"News to Me": Meyer Wolfshiem did not fix the 1919 World Series

Public enemy Number 1, a James Gatz, a.k.a. Jay Gatsby a.k.a. The Original New York Giant a.k.a. the fourth worst sin committed by college applicants, whose dreams of matriculation are now just about as solid as Jay's chance at love.

I am not necessarily certain what the next three sins are, heck I probably committed them too. Well at least I caught this one before it was too late. With my mom nagging at me all weekend to "get those applications done or you're not going to school on Monday" I decided to finish off the five hundred word essay with a clever rendition of The Great Gatsby, which was nothing more than a regurgitation of West Egg stew from AP Language class.

Simply put I was a fool for even considering writing this essay, if that is foolish then idiocy would describe me becuase I actually put it on paper. Enough of this rambling, I have work to do. New essays need to be written if I want to make first hour tomorrow. Hopefully I can submit a new transgression to the list, it may even become the cardinal sin.

Telling the University of Notre Dame that my dream decade is living in the 1520s with Martin Luther doens't seem that bad, does it?

Sophomore Slump

It came straight off the silver screen. Friday Night Lights, Metro Conference style. The preparation, the hype, the adrenaline; The game, the fight, the heart. The pride, the championship, the season; gone. Somehow the proud tenor of the Mustangs chorus of the Common Doxology rang empty Friday Night. No perfect game, no threepeat, just anguish.

Walking off the field, nothing left to give; there was no reason to hide your tears. Everyone knew. The fraternity of high school football bridges the gap between generations. Coaches, referees, teachers, they all know what it feels like. Our pain was felt by everyone. Even the waiter at Ram's Horn cried a tear for the Mustags Friday night.

The muffled sound of tears was unmistakable on the otherwise silent bus pulling out of the parking lot. Harper Woods hooligans taunted, jeered, and jabbed. The bus remained silent, nothing left to fight back with, the Mustangs rode away dejected.

It is impossible to capture the essence of sports. If you haven't played high school football, it is difficult to grasp a handful of seventeen year old athletes in tears, hugging one another, muttering soft "I love yous," after a loss like this. It is a unique love, those who walk past unnoticed in the hallways, are your brothers on the field. The world of sports are filled with cliches,"it isn't whether you win or lose it's how you play the game". The emotion speaks for itself. I know how we played the game.

Leave nothing.

The ever important first blog post has finally come after weeks of preparation. After being warned numerous times by a certain, AP Literature teacher that the Lurker Alert was in full effect, I had to simply wait for the right topic to come along. Funny how father and son seem to make use of a collaborative effort. This display of photographic savvy, captured by Aaron Brandt, timelessly displays the night that was Senior Homecoming '08, a Rendezvous in Paris.

Oh and what a fun-filled night it was. Don't be alarmed or even fooled, this look of collection should not be mistaken for the exhaustion factor from dancing one too many 90s wedding staples, the Hustle, Cotton Eye Joe or the Macarena. No, not even a lenient Ms. Haupt, walkie-talkie in hand, Cranking dat Souljah Boy, could have kept me at this dance. Which explains, the look. Dancing my one and only, with my once, one and only, to the musical selection, "L is for the Way You Look at Me" only confirmed the next necessary course of action.

In what was a terrible day from the beginning, it looked like Paris and I, would share but a short fling. Having in mind to leave the dance after my duties as a jester in the Homecoming Court, I decided upon arrival I would look to the good doctor for a bit of advice to cure my problems. "Dr. Buuck, I know you did not attend your Senior Prom, any regrets?" "Not for a second." Well this put it over the edge for me, as I decided to follow our esteemed leader's footsteps. Pictures taken, poses uncomfortably maintained, and smiles forced, I was ready to leave the dance. After making a quick exit I was met by opposition at the door once, twice, nay thrice. The likes of Mr. G, Ms. Haupt, and Mr. Reincke all decided to have a word with the young delinquent, who leaving the dance before 8:00 p.m. must have been to no good. Yet when all was said and done, I fanagled my way out of the parking lot, buckled my seatbelt, slithered off that paisley tie, and settled down to a night of college football, alone.

Questioning whether or not I had made the right choice, as I lay in bed, I decided time will soon tell. I haven't been squirming yet, and now wish just in the slightest that I could have been kicked out of Homecoming, like a whole herd of Mustangs were, to ensure I won't be tempted to attend the next Lutheran High North dance. The following Monday, my hope was reassured as Dr. Buuck pounded his chest and rallied my spirits with a supportive "No regrets!" Absolutely doctor, I now realize, I couldn't agree more.