Tucked away behind a beige-box subdivision somewhere in a Wal-Mart suburb of an affluent Midwestern city, there’s a small neighborhood park. It’s your run-of-the-mill lower-middle-class affair, complete with four neglected swing sets, a wooden picnic shelter, two overgrown soccer fields and an undersized baseball diamond. During the day, it plays host to local middle school kids, Little League games, yoga-pants joggers, white-sneaker walkers, and moms chasing strollers. At night, it’s empty.(more…)
Somewhere on some hard drive in some basement in central Florida, there’s footage of me crying. I’ve only been on the Jumbotron once in my life, and it was when I was 5 or 6, attending my first soccer game. About 60 or 70 minutes through, the camera guy directly in front of me laughed, wheeled this massive lens around towards me, and next thing I knew my face was plastered on a screen in front of thousands of people. Why? Because I was crying.
It wasn’t that my team was losing. In fact, I don’t remember who was playing or even what league it was. I was crying because no one was scoring. Thus was born my hatred for soccer.(more…)
On Sunday, my family will celebrate the one-year anniversary of the passing of my uncle David. I wrote the following post last year as my way of preparing for his funeral.
As a self-employed twenty-something bachelor, I’ve had the flexibility over the past 5 or 6 years to accompany my grandparents on their annual vacation down to Mexico. The arrangement is pretty simple: I cover the cost of my tickets and food, and they provide me with a room.
There have been a couple of years where even that significantly discounted deal has been a stretch for me financially, but I’ve always made it work for the simple reason that my grandparents are getting older and I never know the last time I’ll see them.(more…)