Growing Up

Growing up. Its awful, and I hate it. Just the fact that I have to write a blog about growing up makes me mad. If I could, I would live the rest of my life at this stage of my life, the perfect mix of responsibility and fun. I don't know how its happened, how I got from playing with matchbox cars to driving real cars. I guess it started at the end of Lenape and will continue for years. In 5th grade I was faced with my grandpa having cancer, in 6th grade I faced such a bad end to my friendship with my best friend since pre-k that I didn't even go to school for a couple days. One of the highlights of growing up has been finding out who my true friends were, and surrounding myself around them; that all happened in middle school. Growing up resulted in me not realizing dreams, the first times that failure killed me. For the first time I needed to worry about things like girls, shaving, and about being responsible and trustworthy. For me, Middle School sucked until 8th grade, besides stupid drama I found myself stuck in . I don't know what else to say, growing up just sucks. One of the things that factors into it is the responsibility. Having a job, juggling APs, driving a car while mom stays home waiting to hear from me, doing clubs and activities and trying to work on an Eagle Scout Project while still trying to be a kid. Thinking about it, I'm far from being fully grown up, but I'm saddened thinking about the past. I hate when I refer to my childhood or starting a sentence by "When I was a kid..." Honestly, I miss the days of playing rescue heroes and matchbox with my dad on a snow bank over Christmas break. I miss show and tell, and Elmo and Barney. Not having a worry in the world that was more important than which Star Wars movie I was going to watch. But all things must come to an end, and life still is pretty good. I love coming across new milestones, the most recent of which being hopping in the car, rolling down the windows, blasting the radio and cruising by myself. In the end, maybe growing up isn't too bad.

Story to be told-Life's hardest lesson

It was a summer day, but i was in school, so i guess it was spring. I think it was 5th grade, but I can't be quite sure. Anyway, I don't remember much from the day specifically but now I wish I did-I wish i remember how it was to wake up, what the air felt like. There was a comoation in the family, but secrets were being kept from us, the kids. I guess it had been going on for some days, but this was the big one. Everybody was at my grandparent's house up the street-that is, my parents, my grandparents, my dad's sister and her husband, and my Uncle in Virginia was probably on the phone. Within moments my NY uncle was at our house, with the role of "babysitting." At the time, I had no idea that was happening up the street would become the hardest thing I'd have to deal with in my life to that point.Well, we hung out with our uncle, and played capture the flag. Later that day, when my parents got home, they had us come wit them into the living room. My dad, with tears in his eyes delievered some of the worst news I have ever heard-"Papa's sick." I understood what that mean, at least subconciosuly. My brother and sister passed it off, let it blow over their head. Not me though. I had never seen my dad like that. I broke down, I couldn't take it. The next day I saw Papa for the first time. I told my mom he didn't look sick. She told me to keep it down-the fact that he was ill was not yet public. On the school bus the next week, I told the news to my best friend, the first and only person I ever told. That summer, my grandparents celebrated their 50th anniversary. While my grandma talked about being best friends and praised us grandchildren for being their "cheering section," my grandpa was talking about struggle. He wept as he spoke. Half of those in attendence cried as we watched a video montage of thier 50 years, concluding with the video of my weak, bald grandfather cutting the cake on their actual anniversary. Well, life went on. Papa dealt with kemoterapy and we tried our best to keep my grandparents at their actual house, instead of moving to a new complex known as Woodland Pond. Our attempts ended in success, they stayed. In 6th grade, I asked Papa to come on a field trip to Mohank, as he had always been on field trips. He said no. "Papa can't do stuff like that anymore" my mom said. I was devistated. There were ups and downs, and then the spring of 7th grade, he passed out, not once, but multiple times. In the summer, he attempted to cut my hair-an extraordinary failure, and i was in tears-what had happened to papa? The true turning point came at my Virginia Uncle's general promotion ceremony, papa walked with a cain and was getting assistance from soldiers-and only just to walk. He fell that night at the hotel, into the bathroom. My older cousin and I started having sleepovers to help nana-papa couldn't even go to the bathroom at the end of that summer. At Ocean City in July, he was transported in a wheel chair, and began having trouble understanding. I remember one morning my cousins, siblings, and i ran into his bedroom and said good morning. He didn't say much. I hated it. Before long, he truly lost it. Hospilized in Westchester, he recognized my aunt as his grandma, and when my dad asked him where he was, he said "Kingston." Weeks later, he was in a hospice, continuing his decline. We went everynight, or at least tried to. We went there for Thanksgiving dinner, the last holiday with papa. When we said goodnight that night, he talked, told us he loved us. Into December, it looked like things were getting better. My dad was working on getting him to write, as he had lost all ability to communicate. Holiday decorations had been brought in, and we were making plans for the holiday and the upcoming Army-Navy game, certainly something to celebrate with papa. I didn't go one night, a Thursday, because I had Boy Scouts. Apparaintly papa had expressed joy when dad mentioned that papa's own world famous ice tea would be brought to him that next day. For some reason I still don't know, I cried that night. The next morning, my brother and I were awoken by my mother, and I freaked out because I was going to be late to school. But much like that day in 5th grade, she had us gather around and told us papa had passed a couple hours earlier. I was devistated. We went to see him in Newburgh, my dad telling us it looked "like he was sleeping," but it didn't. I couldn't comprehend, papa, the man who taught me about hearts and electricity, who was always encouraging me, who made me a Yankee fan, who took me on a school trip to Ellis Island, was simply a corpse in a bed. The following days were some of the roughest I have ever faced, but I got through it, like I knew he would've wanted. It brightened up my night tonight when Nana came up to me a student rec and told me how proud he would've been with me: "In Physics! He would've been ecstatic." Not a day goes by when I don't think of him, and the ways he touched me. I wish he could still be here today, and see me suceed. I wish he'd been at confirmation and 8th grade graduation, NHS inductions, and student rec. I wish he could've known how much he means to me. In the words of one of my favorite songs: "what I wouldn't give to ride around in that old truck with him." Well now as I become I driver, there is one car I have found comfort and meaning in, and thats his truck that was his trademark. He taught me so many things in my life, but wasn't even around for the greatest and hardest lesson-love prevails, and always live life to the fullest each day, because you never know when your time is coming.

Coming Up Short

Not gonna lie, I found it difficult to pick a failure to write about. Not really because I haven't failed or come up short in life but I couldn't think of something I could write a lot about, and something I could put on the blog. When I sat down and thought about it, I was able to select a topic, but how much I can write about it, well, I don't know. In the summer after 8th grade, my sister joined the summer swim team in the town, and I didn't really have a reaction. But when I found out my two best friends were on the team, I immediately signed up later that day. My first summer swimming was weird. I wanted to succeed, despite not knowing any of the strokes and me and all of my friends swimming in the slow lane, never actually completing the set we were supposed to do. Looking back at that summer, I realize I've really improved, obviously meaning that that summer wasn't my failure that I intend on writing about. Well, anyway, the winter of freshman year I joined the swim team realizing my probable spot as the worst person on the team, which didn't bother me until I saw my friend make sections in numerous events, and I was angry because I had started swimming at the same time (he also had been swimming a lot more then me since we both started, but I didn't really realize that then.) Sophomore year, I came into the season with the obvious goal of making sections. I was excited about the potential of the season, and but I came into the season looking terrible, adding on more and more time with each race. I eventually picked backstroke and breaststroke as my section swims, but one time I did backstroke and my arm was in extreme pain. I was diagnosed with tendinitis the next day, and lime's disease a couple weeks later. My swim season was shot. And there were my two close friends, the reason I joined Seahawks make sections, one even made it to finals! And all I could do was sit there and watch. Coming into Junior year, I didn't do Seahawks or Hawks (the year-round team), which I regret because it probably was the final thing that set-up this failure. Within the first two meets of the year, I was on the coach's section-watch list. There was no doubt-I was gonna get it in the 100 Breaststroke. There reached a point of the season where I was only 2 or 3 seconds off, easily droppable in the Breaststroke. But, suddenly, I started struggling, and I didn't know why. Instead of watching my time drop, it rose, race by race. I got out of the pool and threw my cap and goggles in anger. Then I got yelled at by the coach so I went to the locker room and repeated my actions. A major ear infection took me out of the pool coming down the home stretch. I got into the pool for the first time in weeks, one day before the final meet I could make sections in. I knew it, I was screwed, there was no way I could do it. And then the meet came, and I went in with confidence and nervousness. The coach showed me the meet record time, totally attainable, and it would grant me a section time. He told me I could get it, and I believed him and I believed in myself. I put my heart and soul into that race, probably more so than any other before. But when I finished and looked at the times, I saw my season end, way over the section time and my PR. I was disgusted with myself, I couldn't believe that I hadn't been able to do what I thought I could, and I was mad that I had thought I could do something I really couldn't. However, the outcome of that race has motivated me to crush that race next year, and I'm certainly not going to fail, because I hate that feeling of disgust.

"The only sport where you can do something about yesterday, today"

I don't really have a specific place of solace, but if anybody truly knows me they know I find peace in the game of baseball. I don't really know when my love of the game began, but I do know it must have been a quick development. My earliest memory of playing is in my uncle's front lawn around Easter time in the mist of a humid Virginia day. I remember my first Yankee shirt I got was from my grandpa for Christmas in 2003-I credit him for  making me a Yankee fan. It was also 2003 that I can sort of recall watching a MLB game, watching as my mom's favorite team gave up a homerun to Aaron Boone (picture above) sending the Yankees to the World Series. I didn't care though. But, over the course of the 2004 season, I became a fan. I watched Derek Jeter fly into the stands to catch a foul ball, and then saw a John Flaherty double to win the game 10 innings later (against the Red Sox). It amazed me, the sacrifice for a ball, the sheer excitement of listening to the announcers go crazy and seeing the dog pile at home plate. I also watched A-Rod slam into the Red Sox catcher, leading to a full-on brawl in the infield. That summer my cousin and I also started a new tradition-we went to our grandparents to watch the all-star game and sleepover. And, for me, nothing beats the MLB all-star game. 2004 was sort of a clashing year of generations for baseball, the generation of the 90's was fading, and a new generation lead by stars such as Albert Pujols and Ichiro was taking over. That all-star game tradition still continues today, almost 10 years later. We always make room for it, and when we can't we record it and watch it at another gathering. Watching the game just has a soothing effect on me, I don't know how or why. But when I'm going through the rough patch or I'm in a bad mood, I can sit down a watch the game, play it on a video game system, or go outside and toss a ball to myself. I remember last year I was really upset about something, and I was texting one of my friends about it. I remember specifically saying to her "The Yankees better be on when I get home." Most people I talk to hate the sport, they say its too slow and boring. But I say its not, not if you appreciate the game. The number of outcomes of one pitch are fanamonal, not to mention the possible outcomes before a pitch can even be thrown. The game runs at the perfect pace for what needs to take place. And its unique in so many ways, that it can hardly be compared to the other major sports on the continent. One of these is that you can't lose until you actually lose, meaning there is no clock to run out, you can knee the ball. Two years ago I watched a team be one strike away from losing the world series and win it the next day. One time with one out left a Yankee hit a routine pop-fly that ending up falling out of the fielders glove, and the Yankees won. While the time for me to play the game is waining, I know that I'll still be involved with it and one day hope to find a job in it. There is nothing more exciting, mystifying, and calming for me. Its the greatest game in the world, and like someone once said-its the only sport where you can do something about yesterday, tomorrow, sometimes being forgiving, while sometimes causing you extreme frustration. And there is truly nothing more exciting then watching a ball fly out of the park, and listening to the call of the broadcaster: "This is Boone's first at bat of the game-ITS A FLY BALL DEEP TO LEFT, THERE IT GOES AND THE YANKEES ARE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES..."

Repitition

I don't think I read a lot of different books. Just the same things over and over again; The Little Engine That Could, The Hungry Caterpillar, and Where The Wild Things are were read multiple times in my childhood. I have found that I still enjoy reading things again and just looking deeper and deeper into it. I read the entire Harry Potter series twice, the second time looking deep into connections between the books, such as looking at the names of wizards briefly mentioned and the authors of the books that the kids needed for school. I don't know if its because I'm scared to try new things or if I just get hooked onto a book. I love learning the backstory and the continuation of a story beyond the book itself. For instance, when we did the play "Antigone" in sixth grade, I asked for and was given the task of researching the backstory of "Oedipus", increasing my understanding of the play as a whole. One thing I have always enjoyed is the genre of non-fiction. I constantly read the pages in animal, fire truck, and civil war books, reading pages over and over again, some how hoping to find more in the two-sentences and picture that took up a page. I never would be open to reading a new book series, other than the Magic Treehouse books, which, like always I would read over again, picking out favorite stories and then looking more into the topic that was discussed in a single book. My mom says I always looked into, and still do look into, everything too deeply. Just because I read something, doesn't mean I've reached satisfaction. It has now spread beyond reading, into everything from personal interactions and beyond. For me, reading will always be the same as from when I started, always able to read a story I enjoyed again and again, always looking for something more within each page.