rice continued to churn, but with a weak offensive line, there is not much he can do. Since Jared Gaither's injury, first round draft pick Michael Oher has moved across the field to play tackle. I don't know if this move, or the relatively tame Minnesota crowd was the reason for his problems, but regardless, Oher was called for numerous costly false starts. If the stars, Reed, McClain, and Oher, aren't producing, what are we to expect from rookies and less skilled players?

More bad news: it looks like Samari Rolle is not coming back any time soon. So for now, the Ravens will have to work with their oh so promising cornerbacks. Talk show hosts and fans are off speculating about whether Baltimore should acquire T.O. I love T.O., unlike most people, so it pains me to say this is one problem that T.O. cannot solve. Unless he has a hidden talent for playing excellent pass coverage. (I'm sure he already plays better than Frank Walker, though.) So the Ravens go into the bye week strapped to a slowly deflating balloon.

But there was something eerily familiar about the Ravens game this past Sunday. Coming up just short because they dug their hole too deep. Too little, too late. Settling for field goals (although missing them is a relatively new, and rather troubling, trend.) Ray Lewis playing the secondary better than the actual safeties and cornerbacks. We won't even talk about Joe Flacco. Conservative play calling. Unimaginative play calling. Bad attitudes and worse penalties. The Ravens have forgotten who they were on their way to being, and unless they wake up from this amnesia, John Harbaugh & Co. will be watching round one of the playoffs from their couches, and Baltimore fans may not even bother turning on the TV.

Creative Piece: Games

inspired by David Mitchell's "Black Swan Green"

So I talked about the Game of Life-

You win by getting your little car to the end of the road of life first- but being two players at once is no fun.

Contestants have to guess a missing word- they win crap prizes,

Praying to scoop the kitty from Free Parking, Hugo’s already got hotels on Mayfair and Park Lane.

The scores climb high as rugby scores. One game can last hours, until the last-but-one kid goes home. And then the games are more like battles.

The cost of winning is so high that it would have been better if you’d never bothered,

Winning needs luck and bravery.

Talking with some people’s like moving up higher screens of a computer game,

My strategy collapsed and I didn’t even clear the first screen. A plastic disc floats on a cushion of air- but you need another human.

Spectators voted with their grins.

Operation’s this game where you take out bones from a patient’s body- war games’re extinct now. We played winner stays on.

Swerving, eddying, and ramming Score-Less-Than-20-With-3-Darts-and-Pick-Any-Prize! Grand Master of the Helter Skelter, tonight I leaned into the curves.

One crucial song tips the disco over,

Ain’t no TV here. I’m fishin’, I am.What was the name of that game when we were kids? Where the first one to catch up with the other won?

photo: alibubba (flickr)

Bruce Springsteen Visits Baltimore: Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss

The irony is that another band that shared his 1970s spotlight, and not the Grand Master of words himself, was the one to make this statement, a proclamation that is so simple, but so true. The New Boss has not changed at all, or at least when it really matters. Bruce Springsteen is, still, The Boss. Tickets for his November 20 show at First Mariner Arena (or FDIC arena, as my dad calls it) in Baltimore sold out in a mere 20 minutes last Friday, a period fifteen minutes shorter than that which it took to sell out Miley Cyrus. Some things are better left unchanged.

Since 1972, Bruce and the E Street Band have been turning words into magic, weaving tales of the American Dream, of youth, of change. In Robert Santelli's compelling and beautifully edited coffee table book, "Greetings from E Street," he captures the essence of the band in a single quotation, taken from Springsteen himself. "I want you to put your hands together, your arms together, your asses together for the houserocking, pants dropping, brain-shocking, earthquaking, booty-shaking, viagra-taking, lovemaking, sexifying, electrifying, women shrieking, grown men crying, legendary E Street Band!" So okay, The Who may have put things more succinctly in their line, but as usual, Bruce captures the movement, the emotion, the power of the moment.

But the point is, the magic never dies, and coming off what I previously proclaimed the "best year ever," Bruce seems to be in store for the best consecutive years ever. After a bewitching Super Bowl performance, and a successful new album, Springsteen & Co. have hit the road on tour. They've sold out everywhere. They've sold out quickly. Chris Christie, the Republican candidate for governor of New Jersey, has done more than endorse his fellow Jerseyman. Apparently, he's attended 120 E Street Concerts, too. In fact, Christie is expected to belt out "Thunder Road" with thousands of other devotees this very night, during The Boss's concert at the Meadowlands. Not that Chris Christie's fandom dictates a good year, but anyone should feel good who has one man go to 120 of his concerts. Still waiting on Obama to invite the band to the White House, though- they did provide the soundtrack for his historical presidential campaign.

After their nineties hiatus, luckily the band came to their senses, or more like Bruce came to his, and reunited in 1999 after nearly a decade of being split up. And now, after 30 years, Bruce is returning to Baltimore, after he seemingly "went out for a ride and never came back." It seems preposterous that he has only played in the city once before (when he opened for Chicago in the 1970s), especially when "Hungry Heart" mentions beloved Charm City in its first line. And anyone attending the groundbreaking Nov 20 concert is in for a delightful show, as the band plans to play its "Born to Run" album in entirety.

Last week Bruce turned the big 6-0 and while no one has announced how he spent the night, I'm sure he spent it well. And two nights before, at a show in Iowa, the band led its captive audience in a rendition of "Happy Birthday." Imagine, Clarence singing you "Happy Birthday!" But E Street's expanding its label. The band was recently nominated for four Emmys, and now has developed a line of, might I say, fashion forward apparel. But that's not all, you can drink out of Bruce mugs, write your root canal appt. on a Bruce calendar, and even deck your kids out in Bruce (that is, if you're bringing your children up the right way, as mine did.) So, judging by Bruce's sheer mastery of all he attempts, I'd wager that if he wishes to pursue the fashion design/marketing track, he could soon make a mean joke of Anna Wintour, if he wanted to.

If only I had satellite radio in my car. He has his own channel. So what is it that makes this music so universal, so emotive, so beautiful? Is it that Bruce's clairvoyant mind allows him to approach subjects we all understand with an innate ability, one that we mortals don't have, to express deeper truths about these subjects? Is it the emotion and heat his music creates? Or is it something far more elementary? Maybe it is all these things, and for each person, something different resonates with them whether it be the form, the intonations, the pauses, the lyrics, or maybe just the man singing the words or that cool saxophone player?

Bruce and the band make things change. Literally, their music is used for political campaigns running on platforms of change. But more than this, they remind us of people we love, places we've been, things we've felt. The lyrics and the men behind them restore our faith in humanity, and listening to them, it is clear that their expressions are so genuine, so sincere, that they are significantly more beautiful, and more meaningful than the words that spew from other artists' mouths. They are not the only ones to discover this key to humanity, but they are some of the men who have done so most effectively.

The band uses a unique consciousness, captures those quintessential and transformative moments in our lives. It speaks of dreams, American pride, exceptionalism, values. It speaks to persistence and resolve, of struggle and of overcoming challenges. Their music is American, but even more so, their music is human, in the same way that the most essential parts of the American ethos actually reflect mankind on a whole. Thus, the band has received worldwide renown, respect, and patronage. The band speaks to unity. Most of all, nearly every song speaks of love. Making love, falling in love, keeping love, losing your grip on it, but refusing to lose it for good. Unconditional love that brings boy and girl, parent and child, Americans, people at bus stops, citizens of the world, couples on the Jersey Shore together. Love beneath the stars, in cars, and on endless summer nights. Love is that universal language, the metric system of emotions that everyone understands. Love is that aforementioned magic that never dies. Bruce and the E Street Band know this, and that is the key to being legend. The legendary E Street Band. 'Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.'

photo courtesy t.klick @ flickr.com

Creative Piece: Thunder Road Revisited

It's Thunder Road revisited

the radio plays

we know for whom Roy Orbison sings

and where there's thunder,

there's lightning

But spells break.

Pretend that it's forever dark.

It came and went

illuminating.

It thrust me in and out

of yellow blue grey black white

white hot.

stone cold. white hot.

Take shelter in a gazebo, by a school

with red brick buildings.

But I'll be the last to find the famed four leaf clover,

The storms always pass when we want them to stay.

And the clouds roll on from this town full of losers,

pulling out of here to win.

Hampden Restaurant Review: Rocket to Venus

A piece exposing Rocket to Venus's greatness is long overdue and well-deserved. While The Baltimore Sun and other local publications still have yet to pick up on Hampden's rising star, my family is definitely very aware of, and thankful for, Rocket's innovative and plentiful offerings. Located near the corner of 34th St and Chestnut, Rocket to Venus is nestled among Hampden's row houses, rather than situated on the neighborhood's main stretch, alongside other great eateries, like Cafe Hon and Golden West Cafe. Perhaps the more obscure location has contributed to its relative obscurity. This same factor, however, allows the establishment to retain its retro-quirky feel, and to cater mainly to locals and regulars. It also keeps the lines down, and I have never once had to wait for a table.

Outside, bikers can park the motorcycles and head into the bar for a drink, or they can sit on the outside patio and socialize while they sit at umbrellad tables and take a smoke. Rocket to Venus is open seven days a week and serves lunch/ brunch starting at 12 pm Sundays. The bar has an ongoing trivia contest and Rocket to Venus also hosts other weekly events like movie nights and bingos. The clientele is as eclectic as the menu, and the wait staff is at once individual and uniformly clad in skinny jeans, dark monochromes and rock & roll t-shirts. They're hip and servers give off an air of edgy self-confidence, but do not make diners feel unwelcome or uncomfortable. Local art, available for purchase, adorns the walls and is rotated constantly.

Of course, as at all good restaurants, the food is the best part. Rocket serves slider-style hamburgers, called wimpies, and also offers tofu ("sloppy jo-fu") and falafel wimpies. Who else could make falafel so appealing that it would tempt my 13 year old brother to try it, and then become his "usual" order? In addition to creative naming, Rocket masters one of my favorite foods of all time; brussels sprouts. In fact, my mom has said that we are probably the "only family that fights over brussels sprouts," but if more families ordered the balsamic roasted sprouts from Rocket to Venus, I am sure that would not be the case. I could easily eat three or four servings of these vegetables, but have to refrain in order to sample some of the menu's other offerings.

My mom always seems to go for the Banh-Mi, a vietnamese sandwich complete with pate, pickled daikon, mint aioli, and veggies. My dad likes the Andouille, Shrimp & Grits, although he tries to mix it up each time we come to Rocket to Venus. To accompany my brussels sprouts, I usually order the Rocket to Venus house salad and either a half-pound of steamed shrimp (with Old Bay) or mussels in a white wine sauce. The cheese plates make great appetizers, and my parents rave about the wine selection. In fact, my father raves about everything. He loves the servers, the counterculture-esque vibe, the unconventionality of the diners, decor, and menu. It has fast become THE family restaurant, and is currently Hampden's best kept secret.

Rocket to Venus certainly finishes strong, offering the famous Dangerously Delicious pies, featured on Food Network, and baked, literally, down the street, on its simple but unique desert menu. To top this, one can order a deep-fried PB&J complete with a scoop (or two) of vanilla ice cream, as well as caramel and chocolate sauces. I've seen people share this, but to me, it's really more of a one-person kinda dish. Regardless, you will either not want to leave or come back the next day, which is sure to be a good omen for Rocket to Venus's entrepreneurial future, not that the owners care about that stuff. They're just in it for the fun. And the food.

Snoop Knows What's Up, Visits Ravens Training Camp

Recently, Cordazar Calvin Broadus, or Snoop Dogg, as the "in" know to call him, paid a visit to McDaniel College in Westminster, Maryland. Now, one might ask, what exactly is Snoop doing in Maryland, not to mention in a town where tension still dominates interracial relations, and where Sarah Palin lovers, the angry, aggrieved white people, roam and dominate the area's demographics? None of that really embodies what Broadus is all about. Well, Cordazar was there for no other reason but to visit the Baltimore Ravens training camp, which runs daily on the McDaniel College campus. (That, and he happened to be performing with Slightly Stoopid at nearby Merriwether Post Pavillion, for the "Blazed and Confused" tour.)

But obviously Mr. Broadus was not all that confused because he knows his football. In fact, Snoop has picked numerous Super Bowl winners and expressed his interest in being an NFL coach. (If only the Ravens front office had known this when they didn't know if they could afford to replace Brian Billick...) He may be a Pittsburgh Steelers fan, but he kept that on the DL as he charmed the rough, tough Tonka's got the stuff defensive line, and the ever-composed Joe Flacco AKA "Joe Cool." He even joined the end of practice huddle and led the Ravens in their notorious "what time is it" cheer. Plus, Ray Lewis invited Snoop, and that means he can't be a bad guy. I mean come on; clearly Ray hangs with a very respectable crowd. But less on their guest visitor, and more on the team of rising talent that could well be in contention, once again, for a spot in the Super Bowl. (Such a conclusion to the season would be a fitting tribute to a number of men in the purple and black, because it would mean a homecoming of disproportional sorts. It seems that nearly half the team played for the 'Canes, and, in fact, Ray, Ed Reed, Willis McGahee, and the less publicized Tavares Gooden, all played there.)

The Baltimore Ravens look to be a defensive powerhouse once again. Countless scouts from NFL teams across the nation will be attending the Ravens' upcoming preseason game against Rex Ryan's Jets, in hopes of picking up some of the Ravens' rejects. If scouts are circling the skies above M&T Bank Stadium like vultures, hoping to dredge up some reject defenders for their own squads' starting positions, this has to say something about the astonishing pool of applicants who have shown up in Westminster this August. These hopefuls want to make the Ravens' final cuts and join the NFL's most notorious and bruising defense. In fact, the Ravens attract such fine defensive candidates, that their staff could easily be compared to the skilled admissions staffs at a handful of the country's most selective colleges and universities, who attract the nation's and the world's finest candidates for application each fall.

The Ravens also have promising rookies lining up on the other side of the ball, and second year offensive coordinator Cam Cameron has devised some interesting, albeit unconventional, plays to keep opposing defenses on their toes this fall. Last season, we saw passes by Troy Smith and receptions by Joe Flacco. Who knows what this season holds in store? Recently, the Ravens drilled on the Wildcat Offense. With Joe "Cool" Flacco back as a "veteran" quarterback, experts expect him to demonstrate even more maturity in the pocket. In their first preseason game, Flacco showed that he has committed to memory the saying "when in doubt, throw it out." Baltimore is hoping that his performance last season was not just beginner's luck, but rather the beginning of a hall of fame destined career. With tackle Michael Oher finally taking his place on the offensive line, hopefully Joe will be less pressured, and as a result throw fewer interceptions, than he did in the '08 season. Chris Carr, a cornerback, could turn out to be another of the Ravens' key acquisitions this season.

The Ravens will, of course, miss the surefooted Matt Stover, if they do not opt to bring him back. Lorenzo Neal, the big fullback who was so instrumental in the Ravens' 4th and inches situations last season, has also left the team. If Terrell Suggs continues to sit on the sidelines, this, too, will hurt the Ravens, as will the absence of experienced receiver Mark Clayton. The Ravens, however, have another receiver, Derrick Mason, who is even more experienced, and is ready to step up and be a team leader. Like Ray Lewis, he has taken on a roll as an emotional leader for the team as well. For the remainder of the season, Mason will practice wearing the No. 9 jersey, rather than his own 85, in order to commemorate the late Steve McNair, a quarterback who finished his great career here in Baltimore and was recently found shot to death. The key, however, to the Ravens offense will be its ground game, which began to develop late last season.

Willis McGahee looks to have had an attitude adjustment, and LeRon McClain, the fullback/RB has gotten in better shape. Hopefully, the Ravens will be able to capitalize off of his versatility and fitness in order to put some points on the board. Ray Rice, who had a number of carries in the preseason opener, looks to be maturing quickly and more dangerous than ever. It will be good to have Kelly Gregg back at nose tackle, and although Trevor Pryce had a disappointing season, the numerous linebackers scrambling for his starting position could prove good motivation. Ed Reed looks fresh. The key will be using veteran experience and leadership to instruct the newbies, allowing their fresh limbs to carry out The Godfathers' orders.

John Harbaugh has infused training camp sessions with visits from members of the United States Armed Forces. He does this, challenging his team to keep up with the world's most physically elite specimens. But he also does this to remind his men that football is not life and death, but rather a game, and that there are people out there who aren't playing games so that the Ravens can. Recently, as a group of USNA midshipmen, training to be US Marines, trotted onto the field at one Sunday afternoon practice, Cam Cameron called out "all hands on deck, all hands on deck!" John Harbaugh, evidently quite the comedian, added, "come on, guys, we need a few good men." The Ravens look to have a few good men, and perhaps more than a few, that could lead Baltimore back to Florida next February.

Extra! Extra! US Sporting and Political Woes

It seems like the news just keeps getting worse and worse, more disagreeable with each passing day, as from sports, to politics, to Hollywood, nothing happy seems to be happening. With each release or article comes a new crushing blow to the sporting world, another celebrity dies, another politician achieves celebrity. Or notoriety. They're becoming one and the same, anyways.

Sure, it was great to watch Lance come back from four years off and finish on the podium in this year's Tour de France. But even then, I am sure many wish he had finished at the top of the podium, after tearing down the streets of Paris in his oh so familiar hue of yellow, rather than the Team Astana jersey. But it was not to be. Before that came Andy Roddick's crushing loss to Roger Federer in a hard-fought Wimbledon final. Roddick's choke in the second set tiebreak delivered a devastating blow, Federer's composure and cool became something to abhor and resent. Federer's post game remarks, aimed at consoling the runner-up, were anything but, and rather came across as stuffy, snobbish, and apathetic formalities. But, nevertheless, the tennis great continues to be universally received as one of the classiest athletes around. Tom Watson also faltered, losing his lead in the final round of the British Open, and losing, albeit gracefully, on, quite literally, the very last hole. Was it not bad enough that these great American individuals tragically came up just short of victory as the whole world watched? Then, the United States soccer team relinquished its early lead to Brazil. The team ultimately fell back down from cloud nine, and returned to a world where the United States has a long way to go before it is a serious threat to powerhouses like Spain, Italy, and Brazil. Needless to say, it has not been a great summer for American sports.

The most devastating blow to me personally, however, came yesterday, when leaked reports implicated David Ortiz's use of performance enhancing drugs in at least the 2003 MLB season. As a devoted Sox fan, who grew to love Ortiz's smile, teddy-bear personality, and welcomingly chubby build, who was amazed by his spidey-sense timing and his clutch homeruns, and was uplifted by his performance in the 2004 ALCS as he carried the Red Sox back from three games down, and later onto their first World Series victory in 86 seasons, I am crushed and devastated. I cannot count the number of times that I have mocked Alex Rodriguez, Rafael Palmiero, and the like, and affirmed my prior belief that Papi was a true, fair slugger. I always dismissed criticism and suspicion of Big Papi as green-eyed jealousy. But, alas, it appears the last sacred, pure thing on this earth has been tainted by the "stain," that the New York Times notes is quickly spreading, like swine flu, or a harmful pathogen, across all of baseball, and beyond, into the entire sporting world. I proclaimed his purity, and now I am left wanting answers and unkindly reminded that I am not, afterall, infallible.

Switch the channel off of SportsCenter, and things do not look much better. Healthcare is failing, almost as miserably as it did in the Clinton Era, to gain traction. Obama lacks clarity and detail in discussing the healthcare program he desires; the CBO, doctors, and congressmen alike cannot decide on specifics, nor provide substantial information to the media or viewers about the details and economic implications of any plans, or lack thereof. Broad strokes are painted, and repainted, but I, like many Americans, still have no vision for what this discussion on healthcare really entails. Phrases and buzzwords like "public option" and taxing "benefits" are thrown back and forth, but few technicalities have emerged. Like the current financial crisis, no one quite seems to fully grasp the healthcare debate, and I think little progress will be made either way if details and specifics don't emerge soon. One can only b.s. his discussion of a field in which he is not intensely knowledgeable for so long. The debate dominates our newspapers, TVs, computers, and water-cooler discussions, but it seems to be stagnant and lack something essential.

The Professor Gates story has again demanded media coverage, and turned the spotlight back on race relations, racial profiling, and diversity in America. Blacks, led by Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, feel aggrieved. Whites, too, are feeling resentful, and they feel increasingly the victims of reverse racism and social liberalism in modern-day America. This resentment is dangerous in today's society, because it stokes passionate, often violent, emotions. This resentment among whites is the same danger that Peggy Noonan warned of, when she astutely observed that one of Sarah Palin's most successful tactics has been her ability stoke her predominantly white base's ever-multiplying perceptions of injustice. It seems that the media feel a responsible means of "re-opening" the race debate consists of finger-pointing and exaggerations.

Iran has been largely forgotten in the mass of more profitable, more "breaking," and closer to home news stories. Yet people continue to die there, many for their acts of defiance (twittering, filming protests, etc.), the same ones that we praised just over a month ago. We have pulled out of cities in the other I-country, Iraq, recently, but things are not getting any better there, either. Jobs are being lost. The stock market's rising, Goldman Sachs is doing well, but many "real world" economic indicators continue to lag behind. Sure, Republicans Reagan and Bush 43 dug us into a grave with the spending deficit, but even I have to admit that Obama is not exactly building a latter out of there. I hope we're not buried alive. Ensign, Sanford, the C-Street hangout. Gee, what morally superior individuals.

The aforementioned Sarah Palin has begun to cast gloom on the horizon, at least for many, as the realization sets in that she is wildly popular, and may, horrifyingly enough, become a reasonable candidate, with a more than reasonable chance, to make a run for the presidency. Personally, I think her candid gestures and "cute" gaffs would make for a good talk show on Fox. She could team up with Glenn Beck, and add a little light-heartedness to the mix. The most troublesome part of Palin's rise to power, however, is the thrill she gets from stoking that aforementioned resentment among her white, "middle-class," "Joe-the-Plumber" base. Her volatility, combined with her utter disregard for current events, the actual responsibilities of the United States Executive Branch, commitment to one's constituents, economics, foreign relations, physical self-composure, good spending habits, or grammar, makes the thought of her in office a scary one, and highlights the worrying trends, divisiveness, and radicalism that is coming to consume domestic politics on both sides of the aisle.

It has been a troublesome summer, and you betcha, I'm afraid to pick up a newspaper or flip on the TV for fear of what will come next. Even my ESPN isn't safe anymore. AccessHollywood and Entertainment Tonight also fill my ears with sadness. Jon and Kate are breaking up. WHAT?! How can any marriage in America be expected to survive now? Maybe next time Katie Couric interrogates Sarah Palin about her media intake, I won't blame the Alaskan for avoiding that stuff. *wink*

Creative Piece: Showcase (6/20/09)

A Performance Piece--

inspired by a graduating senior's slam poetry

go back to spring days

where children played

and boys and girls went to high school plays

eyes on the stage

velvet curtains sway

red and deep, like Chardonnay

open Act I.

the players played,

they made gestures.

over the top, dramatic

they acted out the story

shouting their lines and

singing their hearts out and

falling in love.

the curtains came down for the end of Act I

casting shadows on the stage and

the players froze.

the children rushed out to buy snacks at the bake sale

change clanging,

that metallic ring,

in their pockets.

the intermission came

a fifteen minute dose of reality

the boy and the girl they stood in a courtyard

outside the school.

they talked--

no, they didn't.

they stood and they looked

at one another

like two dogs in the park

or two babies crawling on the ground for the first time!

dragging their legs behind them.

the air crisp and clear

a light breeze

like a movie!

a Sound of Music moment

Rolf and Liesel

although we all know how that ends

with Liesel escaping

scaling

those mossy green hills.

wind whistling, leaves whirling, branches rustling

everything comes alive

with color and clarity.

a Wizard of Oz moment.

then slowly, or quickly,

because that's not the point

the rain came

with a smash of lightning.

or maybe it fell

gently, in slow motion.

isn't it amazing how it can rain so hard, you can't even see it?

the lights dimmed

time for Act II

they came crashing

through the door

and took their seats.

the real stars shone again,

with makeup, and wit, savvy, and glamor

talent and youth like a Hollywood legend.

legends, who never die,

they take root like a flower

or a weed

and shoot upward forever.

those actors they almost always hit the perfect note-

the show came to a close

a miraculous ending! fantastic!

you'd never believe!

the bad guy came back in the end

and he wasn't caught either

what d'you know?

that thing was magic, like a broadway show

my mom took me to when I was little,

except for she didn't

I'd never been to New York.

but it only cost- five dollars!

after the show

they lined up to give their friends flowers;

because it was spring!

tulips and daisies and peonies

great big globes of velvet, oh!

how wonderful

some of the soft petals dropped to the floor

drifting and landing like those propeller things

that come off trees.

but it was alright because it was spring

where brooks bubble

and liquid sunshine works magic

and vines stretch up

breaking through the good earth

winding up the lattice in my mother's tomato garden

mother kneels down

in the deep, rich earth

and digs, like a worm.

in spring, you could dig down forever

pulling out magic like a magician pulls scarves from a hat

and in spring

you could see magicians and fantastical things at the circus

and the colorful lights play up the drama.

elephants tumble across the stage

like girls in ballets

with ribbons in their hair.

after the recital daddy took the girls for ice cream

and the girl pressed her nose to the glass

plump finger outstretched, pointing.

and the girl behind the counter plucks up the scoop

fingering it like a precious ornament

and plunges it into the cool, sweet cream

on a cone it is like a high tower,

a sandcastle

or the forts children make before dinnertime

out of blankets, forts for princesses-

in some worlds they're real.

and the sweet air, honeysuckle dew drops

as sweet as her dreams or her favorite teacher's perfume.

she dug her hand into the rusty bucket

the grubby hand emerges

this time with a small, silver fish she caught in the stream

oh! the hem of her dress is damp

but it is springtime so her mother laughs it off.

she looks at the fish and says to the girl

that it has to go back to where it came from.

so the girl skips back down the street and dumps the bucket over

the water floods the edge of the streambank

and the silver skimmer edges its way back into the water

disappearing under the surface.

the girl who rode her bike

fearlessly, and skinned her knee

and went to the farmers' market on Saturday morning

only to be stung by bees, dismisses this

and goes running into spring.

She runs down the hall

and buys two tickets to the spring musical.

US Naval Academy Summer Seminar: On the Strength of One Link in the Cable

     Just last week, I returned from one of the toughest and most traumatic experiences of my life. While I was at the United States Naval Academy, attending their exclusive Summer Seminar, and living alongside other elite high-school candidates from across the country, the majority of the time all I wanted to do was go home. Granted, I was much closer to home than many of my fellow candidates to begin with. I called my mom, and after a tear-filled phone conversation, I could have easily cut the cord on that adventure, packed my bags, and headed up 95 North. But for some reason, I also didn't want to be done with NASS. I didn't want to leave my new friends, and I wanted to prove that I could make it through the grueling six days. But even more than proving that I could do it, I wanted to make it through the next six days. And I did. And luckily, the experience ultimately reinforced that my original reasons for registering for the Summer Seminar, and for taking an interest in The Academy, were valid. I had gotten so many eye rolls, and questioning glances upon mentioning my interest in the Academy. So many "why do you want to go there?"s. I felt doubtful, but the NASS reaffirmed my original reasons for taking an interest in the Navy.

     My six days in Annapolis were by no means easy, and it didn't help that many of my peers seemed to find it exactly that; easy. (It's like getting a C on a test, which may be a great Chemistry grade for you, but then having some of your closest friends milling around complaining about their 92s. Although that does happen to me pretty frequently, so maybe  should be used to it.) The mission of the USNA is "to develop midshipmen morally, mentally, and physically, and to imbue them with the highest ideals of duty, honor, and loyalty  in order to graduate leaders who are dedicated to a career of naval service and have potential for future  development in mind and character to assume the highest responsibilities of command, citizenship, and government." (Don't quote me on that; it's from memory.) One week there did just that. With a broken toe, anxiety problems, and cramps, the 8 hour sea trials were like nothing I had ever tried to do before. 

     So why did a white girl from an upper-middle class suburban family, who attends one of the nation's top college preparatory schools, consider putting herself through this? More importantly, why did a girl with absolutely no upper-body strength, consider putting herself through this? The answer can be found in the mission statement, and the 5th Law of the Navy, and Article VI of United States Military Code that we had to memorize over the course of our week at Annapolis. The United States Naval Academy, at least in my opinion, more holistically represents honor, integrity, loyalty, duty, friendship, comradeship, and love, and fosters these ideas more effectively, than does any other service academy, educational institution, government building, or street corner in the world. This is not to say that the USNA is the only institution that demands these values and principles, or that the USNA is, in fact, the best or only place where one can undergo immense personal growth, or experience these concepts in their truest forms. Sure, there are so many places like this. I have taken note of many of them, whether they be little-known restaurants that are locals' favorites, community swimming pools, the Olympic Games, or a government. Nevertheless, I will take the Navy's advice and never give up the ship. I will also never give up my personal opinion that the United States Naval Academy is the primary definition of those values. 

     At the Naval Academy, officers and teachers, superiors and peers, preach the concept that is the collective, not the individual, that is, in the end, both the prize of freedom and the key to victory. All my life, I have wanted to take part in something bigger than myself, something massive, something incredible. Something I couldn't control. Being part of the Brigade provides this opportunity. It allows you to become a physically fit, elite, highly educated individual, but more so, it demands that you lose part of your individuality and meld with your fellow midshipmen into one physically fit, elite, highly educated team, dedicated to defending the United States's greatest principles, and motivated to be the best. I have always wanted to be part of a group, a piece of the puzzle that fits seamlessly with others as it is nestled into position. In the Navy and the USMC, not only are you part of such a cohesive unit, but you have no choice but to be part of one. Beginning with the Summer Seminar, and continuing through Plebe Year, your four Ac-Years, and your summers at the Academy, you are continually thrust into situations that require you to work with your squad, platoon, company, and brigade-mates. These situations require you to trust these people, to care about these people, to love these people, and to act as if each of them is really you. This is such an incredible concept to me, and so intangible, that I have trouble even thinking about it. And I definitely can't possibly understand it. 

     You can read "Band of Brothers" and watch documentaries and movies of combat units and similar experiences until you are blue in the face, as I have done, and you will still never get it until you live it. During my week at the Academy, I got an inch of the tip of the iceberg of it, and it left me hungry for more, completely obsessed with the loyalty and comradeship that the experience fostered. Frankly, I still don't get it. I have been reading 'The Gamble,' a novel by journalist Tom Ricks about the American strategy in the Iraq War since 2006, and I think a couple of guys in there might get it. All of them actually. But in terms of all of the people in the world, very few get it, and the USNA provides an opportunity to make you someone who "gets it." I want to live alongside people like the midshipmen who guided me through my week in their home. I want to work alongside people of that moral character, that quality, that impressive nature and sense of calling that words cannot describe. I want to be one of those people, someone I can be proud of. Those who enter and successfully graduate the Academy are inarguably the most outstanding United States citizens, and extend their values and ideals to the entire world. I want to be able to depend on someone as much as I can depend on myself. I want someone I can proudly walk into battle with, someone that I know will be with me to the bitter, or glorious, end. I want unequivocal friendships built off of unconditional trust, loyalty, and love. 

     In addition to singularity rather than individualism, the Naval Academy promotes other values that I find incredibly important; honor and commitment to one's country, particularly the United States of America. Today, sitting in the lifeguard chair, and attempting to stay as alert as possible, I realized that lifeguarding for days on end is boring, but is also stress-inducing and taxing. You are not quite doing anything, at least nothing physical, which makes it boring, but at the same time, you are constantly scanning the pool, counting children in certain areas, making sure they come up for air, or don't jump off too close to the diving board. But as unfortunate as it may seem to be sitting in the lifeguard chair, I began to realize some other things. Like how I was sitting in a lifeguard chair, wearing the sunglasses I wanted to wear, and a bathingsuit that didn't cover me from head to toe. My face was not veiled, because I did not want it to be. Even more miraculous, the children in the water were similarly clothed, and splashed around doing whatever they pleased on a mid-June day. Not in all corners of this world are scenes like this tolerated, even possible. The kids making grabs at their parents wallets as the ice cream truck rolled on down was such a stark contrast from the way that in the Dominican, the children's bright eyes would sadly follow the flavored-ice truck as it navigated its way around a goat and then out of sight behind a corner. Those children didn't even bother to ask their parents for money, and a lot of them didn't even have parents. Prosperity. 

     The bathingsuits, particularly of the women, suddenly brought me to remember the images I have been watching on TV for the past week. Images of violence, and slaughter, and chaos, in Iran, where citizens continue to protest last week's announced election results. Perhaps this leap was me stereotyping Iran, and radical governments, as those who demand the veiling of women and restrict women's rights, but nevertheless, that is what I thought about. Freedom. And then it came to me. That scene witnessed from the lifeguard chair was a manifestation of all of the "principles which made my country free" (Art VI, USMC). That was what I had been learning about, reciting, trying to grasp for the past week.  That scene at the pool? That is what graduates of The Academy preserve. I LOVE this country. Heck, I love President Bush just as much as I love President Obama. And THEY both love our country. The Navy is a steadfast defender, dedicated to keeping America around, and is filled with like-minded midshipmen, who also feel the utmost respect for our nation's leaders, and devotion to our country and its principles. 

     The Academy truly does value tradition, and memory, and legacy, perhaps more than any other school in the world. It honors those who came before you, and preserves the memory of their lives. Furthermore, it has endearing school-wide traditions, such as the Spirit Missions, or Recons, that each company goes on during the week preceding the Army-Navy game, or the unique way of passing Lefty's BBQ Sauce at the tables in Kings Hall (left hand only and to the left.) Or the way midshipmen open new jars of Skippy, by rolling the jar upside down between their palms until warm, and popping its seal by smashing the jar against their foreheads. Even the most unpleasant of traditions, like the Sea Trials, or Indoc-Night, or Drill, are traditions nonetheless. The cliche USNA tradition of graduation and the tossing of the caps cannot be forgotten, nor can the great feats accomplished by the men and women who graduated before you. Now, each incoming plebe class finds partnership through a mentoring program where the graduating class of 50 years prior sponsors the midshipmen and guides them through their time in Annapolis. Traditions like bringing the Ac-Year to a close with Herndon Monument, and hanging posters on Captains' Row before big football games. Taking MOs (moving orders) to lacrosse games, and filming spirit spots, and singing Anchors Aweigh, and doing pull-up contests. My squad leader scaling every monument and statue on campus to put covers on top of each one. Midshipmen scribbling their company number (with chalk) on every single tile in T-Square. Humiliating plebe initiation rituals. Dress-whites, and the chapel, and Princess Leias (ask about those,) Bancroft, and PEP, and morning runs. Parking for Firsties on The Yard. Because the Midshipman sense of pride is so deeply tied to all of their other values, these traditions are all the more impressive.

     Finally, honor, the foundation upon which the US Military and the USNA is built, is so incredibly special, that naturally I see this institution as the best place to discuss honor openly and to immerse oneself in an educational, professional, and general culture steeped with honor. I believe so deeply in my school's honor code that attending a university with an honor code and council is essentially a prerequisite to making my college decision.  I still have the daisies I received sophomore and junior years for signing the honor statement at my school, and at all times try to keep in mind what I have agreed to and, furthermore, why. Whether it be a matter of academic integrity, or following other school policies, I remember the teachers and peers I stood in front of on the stage as I signed my name into that old, black, leather book. And likewise, midshipmen do not forget or take lightly their commitments and responsibilities. When trying to take in the full extent of the midshipmen's commitment to honor, all one really can do is feel amazement and awe, and drop his jaw like the fourth-grader, on her elementary school field trip, who is led past Bancroft Hall during noon meal formation. It is that dumbfounding.

   

     The Naval Academy may have one of the top engineering programs in the world, and excellent faculty, two other commendable characteristics of the experience offered there. It may have one of the most beautiful campuses, and be located in the most scenic and historic of cities in the world. But the Naval Academy is actually so incredible because the things that make it incredible cannot be seen or taught. Rather, these principles are present, perhaps indiscernible and impalpable, yet dependable, and unwavering as the flag, in the Academy's inherent nature. These principles live among the men and women who gave their lives to greater things than themselves. These great people now reside on the hillside, facing the water, where the sun stretches out across the bay and up the hill, warming the cold marble slabs. They reside in the deep seas, and in foreign lands, and most of all, in the minds and hearts of the next generation set to protect the same things that their predecessors gave their lives for. These principles are echoed from sea to shining sea, and nowhere do they ring as loudly as they do from hall to hall, across the green expanses and grassy hamlets, on the Naval Academy campus.

     While the USNA may not be my future place of residence and scholarship, there are so many reasons it could well be. I want to do something when I grow up. To work with others with whom I have unbreakable bonds. I want to bring social change, stability, light to children's eyes. I want to master the art of language and take in the vibrant cultures the world has to offer. I want to be part of the same sort of collective, the same principles and ideals the Academy preaches and instills in midshipmen. My single week at the Academy was largely unenjoyable, at least while I was there, and I found it to be stressful and taxing, like lifeguarding, but at the end, I feel the greatest sense of accomplishment I have ever felt, the greatest respect and admiration for those who have gone to the Academy, and the greatest patriotic fervor and love for America that I have ever known. I am a romantic and a realist. An idealist and a pragmatist. Compassionate. Dedicated. Intense. Devoted. I love tradition, history, ancient scrolls, and the past. I also love the future. Hopes, plans, ideas. I believe in force, and I believe in diplomacy. I love this country, and truly believe that it is the greatest nation in the world. I have the greatest faith in the potential of mankind, but also see places where improvements could be made. I simply love the gifts that, in the Navy, one is taught to treasure and to preserve. I guess those are pretty good reasons to like a place, right? Hoorah.

On the strength of one link in the cable,

Dependeth the might of the chain,

Who knows when thou mayst be tested?

So live that thou bearest the strain!

I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.