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I sprinted as fast as I could, my legs going numb underneath me, to the locker room; Sadie hollered “WE’RE GOING TO BE LATE!!”. When we finally arrived at the locker room, I grabbed the cold silver handle, a shiver spreading throughout my whole body, and yanked the door open. The smell of sweaty socks and vanilla perfume wafted into nose; it was atrocious. I threw my heavy backpack, filled with books and homework, onto the concrete floor. I quickly took my clothes off and put on a Jenison football t-shirt, black softball pants, and green softball socks. I zoomed over to the closet in the locker room that we keep our bat bags in.
The unpolished floors and graffitied lockers with pictures of the Beatles glued to them indicated to me that no summer cleaning had been done at school, for what seemed like several years. As I walked, a neatly folded piece of paper, which I placed in my pocket earlier this morning, grazed my outer thigh was not letting me forget its purpose. My palms were sweaty and all I could think of was that on the first day of school, I had decided to tell my crush that I liked her. What a stupid decision. I decided to wash my hands and then put my plan into action. My walk across the hallway continued till I reached the guy’s bathrooms. Just as I was about to push the door, it opened and out ran a blonde and petite girl. My crush. Her face was surprised and her hazel eyes were
After the half-mile hike, a swipe of my student identification card opens the door. A quick walk to the locker room takes the prisoners of pain into line for their uniform. We pull on stale, manila shirts; manila, of course, from previous uses. Each resembles an old Mexican poncho, failing to conform to our bodies. The matching shorts follow; both shirt and shorts are embossed with one simple letter, “S.” The men, clad in uniform and barely awake, file out of the locker room, silently shuffling down the dimly lit back hallway, dreading the impending infliction of pain. Each socked foot becomes heavier, latching onto each fiber of carpet, but human will, not muscle mechanics, moves our warm, muscle bound, ligament and tendon attached, skin encased carcasses to the double doors. Thirteen feet away, the pungent smell of hot rubber, cool iron, moldy sweat and old coffee collides. Most men gag at this point, but the leader of the pack enters the room and there is but one choice.
I did not do much this weekend. I had two baseball practices that was it. One was on Thursday afternoon and the other was Friday morning. We worked on hitting an we also threw a little bit, which I don’t really like I just like to hit. We also played a weird game and it was really fun. It is hard to explain, but it involves a bouncy ball so that was fun.
“In the locker room, she stepped on my feet, pinched my arms, hid my blouse, and knotted my braids together.”
The football locker room is a special place. I for sure found this out about a dozen years ago during the first year we had the Kansas Pregame magazine.
Here I am, a high school freshman, many students are ready to start his or her school year academically, except for me. The only thoughts going through my head as I start my high school career is baseball, baseball and more baseball. It is every baseball playing kids dream to do well in high school baseball in the hopes of being drafted to college and ultimately the big leagues. I knew from the start I would never make the varsity team my freshman year due to the stock of players our school had, which included my brother. Even though I knew this I still couldn’t wait for the spring to begin junior varsity ball.
I looked down into the depths of the aquamarine abyss and knew that I would have to be emerged in the crystal-like nectar sooner or later. Bending over, I let my fingers graze the surface of the water. It felt like the fabric of a child’s favorite bedtime blanket; smooth, alluring and overall enchanting. With each passing of my hand through the water, it dawned on me how much I rather preferred the solitude of the locker room. As I stood up straight, I became fixated at my reflection in the hypnotizing current of the pool. I tugged at my ample shirt to make sure that no one could see the unoblivious muffin top that cascaded over my taut hawaiian printed swim trunks. When I measured myself from head-to-toe, the only result was that of me seeing myself as a rejected Mr.Potato Head. Taking in a deep breath of humid, chlorine-stenched air, I cautiously made my way over to the bench for roll call.
I was done with all my ninth grade division games, and things were going well I was the star on my team then. I had Just finished with eighteen touchdowns in seven games. I was done with Monday and Thursday night games, onto the Friday night lights.
The person I respect is my coach, Lee. Around November last year I met coach. It was during, my game, against his team, I had just stole the ball, when Lee walked to my mom, and talked to her. After the game he introduced himself and we talked. Once we got in the car my mom told me Lee said he wants me to come to a practice of his, and check it out. Sadly it took me several months to come see what his practices were like. I’m thankful I did because he’s the best coach I’ve ever had and I like his qualities, even though he’s very strict.
Playing four sports in high school ignited Jacob Albright’s desire to pursue a degree that would grant him the opportunity to work in the field he is passionate about, sports. Albright has always found himself invested in many different sports, from playing golf, swimming, running cross country and track throughout his high school career, to always able to find him on the sidelines during football games. Choosing public relations acts as the step through the door in his professional career toward the dream of entering sports marketing.
The sun gradually creeped beyond the horizon as the austere city awaited the predictable flood of morning traffic. I awaken to the silent tapping of branches against my window, as the wind whispers its delicate morning song. I sluggishly get ready for school, foreboding the tedious hours of schoolwork and the tiring hours at track practice. A mere six hours later, I make my way to the locker room all the while getting lost in a crowd of nameless faces. The locker room is overwhelmed with chatter and laughter, and littered with lacrosse sticks, gym bags, and water bottles that anxiously await their owners’ arrival. I slip on my favorite Nike shirt, shorts and shoes and make a mad dash to the athletic trainer to escape the inevitable long line. The dreaded practice arrives. Explosive power from the start of our repeat 100 meter sends our hearts racing, and we respond with a strong finish. Once we finish our sets and head toward our coach he says nothing, just reminds us to finish our harsh schedule of
I started playing volleyball in seventh grade, and I had completely fallen in love with the sport. Growing up in a small town, our school always struggled to find coaches that were not related to players. In middle school, I would always be so angry that the important named kids got to play in the A team, while I was stuck in the corner with the B team. Eventually, eighth grade year I decided to join a club team, and increase my skill for freshman year. I enjoyed club, I had actually made the one team, and I had virtually no problems with anyone or anything that season. But, just as soon as freshman year rolled around my attitude changes a lot. I’ve gained the perfectionist trait from my mother, and with this mindset in a sport, you’re almost guaranteed to struggle. Freshman year I had just come off of club, so I knew so much more about the sport and its movements. Naturally I wanted to be perfect, I personally believe that I had done really well as a freshman, but when I messed up I became silent.
This one, the scholarship jacket, was our only chance. a In May, close to graduation, spring fever had struck as usual with a vengeance.1 No one paid any attention in class; instead we stared out the windows and at each other, wanting to speed up the last few weeks of school. I despaired every time I looked in the mirror. Pencil thin, not a curve anywhere. I was called “beanpole” and “string bean,” and I knew that’s what I looked like. A flat chest, no hips, and a brain; that’s what I had. That really wasn’t much for a fourteen-year-old to work with, I thought, as I absentmindedly wandered from my history class to the gym. Another hour of sweating in basketball and displaying my toothpick legs was coming up. Then I remembered my P.E. shorts were still in a bag under my desk where I’d forgotten them. I had to walk all the way back and get them. Coach Thompson was a real bear if someone wasn’t dressed for P.E. She had said I was a good forward and even tried to talk Grandma into letting me join the team
Bonnie the secretary introduced me to my new teacher. As Mrs. Bonnie was leaving the room, my new teacher Mrs. Evaheart introduced me to the class. As I stared at the class I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. I wanted to go back to my old school where I had friends, knew almost everyone, a place where I didn’t feel lonesome, a place anywhere but here. As I saw each and every one of my new classmates faces the utter dread that I felt slowly began to fade as I saw a familiar face. Seeing one of my former friends give me a renewed hope that maybe being in this school won’t be so bad after