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.

Going Bad Down at the Derby

The room was quiet, eyes were diverted and the tension was palpable as I took my turn with the gavel. I scanned the room and took a deep breath before launching into what might as well have been a soliloquy. Some still listened, but most had tuned me out. What I had long feared had come to fruition. I was the old, out of touch guy in the room, and those that once laughed at my jokes merely shuffled in their seats and waited impatiently for me to finish and sit down.

******

The RV had rumbled down the roads of Kentucky for the better part of six hours, and upon reaching Louisville, Ky., we all celebrated with a beer. Some 700 miles away, the rest of the Fraternity raged, but we had set our sights weeks ago on the Derby, despite the fact it meant missing the spectacle that is Away Weekend.

Naturally, our conversation turned toward our decision to skip Away Weekend for a road trip. Our reasons behind the decision varied; some had not paid dues and weren’t eligible to attend, a few had graduated from State University the prior year and still more were not members of the Fraternity. We all settled on the conclusion that we had seen Away Weekends before, and while they were always the best parties of the semester, a 30 foot RV, 600 miles of road and the never-duplicated Kentucky Derby were too hard to pass up.

As we settled in with our hosts for the weekend, I received a text from the Fraternity’s outgoing president that contained an accusation, and rather than immediately rectifying the confusion, I decided to have some fun.

“Did you all steal our 15 handles of KG and take it with you to the Derby?” he questioned.

“Yes, we’re drinking it right now,” I responded, and to add injury to insult, finished, “It’s delicious.”

“You are a fucking asshole, [Carter],” he exploded. “First you guys don’t pay dues, steal booze from us all semester by coming to our parties, and now this. Don’t bother coming around anymore, you aren’t wanted or welcomed.”

Minutes later, from our secretary: “You are no longer a brother. Don’t bother coming back.”

Apparently, nearly $200 worth of liquor was unaccounted for, and accusations had been running wild. I would find out later that one of the guys on our trip texted his roommate, who was at away weekend, “How’s the liquor in Virginia Beach,” and it was taken as a taunt and circumstantial evidence that we were the culprits behind the missing liquor. In reality, it was merely a nod to the mint juleps we had been facing all evening, but considering the circumstances, it is understandable how that could be misconstrued.

Texts began flying between Louisville and Virginia Beach as I relayed the messages to the rest of the members on the trip. The secretary would not cease and desist, labeling us as deserters and “Good bros gone bad.”

I eventually got our president on the phone and calmly explained we had not taken the liquor. He apologized and explained the frustration and intoxication that were rampant on his end, and I apologized for heightening the rumors with my antagonistic response. But their point had been made, and the divide I have felt for much of the semester was proven true.

It is not uncommon for seniors to out grow a fraternity in their last year. They have made their friends, seen many of them graduate and move on, and a lot get steady girlfriends that keep them away from parties where they used to skirt chase. They tend to hold their own pregames and go to the bars themselves, and their effort, attendance and participation tend to lag as graduation looms.

Unfortunately, our chapter has a larger problem at hand. Many seniors, myself included, elected not to meet our financial obligations this semester (dues are $600 for seniors, $650 for the rest of the chapter). Personally, I had planned to go on spring break, save my money for an uncertain future and use whatever was left over with my friends that had survived the passing years. I rarely attended fraternity parties, because a keg and 19-year olds in togas no longer appeals to me. In essence, I would have been paying $750 (dues plus the $150 kick in) to attend away weekend, and considering my precarious financial situation, this did not seem to make great sense for me.

On the other hand, the Fraternity has seen me through college and given me great friends, memories and moments. My selfish decision hung every other brother out to dry, and coupled with the other seniors who did not pony up, we crippled the budget and made it difficult for the chapter officers to fund our activities. By saving our money for ourselves, we deprived the younger brothers of many of the outings we still laugh and reminisce about today.

However, the Fraternity of 2009 is not the one I pledged back in 2006. Many of us graduating this year feel a deep divide within the chapter, and a noticeable degree of disrespect. Perhaps this is warranted, because we did not meet our financial obligations, but I felt it even last semester. The young guys are the majority, and they have little time to listen to our old stories about people they’ve never met or our advice on issues they don’t believe they’ll ever face. To us, they abuse our houses for parties, and merely want our money to financially back the next one. They care little for our companionship, and only lack a long enough stick to finally push us the last few feet out the door.

We certainly bear some responsibility; perhaps we did not do a good enough job of incorporating them into our circle and getting to know them. But when I was an underclassman, I reached out to our older brothers because I liked them and wanted to get to know them. These guys seem like they just can’t wait for us to get out so they can take over the reigns.

I remember our departing seniors giving their final salutes last year at meeting, and it was the first time it hit me that my friends would be gone, and we would be the oldest guys in the house. It was a scary thought, because last year’s class had a great deal of strong personalities and engaged brothers that stayed interested in the fraternity to their dying college career’s last breath. Few of my pledge brothers ever lived in the chapter house, and most of us never hung out with anyone but ourselves.

And yet, I can’t help feeling the stink of disrespect. Respect is earned, not given, and maybe the anger and frustration that was on display at meeting Monday night was tantamount to the fact we haven’t earned it. It is my humble opinion that they care little for us, and it seems to me they believe we have turned out backs on them. Those feelings were not helped along by what transpired this weekend, but when we got word away weekend had come to a premature conclusion Friday night because the owner paid a visit to the homes and saw the destruction, our decision making didn’t seem so bad. The Fraternity doesn’t work when some of its members don’t contribute, but it doesn’t seem sensible to pour my resources into something that no longer values my presence any more.