Ladies in the Lane

In 1973, Billie Jean King defeated Bobby Riggs in what was dubbed “The Battle of the Sexes” in straight sets. Since then, several women have attempted to make the jump to compete with the men in their leagues.

Anne Meyers Drysdale, after 3 All-America seasons at UCLA, became the first, and only, woman to sign an NBA contract when she joined the Indiana Pacers in the summer of 1979; however, she did not make the roster and was released before the beginning of the season.

Annika Sorestam and young Michelle Wie both struggled on the men’s tour, failing to qualify for the weekend in each of their attempts.

And now comes the news that David Stern believes a woman will be employed in his league to compete with the boys before the 2020 calendars are printed.

In a recent interview with Sports Illustrated, Stern was quoted as saying he believed women would be competing in the NBA within the next ten years, arguing that the strides made from Title IX have increased the softer sex’s athleticism to the point they could physically compete with men. LeBron James, among others, would not go so far as to say women could not ever play with men, but doubted that he would play against a woman before his career is up.

Stern is a brilliant man and one of the finest commissioners to have ever served any of the four major sports. He took a dying league with a huge drug problem and made it a global power - more so than football, baseball or hockey. He recognized basketball’s individual star power, perhaps greater than any other sport, and has made the names Magic, Bird, Jordan, Yao and LeBron household fodder from the glaciers of Alaska to the streets of Nairobi.

Having said all that, his recent comments smack as politically correct at best, and horribly desperate at worst. As commissioner of the NBA he also runs the WNBA, and to publicly state that women could not succeed against the men would tarnish his flailing female product. But to suggest that a woman could compete in the NBA in the next ten years truly is preposterous and is purely a cash grab for Stern and his league.

This is not a chauvinistic attack on female athletes in any way; as an undergrad, the only championship I enjoyed from my alma mater was by the women’s basketball team (don’t throw soccer or ping pong or something else stupid at me that we probably won). There are a number of fine female basketball players, including Candace Parker, Sue Bird and Diana Taurasi that have undeniable skill and flair for the game. But can they compete against men, in one of the most demanding physical sports, when other women have failed at gentler ones?

The NBA is in trouble, and if there was ever any doubt, Stern proved it last week with his comments. Stern has failed to change the image of the NBA as a league filled with thugs, despite his best efforts (like instituting a mandatory dress code). Players like Jordan, Bird and Magic were revered, but they were taken as the exception to the rule. For example, a few days before this story broke, I was talking about the NBA with a few friends, and Greg Oden’s injury came up.

“Jesus, Greg Oden done for the year again. The Trail Blazers will be haunted by yet another draft backfiring,” I mentioned as news of Oden’s season-ending injury scrolled the bottom of the screen.

“The Jail Blazers - biggest thug team of all-time,” came the response to my right.

I turned and asked the commenter if he could name one player, aside from Oden, who was currently employed by the Trail Blazers. He could not. Then, I asked him to name such a “thug” that once played for them, something he should be certain of since he so confidently made the aforementioned statement. He failed in that regard as well.

But therein lies the NBA’s problem: a huge portion of its would be market, the white, suburban, 18-35 year-old market, has members who carry stereotypes, yet can’t name one player on a team that won 50+ games last year, or a player that helped forge said stereotype, which is dated by several years. The NFL’s Cincinnati Bengals struggled with off-the-field issues for years, yet they are no longer referred to as “thugs,” despite retaining the same head coach who over saw that era. The Dallas Cowboys were known as “America’s Team” during a decade that saw star players be busted for cocaine and guns numerous times. Donte’ Stallworth served time for manslaughter, Mike Vick for dog fighting, Rae Carruth for murder and Jamaal Lewis for drug trafficking, but nary a whisper of the “T” word in NFL circles.

Stern is pedaling a black league in a white world, and apparently, there are not enough fedoras or tailored suits to cover the tattoos that the white boys can’t get past. The NFL has Tom Brady’s chiseled jaw and Peyton Manning’s goofy yet entertaining advertisements to win the hearts of Honkeyville, but Joe The Plumber sees a Newport News boy and not the scrappy guard returning to his NBA home tonight. Stern has been reduced to pilfering Europe and now even gimmicks to get his league exposure, a league with an even bigger labor headache upcoming than the NFL, one that many believe will lead to yet another lockout, a la 1999.

The United States is still crippled with instituted racism, and it is easy to see its effects on the NBA. Without a bona-fide media superstar, the NBA has struggled. Jordan’s greatest asset wasn’t his tongue-wagging dunks or incredulous shrugs after a three-point onslaught, it was his ability to get the suburban kids pumping Green Day through their Walkmans to buy his shoes. LeBron can’t even get other NBA players to wear his shoes without controversy.

The NBA has as fine an athletic product as any major sports league the world over. Claims of players “not trying” or “only worried about the offensive end” are trite and indicative not merely of the cultural ignorance toward professional basketball, but a severe case of denial with regards to athletes in other leagues. College players don’t play better defense, they just suck something awful at shooting; that’s why they are amateurs and not professionals. College kids don’t care more than the NBA, they just don’t have to play 82 games in half-empty arenas possessing no energy. And the notion that the March Madness Tournament, which routinely sees more 40 point wins then barn-burners, is more entertaining than watching Kobe march to a fourth title, LeBron attempt to join the elite and Paul Pierce boldly try to defend a title is ludicrous.

Stern’s problems stretch beyond what an undersized, female three-point specialist can solve, but perhaps he merely has a crystal ball that foresees the end of his league before another decade passes, forcing his boys to run coed pick-up games down at the Y just like everyone else.

Life with Lassie

If you want to watch football all day Sunday, she’s cool with it, and often will lay right by your side. She never scolds you at the dinner table, and actually encourages sloppy eating habits. And instead of turning her back when you are upset with her, she comes right over and nuzzles until you break into a smile.

Teddie hasn’t completely replaced Audrey since she moved down to Florida, but she has eased the lonely days between our visits. Audrey was always sad to see me go and excited when I returned to her, but Teddie’s eyes suggest her heart breaks every time I pull out of the driveway, and she risks stroke from excitement once I return. Sometimes I can’t figure out why she follows me everywhere I go, until she jumps up and grabs the straggling Cheeto clinging to my clothes.

A puppy dog is truly one of life’s pleasures, and she has made the often perilous transition back home with the parents nice and easy for me. She’s my buddy when I’m bored, a smile waiting to happen when I’m sad, and a constant source of entertainment as she does one funny thing after another. With fall whipping through the trees, there were downed limbs everywhere today, and of course, Teddie had to sniff each one. As we rounded the corner for home, there was a relatively delicate branch that she easily could hold in her mouth if not for its great length, which was nearly three times hers. Undeterred, she gripped it in her mouth and lugged it the block all the way home, before securing it in the front yard for her next walk. While it was frustrating to have to stop every six feet so she could readjust the behemoth in order to keep toting it, I could not help but laugh at the determination and utter joy that was clear on her scruffy face.

Ah, but her walks are fret with peril, for man’s best friend really becomes friend’s best man as she hops from tree to tree, sniffing each passing leaf and standing at attention with any passing sound. The world is her toilet, and she seems determined to mark every square inch. No spot is good enough for her excrement until she has thoroughly inspected the rest of the neighborhood, and even when she finds a stretch she likes, she paces back and forth for minutes on end before squatting, and giving me the dubious duty of cleaning up after her. And humans are the superior race.

She is a daily reminder of that age old economics lesson learned some six years ago; “No such thing as a free lunch.” That smiling face with the eyes that could stop a murdering rampage and a tongue to tickle the coldest of hearts makes you work for each of her bowel movements. And when she’s done, she gives you a look as if to say, “Don’t forget to get that, and make it snappy, I want to get home to eat.”

My girl has gone so that I may only see her once a month, the rejections roll in faster than I can often stand and I’m back under my parents’ roof and rules. Many have wondered why I wasn’t outraged when Audrey moved south for her job rather than taking one closer to me; the pity-filled glances and gentle reassurances of “you’ll find something” are frequent companions to my conversations, and my Cinderella act of washing the floors, painting the walls and preparing dinner each night will soon get old.

But through it all the puppy dog reminds me. Audrey is chasing her dream, and, if the roles were reversed, forcing me to make the difficult decision to move away, would I not have wanted her support? It makes life more difficult, but no relationship is complete without a sacrifice or two. I have taken on the role of a heavy-weight prize fighter, each rejection serving as a cross to my face and pride, but I must stand tall and wait for the ringing of the bell before I can raise my arms in victory. And thank God for my parents, who have the means to help me while I’m unemployed, after putting me through school. The least I can do is clean the cobwebs and make some chicken.

And here she comes, as if her ears were ringing, my puppy dog, life’s great metaphor: you still must walk around the block before you can reap your reward.

The Summer of George

A new September has brought a new inactivity to my life. For the first time in nearly 20 years, I am not a student, a queer and uncomfortable position to be sure. The month that was always marked by new books, teachers and lessons is now just endless hours waiting for the newest installment of offensive futility from the World Champions.

I decided to take the summer off (read: wasn’t creative enough to keep writing) from the space in an effort to refocus and get away from the self-loathing that was all I could muster. I had graduated jobless, with no honors, and my final summer was all that separated me from returning home with my parents and bidding Audrey adieu as she embarked on her new career in Florida. Broke, and with little hope for a job, I couldn’t stand to be publicly miserable any longer.

While the time away wasn’t entirely voluntary, it did allow me to reflect on the year that has past, the year you all have gotten to know me. Ironically, the year I began publicly charting my growth is probably the one in which I made the least progress. My belief was that senior year would be the torch bearer, the year I would always remember fondly when thinking back on college; however, it will probably go down as one of the worst. But pain is fleeting and often skin deep, and the sands of time have a way of smoothing even the roughest of stones into a gorgeous marble.

My year long search for employment left me chasing a proverbial shadow. I had seen many of my friends go through their last hurrahs in similar fashion, chasing a job that never came, walking across the stage to uncertain waters, and laboring under part-time work before finally landing the elusive nine-to-five. Perhaps it was Audrey’s success, perhaps my self-deprecating nature, but the inability to find work destroyed my senior year. I was morose, miserable and mean to many, most notably myself. I didn’t land a job, and I didn’t enjoy my last year, and with neither goal fulfilled, I made myself miserable.

Compounding my own demons was Audrey, although by no fault of her own. To be satisfied in a relationship with another is truly trying, but nearly impossible when not in a happy relationship with oneself. Problems originated as we got accustomed to living in close proximity once again, after she had returned from a semester working two hours away from State College Town. But things came to a boiling point when she informed me she had taken a job that would cause her to move to Jacksonville, Fla., when I had been expecting her to accept an offer here in Metropolis. The one thing I had thought I had a grip on was slipping through my fingers, and my frustrations often boiled over into ugly confrontations.

Finally, when the job search had me down and Audrey and I were at each others throats, the Fraternity abandoned me, drifting idly by as more and more members abandoned ship. Many of my friends, the ones who had attracted me to it in the first place, had graduated and were gone, and so many of my peers were like me, in relationships and inconsistently available because of them. Our time spent together was no longer reminiscing about a drunken night or debating the latest football game, but instead hashing out the latest girl problems or the lame party recently thrown attended by only a handful of sorority girls. The chapter was a sinking ship, and we seniors were too wrapped up in our own lives to come to the rescue, as those before us did so routinely.

And now September has dawned anew, a fresh senior year has commenced, and a virgin crop will suffer through the torture chamber, worrying about their futures, analyzing their present and complaining about how they wished it was freshman year all over again. But it is true what they say: those who ignore their past are destined to repeat it, and those who long for the future will never realize it. Senior year is an opportunity I squandered, and in subsequent months, I know I will remember things fondly that elude me today, but the life I feared so much is laid out before me, and all that worrying I did the past 12 months did nothing to change it.

Still Kicking

My long absence is inexcusable, but my days have been job apps and Phillies games since graduation. But thankfully for my writing and sanity, I have escaped the US and am on the road in Europe. Click here to follow along with my travels

That's Camping

My resume is a perplexing piece of literature. It is filled with many a job, but almost all of which require some amount of explaining as to what I actually did for eight hours a day.

“During any given week, I’d say I do about 15 minutes of real, actual work. The rest of the time is spent trying to get people I’ve never met to laugh at me through an anonymous blog I keep.”

But in all seriousness, I’ve worked at obscure magazines, publishing houses and government organizations that often cause an inquirer to dig deeper to dissect my daily itinerary. This became abundantly clear to me the other day, when forced to explain my most recent role at a summer camp.

“Oh, that sounds like fun! So, what sports are you coaching?”

Damn! Even at a summer camp, the most self-explanatory job there is, short of “I pick apple trees or haul garbage,” do I have a complicated work title.

“Well, I don’t exactly coach anything,” I tried to explain. “See, I’m the site coordinator’s assistant, so I spend my days setting up the fields, coordinating the different camp schedules and filling in any necessary gaps.” And, oh yea, I get to dress up as this:
That would be the camp mascot, Gomer. Twice a week, I get in this sweat box that smells like it hasn’t seen a cleaner since it was purchased, dance around, and four-year olds giggle until their heads explode.

Fortunately for me, that is not the saddest thing about the camp. That would be the guy I report to (perhaps working below him is the saddest thing?), a self-nicknamed, mid-30s, slightly balding, unmarried, baseball burnout known as Devo. I have held many a shitty job, and have learned one unfailing truth: your boss will be an idiot and an asshole. Why? Because they too worked said shitty job, never graduated from it, are bitter about that fact, but have been finally promoted to the head position and feel a false sense of power and accomplishment.

Upon first meeting, Devo seemed like a nice enough guy with high energy for the camp. I was excited about working a summer camp, because it allowed me to be outdoors, figured to be pretty low stress, and would give me some experience working with kids, hopefully boosting a resume that one day will land me a teaching job. But as the week progressed, I realized this guy was not terribly bright or enjoyable to work under.

The camp is fairly well-known and respected throughout Metropolis (it was rated a few years ago by Sports Illustrated as the best sports camp in the city), and this marked the first time the camp had been held at this locale, and I quickly learned this was this guy’s first week at this particular job, so I gave him a break. But I began to sour on him when he debuted a giant, oversized, red fist that he wore during morning carpool.

See, the camp developed an asinine way to give a sign of acceptance to the campers, known as the first bump. Worst of all, camp protocol is to “bust the rock” upon making contact with the receiver of said fist bump. But Devo went a step further. He used a giant red fist (seen here at a Flyers game) to give each camper a fist bump, and then, as their parents were driving away, He fist bumped the parents! While I understand using the fist bump to avoid potential hugs that could lead to sexual assault trials, or high fives that miss and slap a kid in the face, where in God’s name is the professionalism? There is no reason to be fist bumping men in suits on their way to the office when you are in a red tee-shirt and gym shorts. Making the matter even more hilarious, I decided to inspect the red fist, because it had a circular hole on top of it that oddly seemed fit to hold a beverage, adult or otherwise. Sure enough, right there on the fist, in bold letters, said:

“This is not a toy. It is a beverage holder. If consuming alcoholic beverages from this, please drink responsibly.”

You can’t make this shit up. A mid-30s aged man was using a koozy to great five- and six-year olds each morning, and in order to reassure their parents they were in good hands, used it to send them off to work for good measure. The week went on like this; the guy scammed on the women who came in to set up the cooking camp for next week, would disappear for about an hour while I went about my work, rarely ate or sat still (leading me to believe and joke with the other counselors that he was bumping lines in a middle school bathroom stall) and was adamant that we follow the schedule, even when weather or other factors suggest we amend it. For example, one day a series of thunderstorms blew through the area, and more were in the forecast. But at the first sign of sunny skies, he had me head out to the field, lug the obnoxiously heavy pieces needed to assemble a dunk tank, and begin the long and tedious task of filling it to the brim with water. Needless to say, the storm blew through, and I got to take it down in a thunderstorm before enjoying a very damp drive home.

Yet, it pays pretty well ($400 tax free a week) and is all I have to get me through Europe in a few months. It is admittedly embarrassing as a college graduate, but I always liked camp as a kid, and it isn’t too bad of a way to make some spare change till I find something permanent.

Work for Hire

While enjoying a rare victory by the Phillies and an even rarer quality start by Jamie Moyer on Tuesday night, my phone rang, and by answering it, I invited a giant headache that has consumed the past two days of my life.

On the other end was Skinny, who you may remember from my Spring Break trip to New Orleans a few years ago. He last earned mention in this space for his ability to hook up with a bartender in Chattanooga, Tenn., to save us over $100 on a bar tab. Recently, he earned a position working as a personal assistant for a lawyer in downtown Metropolis, a position I too interviewed for. He was hired, and has been working for him for close to a month.

However, due to the verbose nature of this lawyer, the long hours he has been forced to work, and the mandatory dinners he attends with the lonely bachelor have put him well behind in a summer class he is making up in order to graduate. The course, Introduction to Macroeconomics, is a requirement for graduation, and he is failing after scoring a 42 out of 100 on the first exam. He called to ask if I might be willing to complete a few homework assignments for him and help him catch up.

I made a living freshman year taking exams and doing homework assignments for two kids who spent their time playing poker on line. They each paid me $250 an exam and $100 per homework (mind you, they were in the same class, so all I had to do was take one exam and I got paid double) and I helped them lift their failing averages up to Bs. I had taken a strong interest in economics after taking the AP courses in Micro and Macro in high school, and I got them through it for two semesters.

Knowing this, Skinny called me up.

“Carter, I need a favor. The Lawyer is killing me at work, I’m failing Econ and if I don’t pass they’re going to fire me from this job.” Great I was thinking, will they then hire me?

“I’ll give you $80, I need three of them done. One by tomorrow [Wednesday] and the other two by Thursday.” The price was considerably lower than what I used to command, but in true confession, I ripped those two kids off. I would log online, hack into their Blackboard accounts, do the homework, and the other kid would sign into his and copy it in. I am not working this week, and I could use any spare cash for Europe, all while helping out a friend in need. I agreed.

Skinny drove to my apartment to drop off the book so I could complete the assignment. After traipsing up the stairs, he looked like he was working for George Steinbrenner. His hair was cropped close, his baby face gleaned from the work of a razor and his shoes would have made Andy Dufresne jealous. He then launched into a long speech about how awful the job was, how The Lawyer forced him and the rest of the team to go out to dinner and drink with him and often how he did not get home till past 10 o’clock each night, all of which made me feel better that he was the poor slob that got stuck with the job, even though unemployment still sucks.

While he rambled on about how hard the class is, how he never has time to go and often is not allowed to leave work to attend class, I flipped through the book and wondered how in God’s name he had not passed intro Econ yet, and why he chose to take Macro, the harder of the two options. It wasn’t until he uttered the words “problem set” that my attention snapped back.

“Wait, these homeworks aren’t online? On blackboard?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, I’ll give you my password, you can log in and print them out,” he said as he began flipping 20s onto the table.

“Shit, these aren’t multiple choice questions, they’re like calculating GDP and unemployment and all that crap?” I moaned. “Skinny, I haven’t done this shit in years, my father has a PH.d in this shit, I don’t think even he could do this off memory.”

“They’re not that hard, I did the first one, and did pretty well,” he countered, explaining the fourth one was due as scheduled on Wednesday, and the other two were several weeks late, but he had talked his way into an extension. “I just don’t have time to do them, and if I don’t, I’m fucked.”

Guilt-ridden from his pathetic state but smiling inside from the money jangling around in my wallet, I relented. See, Skinny is a fun guy to go out with. I had a lot of fun with him in our younger days, going out and getting drunk, chasing after different groups of girls, listening to him retell his tales of conquest in the morning. But I began to realize as time went on that he was a bit of an ass, and not just to the girls he never bothered to call back. He has a horrible talent of “never having time” and often needing a favor. And after he lived in a satellite house with my former roommate BC, I learned of his spoiled inability to clean up after himself or be considerate to the needs of the others in the house.

Skinny asked me to complete the homework, but since he wouldn’t have time to come back to State College Town in time to collect it, copy it into his handwriting and turn it in to his teacher on time, he asked me to scan it and e-mail it to him. I recently purchased a new printer complete with scanning capability, so this would not prove to be a problem. I took his money, the book and he went on his way.

Wednesday morning dawned, I undertook my normal routine of dishwashing, breakfast, SportsCenter and news-gathering, wrote a weekly column I’ve been doing for a local state representative and then set in on the homework. The homework was as I feared, long, annoying and requiring a great deal of calculations, and I began to regret the assignment. Many of the things looked familiar, but I could not recall without a healthy reading of the text how to complete the questions. After spending three hours on the first one, I decided I would leave the next two till Thursday, since they were already late.

I booted up the printer, and placed the first page on it and prepared to scan. But, only an error message appeared, telling me to attempt to scan from the computer. Now, I’m not great with computers (it is the reason I spent all that money on a MacBook, which has proven incredibly idiot proof), so I attempted to find the instructional manual, but all the printer came with was a basics guide, requiring me to download the full manual from the printer’s Web site. It was there I learned that to take advantage of the printer’s scanning capabilities, I would have to download the software it came with. Unfortunately, the object’s resting place was a complete mystery to me. So, I called up Skinny and explained the dilemma to him. I tried the campus library, but being the summer, it’s copy shop had already closed. I was in no interest to trek to Kinko’s and pay the exorbitant price to fax everything to him, seeing as how it was unlikely I’d ever be reimbursed that sum, and I had spent enough time on the project and was frustrated over the amount of time it took me to complete it.

I had glanced at the syllabus and saw the class met on Wednesday nights, and offered to just hustle over and drop it off. But Skinny was terrified the teacher would recognize his handwriting (despite only taking one test and turning in one homework to that point, and that he has missed so much class it’s unlikely the teacher even recognizes his face) so that wasn’t an option. I told him he’d have to come out to State College Town to pick it up himself then, and to call me when he got here.

The night went on, and I soon forgot about it. At around 11, Skinny calls me.

“Carter, you got to do me another favor,” he demanded. “Jill [his ex] has a scanner, which she stupidly never told me.” - because that’s high on a dumped girl’s priority list, “I’ll give you her number, call her up and give her directions to come pick it up. Oh, by the way, she’s pissed.”

Well of course she is, asshole. After getting her on the phone, I learned she was studying for her own exam, and had been plagued by his badgering all night. She asked if I could make the trip to her, which I agreed, taking pity on her, and she huffed her way downstairs to pick up the homework and send it off. Mission accomplished.

But Lee Corso stuck his ugly catch phrase into my life about 45 minutes later.

“Carter, what is this? I can’t read any of it.” It was Skinny. He couldn’t manage to figure out what was what, likely because Jill was forced to remove the staples from the papers in order to scan it to him, and all the answers were out of order. I calmly explained to the best of my memory the labels I had used and the order it should go in, all while he whined about the horrible situation he was in and how no one had the flexibility or back strength necessary to save his ass.

With my frustration rising and Audrey trying to sleep, I again hung up the phone. But ten minutes later, my phone rang once again.

“I can’t figure this out, none of it makes sense. I’m driving over now to pick up the book so I can make some sense of it.”

In no mood at this point to deal with him, I told him I’d be in bed by then, left the book on my coffee table, told my roommate he was coming over, and bid him a good night.

But, like the Cowboys draft room, no one had cleaned the shit off the fan for day two. I was rudely awakened this morning by not one, not two but three phone calls. The reason? Skinny had inexplicably taken the book from my apartment, the one, you know, I needed to do his dastardly homework, and failed to return it to my apartment. Rather than inconvenience his self any further, he left it in the possession of Jill, instructed her to return it to me in the a.m., but could not sufficiently give her my address. So, I was awoken to learn I not only had to do more of his bidding, but I had to traipse all over campus to accomplish it. Worse, Jill had tried to drop it off, but couldn’t find where I lived, and had headed off to study, probably because he had interrupted her the night before.

Skinny continued to pester me throughout the day while I attempted to do the work as fast as I could to get on with all the things I needed to do, like, look for full-time work so I would never put myself in this position again. He would call to find out how much progress I had made, if I would be able to get it to him this time, since he was so greatly inconvenienced the night before and to ensure I was working on it

Because my scanner didn’t work, and because I had no interest in jumping through the hoops once again, I elected to do all the work on the computer, so I could easily e-mail the document to him and be done with it. Well, even that wasn’t good enough. Since the word document robbed me of the ability to draw graphs, I simply wrote out an explanation on how they should appear, giving him step-by-step directions on how to draw them, since he had to copy all my notes by hand any way.

“Carter, why didn’t you finish it?” was the rude greeting I received upon stupidly answering his phone call for the 15th time inside of three days.

“What are you talking about? I just fucking e-mailed it to you. It’s done. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“I don’t have time to draw these graphs out. I paid you $80...”

I lost it.

“Fuck you and your $80. You want to calculate that $80? Lets see. I began the assignment at 2:30 p.m. yesterday, finished it by 5:30, tried to fax it till six. So that’s three and a half hours. Then I dealt with your bullshit till midnight, so that’s another six hours on the clock. You then woke me up at nine to tell me I had to traverse the campus to track down the book I needed to finish your shit, worked on it till two. So that’s around 13 hours I’ve been on your clock. Migrant farm workers earned more than me in that time.”

“Well, I would hope as a friend...”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This is your assignment, and I did it for you. You contracted me for work you can’t complete. That means you couldn’t do it. You then don’t get to tell me how the fuck to do it. It’s done. If it isn’t satisfactory, take it up with customer affairs.”

“Carter, I can’t have The Lawyer seeing me drawing graphs at my desk. I need this or I’ll fail and lose my job.”

“But I suppose he’s ok with you picking up your cell phone 12 times an hour to bug me?” I said as I hung up the phone.

The irony is that Skinny had me work on economics homework, all while failing to understand the simple theory of opportunity cost. Had I properly weighed out the costs of this job, I would easily have seen they would have exceeded the pittance $80 salary and laughed in his face. He should have thought of that before he hired me; hope my performance was better on the homework than in deciding if I should have done it in the first place.

So this is how Earnest Byner felt?

I do not like myself right now.

I have been known to have quite a quick temper, sitting quietly one minute before flying out of my chair and letting loose with a tirade at a seemingly benign individual just seconds before. I’ve been restrained on basketball courts when the trash talk gets a little too ugly. I’ve been in a scrape or two in my life. And don’t get my started on a Jimmy Rollins GIDP, Donovan McNabb overthrow, a Todd Pinkston (RIP) drop or the famed and frustrating Jose Mesa blown save (Mesa!).

But never does frustration burn in my belly like when I am upset with myself. When opportunity floats over my head but bounces off my hands like they were concrete. So you might imagine how I’m feeling today after fumbling away another opportunity at a job.

The day started so well. I was awakened by a phone call offering me some part-time work beginning next week, something I’d spent the two weeks since commencement searching for. I made myself some breakfast, watched a little television, went out for a run, and came back to shower and ponder the rest of my day. As I was finishing shaving, the phone rang. No bother, I said, I’ll call them back. But as I finished drying my face, I heard that tantalizing sound that signals I’ve received a voice message. No one under 25 leaves voice messages, so that must mean its an important call, hopefully from an employer.

“Hi, [Carter] this is [name redacted] from ESPN. I have your resume in front of me, and I wanted to discuss with you our opening for Statistics Associate. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience.”

Oh happy day! A job offer in the morning and an interested employer in the afternoon. Perhaps my long days of filling out applications would finally come to an end! I have a friend at ESPN, he put in a good word for me, and only three days after sending in the app I was getting a call. Surely, my fortunes were changing, after securing two part-time positions last week and a bounty of booty from my graduation party this weekend.

But, I am an idiot, and destined to type this blog for the rest of my days from my parents' basement. The call started innocently enough, with her wondering why I wanted to work at ESPN.

“Well, ESPN is the gold standard in sports journalism. I know, having recently graduated from State College, that so many of my peers aspired to work at the World Wide Leader in Sports. Its the culmination of a career, and to have the opportunity to start one there would be great.”

She explained the position, what it would entail, and asked me if I was still interested. Of course, lady, do you know too many kids sending out apps that aren’t interested in talking about a job? Do you read the papers?

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied cordially to the women who probably isn’t more than five years my elder.

“Ok, great, I’m just going to ask you a couple questions to test your general sports knowledge, because this position requires quite a bit of it.”

“Sure,” I said, chuckling and smiling under my breath. This will be a walk in the park, I live on ESPN.com and watch Sportscenter on loop, since I have little better to do. Bring it on, lady.

The first few questions, no sweat. But she soon tripped me up.

“Name the last five Heisman Trophy winners, and the schools they attended.”

Damn, I hate college football, mostly because our team has sucked and I haven’t attended a game since joining the fraternity and drinking as much as possible at every tailgate.

“Bradford, Oklahoma,” I began. “Tebow, Florida.” I started thinking about flipping open the MacBook and cheating, but I was afraid of taking too much time and her hearing my fingers flying across the keys as I searched out the answer.

“Sorry, I’m trying to write it out,” I said through the receiver as I began to sweat. Who the hell won the Heisman the last couple of years?. “So, the last five years, that’s 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005 and 2004,” I said, trying to stall, but she stayed cool and silent on the other line, giving me no help. “I think Reggie Bush, from USC, was 2004…is it ok if I do them out of order?”

“Sure, I just need the last five and their schools,” she deadpanned, probably wondering why she wasted her time with me.

I thought some more about the the computer, but decided against it. She won’t kill me for missing one, so what, I can’t remember Heisman Trophy winners. I could give her the NFL and MLB MVPs.

“Sorry, I’m blanking on the other two years.”

“Ok,” she said, “Name two players on the Lakers,” she asked feeling sorry for me, “other than Kobe Bryant.”

Well, make it a little difficult. Ok, Lamar Odom and Pau Gasol. There.

“What are the four major Golf Championships?”

The Masters, The U.S. Open, the British Open and the PGA Championship, I responded, nailing them in order.

“Ok, how about the winningest coach in Men’s Basketball History?”

“Oh, it’s either Sutton or Knight,” I stalled. “I’ll go with Bob Knight.”

“Ok,” quickly becoming her annoying catch phrase. “How about the leader in NFL Touchdown throws?”

“Jeez, that’s either Marino or Favre. I’ll go with Marino.” Wrong, jackass. BSB is snickering somewhere, but fuck you Favre, I just thought you had the picks record.

“Ok, well thank you [Carter], but I’m afraid we’re looking for someone with some more knowledge. Please check out ESPN.com for more job opportunities, and best of luck in the future.” Click, before I could get another word out.

Wtf? I didn’t know the Heisman winners, but where else did I go wrong? Well, I pulled out the computer, which I should have done 10 minutes before, and found out it was Favre with the TD record, and Sutton wasn’t even close to the top in Men’s wins. But Bob Knight was, just not number one. That would be some ass hat from Northern State known as Don Meyer, who has been coaching since 1972 and has run up 910.

With a golden opportunity, I choked. Bush won in 2005, his teammate and Co-ed slayer Matt Leinart in 2004 and everyone’s favorite Buckeye, Troy Smith, in 2006. I hate myself. Why I didn’t just cheat, like every other candidate probably will, I’m not sure. Why I didn’t try to fight her, and beg for some more questions to redeem myself, I’ll never know. But I shanked the kick, sliced the drive and drove the car into the ground with the finish line in sight, and I’m not sure how I’ll ever forgive myself.

The lady certainly didn’t help. She never told me if I was right or wrong, which whittled my confidence as I second-guessed each answer. I knew I remembered Favre passing Marino a few years ago, but I yipped it, going for the safe answer. And I’m fairly certain she penalized me for hesitating on the answers, not merely coming back and firing responses at her right away. This rejection stings more than all the others, because it was a job I certainly could have done and excelled at. And at ESPN nonetheless. A day that began with so much promise crashed and burned like so many more before it.

Cooking with Carter - Mac and Cheese

As I have let on before here at Press On, I am an avid cook, somewhat of a foodie and kill an unspeakable amount of hours watching the Food Network, Top Chef, etc. My friends often ask me, “Carter, how did you learn to cook?” Well, the simple answer is that I loved to eat long before I ever picked up a spatula, and my mother was not always willing to make for me whatever it was I desired. Since I didn’t always have a car or money at my disposal to order out, I was forced to try my hand at it.

Cooking can be a daunting task for some, as it requires some practice, patience and attention to craft meals that you enjoy at your favorite restaurants. But, I assure you, it is not impossible, and not even that difficult, to make a delicious meal at home for yourself and friends. But first, you have to have on hand a couple of simple ingredients that are the base for almost anything you’ll make.

Milk
Eggs
Bread (for sandwiches, whatever your favorite may be)
Olive Oil (can be expensive, so you can substitute canola, peanut or vegetable)
Salt
Pepper
Basil (one of my favorite spices, I use it in almost everything - oregano is the same way)
Thyme
Chives
Crushed Red pepper (if you like things spicy)
Fresh garlic (or garlic powder - don’t buy the garlic salt, because it’s, well, too salty)
Onions (or onion powder - same thing as the garlic)
Frozen vegetables (I love fresh, but if you aren’t going to be cooking that often, they will go bad and waste a bunch of money)
Butter
Soy Sauce (great for marinades and a good way to add some flavor to plain old salt)

These are all ingredients that have longevity in your cabinet or fridge and can be used universally and substituted for many other ingredients a recipe may call for. You will also need some hardware.

Cutting board
Chef’s knife (as seen at this link)
Spatula
Saute´pan
Wooden spoon
4 quart pot
Glass pyrex (as seen here - can be purchased for under $20 at any grocery store)

If you are going to be doing a lot of cooking, invest in a 6-piece set. I recommend stainless steel, because it lasts forever, is easy to wash and works well on all cooking services. Teflon pans are nice, because food doesn’t stick as much, but if you buy cheaply, they will flake off into the food, and that can be dangerous and not too tasty.

So, what do you like to eat? Today, I will debut my favorite recipe, my home made mac and cheese. This is the beginner’s version, the one I started with. I have progressed beyond this since I started with it about five years ago, and if you are ready to move on, shoot me an e-mail and I’ll walk you through it. But this is a great recipe, and a nice change of pace for ridding the blue box blues.

You will need
1 pound macaroni (elbow, shells, it doesn’t really matter)
Cheese (I like to use a variety - cheddar, Parmesan, mozzarella, jack - but I will leave it up to your discretion) For a pound of mac, you’ll need about two cups of shredded cheese
Butter
Onions
Garlic
Milk
1 8 oz can of a creamed soup (chicken, mushroom, celery, it doesn’t matter)
Bacon
Goldfish crackers

To begin, bring about 4-6 cups of water to a boil in your pot. Add salt to help it boil, and oil to avoid it bubbling over. Once it boils, drop in the macaroni and cook for about eight to ten minutes, stirring occasionally so the noodles don’t stick to each other or the bottom of the pan. Strain the macaroni.

When the macaroni is done and straining in the sink, drop some butter back into the pan . Add some chopped bacon, garlic and onions into the butter (An aside here - to chop garlic, place a clove, pictured here, on your cutting board, and take the flat edge of the knife’s blade and smash the garlic, so the wrapper peels and the garlic begins to fall apart. Throw away the wrapper, cut off the hard bottom end and toss it in the trash, and carefully chop the garlic as fine as you’d like. For onion, chop off the top and bottom, peel off the skin, cut the onion in half from top to bottom. Then, lay the onion flat on the cut side and slice it, then finish by chopping the slices.) Let the onions and garlic cook, stirring frequently, for about 2-3 minutes over medium heat. If you let it go longer, the garlic will begin to burn. The bacon won’t be done yet, but that’s ok, you’re going to bake it soon. If you like your bacon crispy, cook it alone for 2-3 minutes before adding the veggies, but be wary of burning the bacon as well.

Once the veggies have cooked, dump in your can of soup, add half a can of milk, and stir. Cook for about 3-5 minutes or until it begins to steam. You don’t want it to bubble. Once it is starting to steam, dump in your cheese and stir until the cheese melts.

Once the cheese melts, slowly add macaroni to the pot and stir; if it doesn’t all fit, that’s ok. Once you have added as much macaroni as possible, dump the remaining pasta into your pyrex dish and top it off with what’s in the pot. Turn on your oven to 350 degrees, at this point. Top the macaroni in the pyrex with pepper, basil and chives and add any left over cheese to the top. Then add some crushed up Goldfish crackers to the top (you can use bread crumbs if you don’t like Goldfish) and slide it into the oven. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until the cheese bubbles or it begins to brown. Remove, let cool for about 5 minutes, and enjoy! Makes about 5 to 10 servings.

Graduation Gifts

“Carter, I really liked your entry on Moses and BSB,” Gervin said as he stuck his head in .

“Thanks, I really need to get some more writing done,” I lamented. “But, when all I have to write about is the crushing depression that stems from this job search, it doesn’t make for terrific entries.”

Gervin commiserated as he dropped his suit jacket on a nearby couch and settled in next to me to take in Sportscenter that blasted from the chapter room TV. He had spent his afternoon meeting with important people in an attempt to find his own job, but had not had much success, and heard many of the same things I had.

“Congrats on your recent graduation, you should be very proud. But, unfortunately, we don’t have any opportunities right now. Good luck!” It’s as if this generic response was stamped to the end of the stimulus packages that have flown through the Capitol building in D.C. and forwarded to every office building in the nation.

Gervin chuckled. “Yea man, I know it’s tough, but if you don’t have anything to do during the day, the least you can do is write. Just write what is on your mind. You’re a good, writer, it’ll come to you.”

So, what is on an unemployed grad’s mind these days? Is it lament from missed opportunities during my four years of school that may have ensured employment? Based on the state of many of my classmates, it doesn’t appear my level of achievement was insufficient considering they have a similar circumstance to me. I have wondered if the time I squandered early in my career and the resulting unimpressive GPA (2.8) I accumulated would be my undoing, but many classmates with sterling records are in the breadlines with me. I managed to stay employed with internships and jobs throughout my four years, but the grinding economy has left them without any funds left in the coffers to add me to their ranks. Perhaps I should have picked a different major.

Sports have certainly helped. The NBA Finals will finally tip off tonight (why the TV stations cannot adjust if series do not go 7 games I will never fully comprehend), and while it is not the scintillating battle that many had hoped for (Lebron v. Kobe), the Magic present match-up headaches galore and should prove a formidable opponent in the way of Kobe’s first Shaq-less ring. The Phillies continue to enthrall and baffle, as they have ripped off six in a row and run their record away from the cozy confines of Citizens Bank Park to a league best mark of 19-6 despite the underwhelming 12-14 they’ve played to at home. And all-world (and aging) Eagle Brian Westbrook will get sliced again, leading to a mass panic by the midnight green faithful and some fun reading.

But economic realities are beginning to set in and cripple my dreams of restful nights. I received my last paycheck a week back from my former job, which was forced to let me go because their policy is only to employ full-time students in intern capacities. My once crisp, clean Macbook is beginning to turn a shade of maroon from the constant pounding the keys have taken while I fill out applications and churn out cover letters, but little good news has come my way. Even my search for part-time work has proven fruitless, which has taken me from construction companies, to law firms, doctor’s offices and even City Hall, where I had the dubious honor to apply to be a meter maid the other day.

Making matters worse is a decision I made a few months back. I had long hoped to travel across the pond, and Audrey expressed an interest in returning, particularly to her native Poland, where she has yet to be since she left at age 7. With my lease running till the end of July and her move to Florida for full-time work not set to take place till September, we decided to book a three week trip in August as a going-away present to ourselves, if you will. I expected that I would be able to continue on my $9 an hour salary through July and that a sizable windfall would come my way from graduation gifts, and any gaps that remained would be filled by my parents. However, that job is gone, my graduation party is not till Sunday (leaving my unsure of how much I can expect from my gracious family) and my parents do not seem so willing to help me as I had believed.

Before booking the airfare, I had sent my mother an e-mail expressing an interest in going and asking if she would be willing to float me a loan for whatever shortcomings I might encounter. She replied, “I think that’s a great idea, and I would be more than willing to help you out!” With the finances in order and my interest piqued, I found tickets for $666.67 (the first dubious sign) on British Airways, and the decision was set.

The dam finally broke on Monday night. My parents invited me over to dinner (sans Audrey) to tell me what they planned on giving me for graduation. I had long known that they had invested a considerable amount of money for my education, and since I saved them a ton by going to a state school, I expected I was in line to see some of that back as a gift to me. I learned my expectations were right; however, the gift came with some strings attached.

“So, Bud, we decided on this about a year ago. As you know, we have money for you in Stock Company A and B, and since you went to State College, you will be able to see that money; your sister is unlikely to be so fortunate,” Pop started. “So, we are giving you a choice. The stocks have grown to about $20,000, and we are going to let you see half.”

Wow, this is great. My smart, thoughtful parents had the foresight to invest for me, and since I didn’t blow all of the money on college, now I’ll get it to get my finances in order, cover my unemployment, find an apartment, etc.

“What we had originally decided was to buy you a car, but we are going to let you decide which one you want,” he said as he started adding the strings to the marionette. “I am not prepared to give you this money, because I can’t have you going off and blowing it, especially in Europe, and I know that’s what will happen.” String number two.

“If you don’t want to use it on a car, as I know you have often stated how you don’t want one and you’ve always gotten by without one, you can save it for grad school, as a down payment on a house, etc. But, if you do want the car, you can’t have it until you get a job and can pay the insurance.” String number three. “I have to get you off the insurance, Bud. I can’t have something happen that might jeopardize the house,” he said, as he knocked on the floor holding up his four walls.

I sat there with what must have looked like the most spoiled, brat filled expression the world has ever seen. My parents had given me $10,000, and I was disappointed. But, to recap, I could only have the money to buy a car, and I could only get the car when I get a job to pay for it, which, while reasonable, doesn’t really help me today, and, doesn’t seem like a graduation gift, but as an eventual “you finally managed to get a job you worthless, lazy shit” gift. Further, I can’t be trusted with any sum of money, because I will immediately go out and blow all of it on something deemed worthless, although I don’t see the value of a vehicle when I live within walking distance of a subway. And finally, the gift is only being given because my driving is too big a risk to Pop, who is almost certain to lose his house after I kill somebody, but which wouldn’t happen if his son had his own insurance, killed someone, and got the pants sued off of him.

But he wasn’t done. “And I cannot condone you going off to Europe with your girlfriend. I am not willing to let you have the money and blow it over there, and I cannot give you money for something I do not agree with. You are almost 22-years old, and you make your own decisions, but I refuse to finance something I am against.”

My parents are uber conservative, having married at ages 22 and 19, raised my sister and I to be steadfastly Catholic and have expected us to uphold all that entails. I still hold on to my faith very dearly, and I understand the potential “inappropriateness” that could be construed from a three week trip between boyfriend and girlfriend. However, Audrey and I traveled to Jamaica already. Audrey has lived down the street from me for an entire year. And when she was away in Philly working in Spring ‘08, I often borrowed my parents’ car to go visit her for the weekends. While they expressed disdain to all of these things, they enabled me to do all of them, as well. I had to borrow their car to drive to Philly. I had to spend money I saved for Jamaica that could have gone to rent or tuition. So, now they are concerned we might share a bed in Germany?

I was forced to call my mother and ask her for the money which Pop refused me on Monday, because my job had dried up, my graduation is still a few days away and the credit card is fat from the plane tickets and the due date occurs during my party. I asked her why she had agreed to loan me the money a month ago, but now had backed off that stance. She countered that she assumed it was something I would undertake when I was employed (fair, but like I need to hear that again) and that she was still willing to loan me the money, but certainly not to fund the trip. She admitted there was a lack of communication between her and my Dad, and that she did not realize he would be so rigid in his stance on the trip.

I, under no circumstances, expected my parents to fund the trip; I even knew that they wouldn’t like that I was going with Audrey. That was why I checked with them to make sure they’d be willing to help me fundraise, because their interest rate is merely guilt, which, while annoying, is cheaper than money. Now, instead of a gift from them, it feels like a bill. I have to find a job to get the gift, which will in turn cost me money (what car will I find for $10,000?), and pay the insurance, upkeep and gas for the car.

I also had the dubious honor of playing ungrateful son. I have turned my nose up at a gift they have worked on for years but that I deem unworthy because it is not what I want at the present time. I’ve never owned a car, and I would prefer to go as long as possible without one, but that is sure to become more difficult as time goes by and my days aren’t spent between academic buildings 15 minutes apart.

I took a risk by planning a trip I could not afford at the time and relying on future circumstances which have not since panned out. The trip comes in the middle of my job search, which may prevent me from getting an offer, since I’ll have to take 3 weeks off after a month or two on the job.

But, Audrey is leaving in a few months. She could be gone for as many as two years, and we will once again be forced to play the long distance game. And, when I finally get a full-time job, when will I have an opportunity to go off to Europe again? I can take out a loan to buy a car (I have had credit cards for years and have been excellent in paying them off), but asking a company to finance my escapades in Europe is sure to result in laughter or, at best, a raised eyebrow.

The trip might not happen at all, now, and I may be forced to pay up to $250 in cancellation fees if I cannot raise enough to go. But yet, each cheery voice is at least sure to offer the necessary “Good luck!” after telling me even their toilets are too pristine for me to clean.

The Real World

The blinding light disturbed my focus as I hastened across campus to my final undergraduate exam. A quick peek confirmed the glistening came from a reflection, but oddly enough, its origin was beyond the string of parked cars that adorned the opposite sidewalk and seemed to be emanating from the grassy knoll that gently sloped towards a dorm building. There, stooping its head to nibble at the pristinely manicured lawn was a mythical beast, dressed from horn to heel in white, more glamorous than a newly-minted bride in a sub-tropical climate.

As I stopped in my tracks and stared, the beast lifted its head, tilted it to the side and asked, “Well, what did you expect? Good luck in the real world.”

That is where we, the “newly-minted professionals,” are headed. Gone are the waterfalls of beer and the mermaids who gave us rides to class. Forever forgotten will be the rainbows and pots of gold as we go off to join the working class. Never again will a shiver run down my spine from the shadow of a giant, fire-breathing dragon as his overhead flight blocks the sun.

But, all kidding aside, you would think the Lost Boys battled Captain Hook on campus each day with the number of times I heard the phrase “real world” during two days of commencement ceremonies over the weekend. And, if that is the case, why in God’s name did we spend so much money on college if it prepared us so poorly for what lies ahead?

The phrase left the mouth of a fellow graduate most often, and rarely from a professor or presider over the ceremonies. But really, it begs the question, what is the real world, and if we haven’t been in it, why were we wasting all of our time filling out those endless sheets of paper with questions on them attached to circles we had to bubble in? And why is every college student so terrified of life after school?

Graduation is little more than a signal to employers that the holder of said degree has acquired some arbitrary amount of education and suggests they will be competent entering a business that requires similar skills to their field of study. It does not suggest that said holder of degree will be able to find suitable housing, get to work on time dressed in suitable clothes, not fall asleep around lunch time and not try to skip out at 4:30 to make the start of happy hour. And after a weekend of “life in the real world is gonna suck!” I am led to believe that said holders of degrees don’t feel they have obtained those skills, either.

Why do post-college grads fear the “real world” (copy write, annoying overachievers who made 4.0s but can’t think of alternate terms to save their lives) so much? And why is college perceived as such a comfy cocoon? The biggest problem I’ve heard from my yuppie friends is extreme boredom, but college is fraught with roommate troubles, asinine homework assignments and deranged neighbors who play guitar (poorly) till 4 a.m. each night. When compared to mind-numbing finger-mashing for thousands of dollars a year, I think I’d have to take the unfulfilling cubicle and the money over the poorhouse of college. Was college really that stimulating that its worth more than a full checking account?

And while we all have great stories about the nights we don’t remember, if we were honest with ourselves, aren’t we all a little tired of college? The friend who has too much each night and can’t stop telling you how much he thinks of you, or the fresh-faced girl whose bruised knees haven’t healed from last weekend after eating shit on the way back to her dorm were fun to laugh at the first few years, but hasn’t their act gotten a little tired?

I’ve enjoyed fratting as much as the next guy in the pink Vineyard Vines polo, but waking up and having to hear about the night from a friend no longer appeals to me. Frankly, I’m looking forward to glasses of Chardonnay and conversations about Hispanic Chief Justices who inject life experience into legal interpretation over catty gossip and who pees the bed when they drink too much.

College has been fun, but Peter Pan’s tights are a tad frayed. The real world (copy write college senior who attempts to have perspective on how many nights they’ve wasted during four years of school and communicate it it to doting parents) awaits.

A Slap on the Back

Because they are loyal readers, and because I have not had time to devote to this space, here is the story of two graduates of the Fraternity who struggled with unemployment following graduation that I worked on for my feature writing class.

Unemployment often greets unprepared college seniors as they collect their diplomas during college commencement ceremonies. The excitement over the culmination of their education often distracts them from planning for life after college. For many, the focus is simply on finishing up their last round of classes and exams.

Moses and BSB graduated from the State University six months apart with identical degrees. They both dreamed of careers under the bright lights of television news, and both admitted they were undaunted when they clutched their degrees without post-graduate employment.

But they quickly found that when there were no fraternity parties to attend and only an endless string of empty hours to fill that jobs were necessary and effort was needed to obtain them. Both mistakenly believed a degree from the esteemed State College journalism school would have news stations burning up their cell phones, but as the months dragged on and their resumes went unanswered, they decided they had to change their strategies to find work.

Moses was the first of the two to graduate in December 2007. He had planned very little for a life after college, and spent his last semester “looking toward the finish line.” Because he graduated in December, he still had his apartment till July, and planned on working his two part-time jobs till something better came along.

BSB followed his fraternity brother down the Comcast Center aisle in May 2008. He had began searching for work by sending out resume tapes beginning in February, but had little hope of finding work due to the fast paced nature of the news industry. Unlike his business school peers, no news stations were in a position to offer him a job that he wouldn’t begin till months later, because openings typically need to be filled immediately. This stunted his job search, and put him under the gun once he returned to his native Wisconsin in June.

While Moses was more flexible in his job search, BSB was adamant about being on-air. It had been a dream of his since childhood to be a sports television personality, and he was unwilling to take a behind-the-scenes job because he did not think he would be able to graduate to front of the house.

“Working your way up is not how it works,” BSB said about his disdain for a behind-the-camera job. “You have to pay your dues [on-air] in the really small markets. I was willing to work anywhere and be paid peanuts to be on-air, but I wanted to do sports and be on-air.”

“I figured if I was going to be paid $20,000 in small town America, it was going to be advancing my career, rather than waiting for a shot.”

Moses did not have as specific guidelines for his career, and coupled with a job waiting tables at a local Olive Garden and parking cars at mall as a valet, he was admittedly lackadaisical in the first few months following commencement. But, he found life after college truly intolerable, and decided he needed to make a change.

“I didn’t give the job search my best effort at first, expecting something to come my way as rich, spoiled, white, northeastern kids tend to do,” he said. “But, I quickly learned, when you aren’t going to school, or going to fraternity events, when you are just working two shitty jobs, it sucks. It’s horribly boring and terrible.”

Moses said that frustration coupled with a tip from a former professor motivated him and led to him landing his current job. As he returned from a fresh bath in marinara sauce one night, he decided to call on a former professor. The conversation turned to his job search, and the professor led on that an alum would soon be on campus from ESPN. Moses knew he could not afford to pass the opportunity up.

He had learned a lesson from past failed attempts. Rather than merely sending his resume and hoping for the best, Moses worked to forge a relationship with the recruiter and impress upon him how much he wanted the job. Following their meeting, he sent the recruiter monthly e-mails to let him know he was still looking for a job, and his due diligence paid off. The recruiter recommended him to another in his department, Moses received a phone interview, and eventually his current job.

“It sounds cheesy, but it came down to persistence,” Moses said, a nod to the famous quotation from a former member of the fraternity. “My boss told me they interviewed 11 other people, and there isn’t a chance in hell I was the most qualified. I was a kid out of college, with almost no experience, and it was totally my persistence and my desire to do well that got me the job.”

BSB would not be so fortunate. He made it to a final interview for a position in Eau Claire, Wisc., but when the job was awarded to the son of the director of NBC’s Milwaukee affiliate in August, he was left without many options as the direction of the economy began to mimic the nosedive the journalism field had been in for months.

BSB was forced to admit the mistakes of his past had caught up with him and that his dream was dead.

“The thing I didn’t realize, journalism is completely driven on internships and connections,” he said. “I though the State University’s reputation and the fact that I graduated from there would really mean something. It was a major error thinking the degree would speak for itself.”

BSB now wishes he had been more proactive as an undergrad, working more internships than merely the one needed to graduate. His lack of experience and fervent refusal to take anything other than an on-air position had left him jobless as the cold snows began to blanket Wisconsin.

He decided he needed to change directions. He had heard of two-year long teaching fellowships from a friend and decided to apply. He earned interviews and eventually job offers from the programs in Washington, D.C., Prince George’s County, Md., and Baltimore. In September, he will begin his new career as an elementary school teacher somewhere in Washington.

He will be placed in a high need school after a six week “crash course” this summer, and take certification classes at American University to earn his certification and a Masters degree in education. His acceptance into the program guarantees him a position as a District of Columbia public school teacher, but he will have to apply to individual schools himself to find his home for the next two years.

He is excited about the new opportunity, but understandably disappointed that he did not fulfill his dream of sports broadcasting. After the two years in D.C., he plans on staying in the education field or moving on to business. For him, the child hood dream appears all but dead.

“I began to realize journalism, especially sports broadcasting, would force me to live a nomadic life style, in which I’d be in one place for two years and another two years somewhere else,” he said of his decision to switch fields.

“Even though it had been my life long dream, it became a little more unappealing, and once September and October hit, everything dried up. I was sick of living at home and wasn’t prepared to continue being here [Brookfield, Wisc.] and not working. I just thought the time was right to switch paths.”

Ironically, Moses, the one without ardent plans, ended up in a position with ESPN, seemingly something BSB would have loved, but he has no regrets and did not solicit help from his fraternity brother to secure a job there.

“I’m excited for this new challenge,” BSB said. “It [the job switch] won’t hit me until I’m six months in, maybe even longer. I’m only 22, I’m not signing my life away with this new career path. I can gain some invaluable experience for however long I do it.”

But he admitted he might feel some remorse in years to come.

“It will be interesting to see if in a few years I feel regret for abandoning journalism,” he pondered aloud. “I’m just very happy to have something.”

Moses will not be forced to wonder the great “What if?” He is entering his eighth month at ESPN as an assistant integration producer, which requires him to monitor all on-air entertainment over the news titan’s multitude of networks and “ensure we are always producing quality content for our viewers.” He also has taken a prominent role writing for the company’s intra-office newsletter, and had the privilege of writing a story on former NBA All-Star and current ESPN employee Jamal Mashburn.

But while their paths have diverged after sharing the same trail for four years, their words smack of lessons learned and the understanding that they still have more knowledge to acquire and that life after college has proven to be confusing and difficult.

“I feel like I’ve made a leap, from one piece of solid ground to another,” Moses said. “I got through the mucky-muck in the middle, and now I’m keeping an eye out for the next piece of solid ground, but I’m happy to be standing where I’m standing now.”

“It’s a cold world out there, you gotta look out for yourself,” BSB said, “because nobdy is going to feel sorry for you and it falls on you and the person looking back in the mirror at you. Eventually you have to get it done.”

But while they both sound as though they long to return to college and a life full of friends and parties, they both sense they’ve accomplished something, and stand a little bit taller because of it.

“It’s [working world] different, I think it’s great and I think it’s better,” Moses said, “but I think it’s natural to think, at each new stage of life, to think it’s better. No one wipes your butt in the real world, but it’s cool, because there is a certain sense of sel-satisfaction that comes with running your own life and knowing you can handle that.”

But BSB summed it up best, in the simplistic style of a former student of journalism.

“It sucks to leave college, but at least you’ve entered a new chapter of your life. I’m happy to be in the real world.”

Bill Lyon

This was my final project for one of my classes. Since I haven't been working much on the blog because of a heavy finals course load, I thought it might be prudent to share some of my work with you readers. Enjoy

Like many young children, I was never true to one sports franchise or even a city. I bounced back and forth depending on what uniform colors I liked best, the players’ names that rolled off my tongue most refreshingly and who dominated the standings in a particular year. But I will not soon forget when my love affair began with the Philadelphia Philles, an undying one to this day.

Thinking back on it now, my sports polygamy was fueled by my parents refusal to purchase cable television, which enabled me to only watch nationally televised games, and therefore, the best teams during that given year. But around the age of 12, I discovered I could listen to my hometown Phillies on a radio all the way down in Washington, D.C. It seems as though the distance could not contain the loquacious voice that poured from those ancient speakers each evening into the dimly lit, chilly basement I would inhabit for three hours a night to hear about the latest Fighten’s loss.

The voice was of Hall of Famer Harry Kalas, whose signature call of “Watch this baby fly!” hooked me, because the mediocre play of the team he covered certainly didn’t. And when the Phillies finally broke through and ended the city’s 25 year championship drought with a World Series title, I couldn’t sleep until I had scoured the internet to hear Harry’s call of the final out and subsequent dog pile at home plate.

And while Harry pulled me in each night, it was the written word that captivated me all the next day. I devoured the Philadelphia Inquirer each morning (thankfully my parents did have internet), and my favorite read quickly became Bill Lyon. When the stereo was on the fritz or the signal would not come through, I could always rely on Lyon to capture the emotion and beauty of the game and hone it so succinctly that a 13-year old boy could read it, yet still capture the complexity so that a now 21-year old student of the writing craft can study and learn from it.

So, naturally, when the man that got me in love with the Phillies passed away last month, I turned to the man who got me in love with writing to chronicle the sad day. And Mr. Lyon did not disappoint.

“Every time you heard that distinctive baritone, deepened by a million smokes and marinated like fine bourbon aging in oak casks, you felt something soothing and reassuring. God's in His heaven, Harry the K's in the booth, and all's right with the world. He was, for generations of Phillies fans, The Voice. If Harry said it, it must be so.”

The great writers, particularly sports writers, have a way of adding something to their copy. Sports fans have already seen the game, heard the news and talked about the trade before they get the next day’s paper. Lyon never bludgeons his readers over the head; rather, he adds a distinctive flavor to every column he writes. His words place the reader on the stitching of the ball, helps them feel the impact of a collision and even to appreciate the smell that hangs in the air.

Mostly though, he has chronicled over his long career the infuriating, exciting and exhausting teams that play in the 215 area code. The South Philly four have the ability to enchant as easily as they do to anger, to captivate but still to bore, and to win even when it feels like they’ve lost. And, he writes for an audience that is never satisfied and is not shy about their “What have you done for us lately?” attitude.

The fans do not save their famous frustration for the players only. The town’s writers face the same scorn as the athletes they cover, and unlike in many sports cities, the readers do not merely want to read rah-rah fluff pieces. Rather, they expect the writers to criticize when the team stinks it up, and when they are not objective enough, the fans let them have it on the message boards.

Lyon’s scathing tongue is perfect for Philadelphia. He brings his language to the breakfast table, and no bread knife is needed to slice a morning bagel. But to captivate such a fickle audience, the words cannot be so simplistic. He must go the extra mile when the athlete didn’t. He must entertain and encourage the fans when the team made them shut the game off before the timer said it was over, because the score already had. And he must capture the unique Philly ‘tude, and place it expertly in each day’s story.

Since he retired from the Inquirer in Nov. 2005, he occasionally returns to the bankrupt paper’s pages to brighten up a sports section that often struggles from mediocre commentary. Many of the columnists that call Southeastern Pennsylvania home today suffer from a style best described as bland and ideas that rarely challenge the paying customers. But every so often, the Delaware valley’s day starts right when they are treated to a virtuoso performance by Lyon.

He never begins a column shyly, attempting to quietly lede before dropping a hammer in the nut graph to hook readers. Rather, he leads with his strongest prose, not afraid to waste his good metaphor because he knows he has a few to call off the bench. Take, for example, this one, written about Phillies’ slugger Ryan Howard.

“At the plate, he paws at the dirt, takes root like an oak and, holding the bat like Thor's hammer, points it, one-handed, out toward some distant dot on the horizon, where soon he will mash yet another home run,” he wrote Sept. 6, 2006. His allusions are so powerful, yet so obvious you almost feel bad you didn’t think of them yourself. He watches what we all watch, but we cannot see as he does. Lyon’s greatest strength is his similes, taking the larger-than-life athletes we watch and idolize each day and stripping them down to something we can all digest.

Describing Howard’s brute size and muscle, he called his might “stronger than garlic.” He called the deceased Kalas an “oasis of calm in a roiling sea of nastiness and raging negativity.”

But his most fitting piece to study when heaping praise on the man’s skill might be the last he penned as a staff member of the Inquirer. Departing pieces are hard, because there is a trap to heap them full of memories and emotion. But Lyon avoided those issues; he did what he always did, paying tribute to the language and bending the minds of all those that picked up the paper that morning. And, fittingly, he did it his own way, with a unique style not often duplicated successfully. He called his career to a close with a conversation that only took place in his head, until he graciously let us all in on the secret.

He summed up the Philly psyche, something he was forced to cope with each day when he turned in his column.

“One thing we do really well in this town is suffer. We have a threshold of pain that extends into the heavens. Our capacity for hurt is matched only by our capacity for loyalty. We keep standing there on the street corner certain that one day, some day, just you wait and see, there'll be another parade to happen along. Like the man said: "I bleed Eagles green... I just wish I didn't have to bleed so much." This town endures, you see, and its people keep coming back for more. How can you not fall in love with that?”

But his final gift to all was a walk down memory lane, something even I could appreciate, even though I had only heard of many of them through lore.

“Mike Schmidt's silken stroke... Doc walking among the clouds... Bernie Parent utterly impregnable in goal... Bill Bergey's slobberknocker hits... Randall Cunningham performing a 31/2 gainer on the goal line... Allen Iverson, with every important body part either strained, sprained, bruised or busted, continuing to drive fearlessly to the hoop.

“Villanova and the perfect game against Georgetown. St. Joe's and the perfect season, and that marvelous little passion pit of a gym on Hawk Hill. Smarty Jones and the run for the Triple Crown.”

“And the venues. The Palestra, that great gray cathedral of basketball. Franklin Field, where the wind still whispers about the glory days. Happy Valley and the drive there - go to Harrisburg, they said, turn right and swing through the trees for 90 miles. And yes, I confess, a perverse part of me even misses the Vet. A little.”

And while I might not have witnessed every story he reminisced about, I teared up nonetheless, because they were familiar to me from his words. I may have only known about them from second-hand sources, but the passion with which they were told made me the fan I am today, the fan of the Phillies, the Eagles, the Sixers, the Flyers, and, most importantly, of journalism. Lyon is the reason I know the history behind the franchises I love, and he is the reason I root with a fervor and a feeling of pain I’ve never experienced. Being a fan of a sports franchise transcends the current product on the field, it encompasses the history of every player who has ever worn the uniform, and without the words of Lyon, I would never know that history, and never have the appreciation I do for the teams I love.

I couldn’t know every game, or every athlete or every play, but with Bill Lyon, it sure felt like I did. His column drew on past and present, literary and non-fiction, whimsical and serious. His words spoke of his passion and love for the game, and because of it, his columns never seemed like work. They seemed like the culmination of a day spent soaking in the nuances of the game only a connoisseur could appreciate, and packaging it all so that a novice could marvel at it. Bill Lyon was a true savant of the written word and of sports, and the world was privileged to have his services full-time for more than 40 years.

I will forever be changed as a writer and fan because of his work. I will never merely sit down and watch the game; rather, I always search for the quiet beauty’s that make sports such a unique enterprise. An athlete in competition is like poetry in motion, and a writer that can capture that essence captures the hearts and minds of all that pick up his story.