Just wanted to share...

[pavlovk1025]

My english homework. Im in a writing class, and it's fairly interesting because we're exploring "fun" writing over mundane college essay writing. Our first two assignment's are Observation essays, trying to bring someone in to our environment that we are in. Two topics, "Event" and "Common Area" type of ordeal. I want to share because we are going through the peer review process and I am kind of enjoying the critique Ive gotten so far of my first attempt at writing.
Im going to share the first essay, which is the Event topic, and all feedback is welcome, especially negative. Let me know what you folks think, and Ill share the second essay tomorrow.


The Further They’re Wedged, The Higher They Jump


I have the pleasure of being invited to attend a University of Utah gymnastics meet. This is definitely not something that I typically appreciate or go out of my way to take interest in, and gymnastics isn’t really a sport in my mind. Sure, you have to be one hell of an athlete to be able to twist and flip as they do, but really, where is the excitement in watching a bunch of women jumping around in skin tight leotards. On second thought, a natural consequence of being a male is a deep appreciation for women in form fitting clothes, so perhaps the negative attitude I have might be for naught.

After a short drive to the events arena with the unspoken thoughts of what I was about to experience, the night ran into its first pitfall. I would learn later that 12,605 people were in attendance to the gymnastics meet, a number which I could never fathom being the amount of people who care about a college gymnastics event. Perhaps I should have guessed though, as I suddenly found myself tapping into my New York City born and bred parking instinct, that there would be too many cars and not enough spots to fill them all. The interesting thing about drivers, regardless of who they are, is that when parking is the issue, all rules, morals and human decency go out the window faster than a 21 year old’s do in their first visit to Vegas. Parking for an event is almost like playing musical chairs, with the prized last chair being two reflective paint covered striped lines instead of chairs, and four tires instead of a derriere. A 5MPH speed limit sign becomes just another metal object as the beast known as “Elderly Couple” guns their Buick through the parking garage to reach the open parking spot before I do. I have the advantage however, in youth and in money spent on car modification. My cat like reflexes drive my gas pedal to the floor; the roaring of my import car’s intake echoes through the garage as I attempt to cover 50 yards faster than they cover 30. This is battle, and I do NOT lose to geriatrics dressed in home team colors and driving outdated vehicles. Jumping out of my car and locking eyes with the defeated enemy, I am enticed to do a victory dance. But the reality of the situation kicks in, and I realize that I just broke the law only to beat an elderly man out of a parking spot. Humility overtakes the powerful emotion to kick a downed opponent, and I make my way to the entrance of the stadium after pausing to take one last embarrassed yet satisfied look at my car’s location.

The first thing that you can always notice when walking into a sporting event arena is the overwhelming fragrance. Nothing else can come together in such a beautiful composition; the rich smell of fresh buttered popcorn, the mouth watering delicousness of various roasted nuts and the pungent aroma of rubbery, indigestible hot dogs coated in the sickeningly sweet smell of carbonated beverages being poured into oversized cups. Perfume de Sports Arena slowly permeating into my winter coat, I make my way through the circular tier which makes up the top level, headed towards the section that leads down to my seat.

Stepping through the entrance into the arena from the food courts can invoke vertigo, I’m pretty sure of that. Here I stand, at the top of the world, overlooking rows of evenly spaced seats, filled with overzealous fans all centering their attention onto what looks like a tiny oval from this height. Stepping off of this lift at the top of Mount Hunstman Arena, I prepare myself to head down this red powder of fans down one of the trails of stairs that were so conveniently built into the arena. Walking down the steps was like heading down to the ground from the top of a Mayan temple. The assist provided by the simple machine known as stairs loses all functional value once the grade that you are navigating is steeper than the slope afforded to a right triangle. The steps are grouped inconveniently, with a long stair huddled up with his midget stair buddies. My own athleticism comes into question as I take care to grip the cold railing and not focus on the dizzying height. My aural abilities succumbing to the thundering cheers and applause of the attending audience, I skillfully yet slowly navigate my way all the way down to my seat, which was barely visible, at the very bottom of this sea of red comprised of screaming fans.

My seat is red, like every other thing that has passed through my field of vision since my arrival. Predictably, like most sports arenas, the seats have a comfort rating of -E-, undefined, divided by zero, nonexistent. Although functionally the seats are built well, ergonomically and aesthetically pleasing they are not. To house crowds of 10,000 and up, care must be taken to use all available space to maximize seating potential. On this, I must commend the engineers and construction workers. They achieved their goal. For my or any other fans’ comfort, they fail. Perhaps why everyone is standing? To my left and right, I find myself hand in hand with my friend and my neighbor. Too close for comfort can be used to describe my situation, but I prefer to look at it as more of a sardine can situation. Behind me I can feel a knee jab me in the back of my head repeatedly as the occupant stands up and sits down. In front of me, a wall, to separate me and the other “lucky” fans in the front row from the uber-important bevy of sports doctors, media hawks and technicians. Now locked into my human cage forged of plastic and human limbs, I take in my surroundings. A quick glance around reveals a contest far more important than who the best gymnastics team is. In the stands, opposite and up half a temple length, a man turns and faces the crowd behind him. Despite the noise that envelopes the stadium, his voice is audible throughout. “Give me a U! Give me a T! Give me an A! Give me an H! UTAH, UTAH, UTAH!” Like a conductor at his podium, he orchestrates 3 sections of the arena. Points to the left, UTAH! Points to the middle, UTAH! Points to the right, UTAH! His performance over, he turns and faces the direct opposite side of the arena where another fan stands readily waiting for the conductor’s baton to be passed so he can lead HIS orchestra into a similar, yet louder rendition of the recital. I am both amazed and stunned that this level of fanaticism exists for a gymnastics event. Oddly enough, between the boom of the speakers announcing the event, the intermittent thunderous applause, and the incessant cheering, jeering and screaming of the crowd, I can still hear my thoughts and the spoken comments of those around me.

Remembering all of a sudden that this is indeed a sporting event that I am here to watch, I focus my gaze on the spectacle in front of me. The small rectangle from earlier has somehow transformed into a massive jungle gym for grown adults to play on. Two bars positioned at uneven heights to swing on; a long, thin beam to walk across and jump up and down on; an assortment of mats and springboards to jump on; and a giant rectangular trampoline like floor mat. Minus the free pizza and the assortment of video games, I could’ve been dragged here blindfolded and believed that it was an adult Chuck E Cheese’s, or perhaps a Roman gladiator contest for children. Around this assortment of medieval torture devices that double as gymnastics equipment are the two competing teams, not unlike me and the old man from the parking lot debacle. Eureka, we have found the girls in tight clothing that I have been on a perpetual search for ever since the drive here.
A smorgasbord of athletes donning attire made of lycra, spandex and polyester attend to what they do best; jumping and flipping. My eyes process images produced by the ability of these human beings to catapult through the air and rotate 360+ degrees and land perfectly on their two feet. This is incredible. On the floor mat that doubles as a trampoline, women take off from one corner at full speed and launch themselves 7 or more feet into the air. These super humans baffle me, how is this possible? Unfortunately for me, or perhaps the sport of gymnastics, I grow bored and my attention shifts to other details of the image before me.

My thoughts wander from casual interpretation of a sporting event to the male version of things, where I notice the riding up of their leotards similar to an image I once saw of the retreating polar ice caps. What a curious observation! With every jump, hop, flip and stride, I get to know these complete strangers in a more intimate way than I would have if I had ran into them in the street. I turn to my friend, to ensure that he is watching what I’m watching. Of course, suffering from the same affliction as I, known as a Y chromosome, he is. We fervently cheer on the two teams now, why wouldn’t we? We have something that we can appreciate besides their supernatural ability to flip and jump. Our cheers get more animated, we’re in this game! This is awesome, how could I have ever questioned coming here? I notice that the man behind me chuckles at a couple of my humorous observations, and I understand that my comments are not shielded by the surrounding noise as I had hoped they were. One particular gymnast executes a perfect jump flip type of maneuver, obviously attempting to touch the ceiling of the arena and causing me to exclaim to my friend, “HOW THE HELL DO THEY DO THAT?” To my complete surprise, the man behind me leans forward and answers my rhetorical question.

“It’s the leotards. The further up they go, the higher they jump. It’s why we’re so good.” *Wink*

Amid a chaotic assortment of fans and athletes, I have found a sense of purpose. I know now what that small inkling in the back of my mind wanted when it accepted the invitation to this event. All I want to do is cheer the team on so that they jump higher. I laugh off the stranger’s response to my rhetorical question, and turn back to the event with a new sense of profound understanding.

[pavlovk1025]

Unpopular topic or too long a read?

[kc261]

Unpopular topic or too long a read?

Probably at least partly wrong time of day to get many responses. I'll send you a PM with my comments.

[Mindibun]

Skipping all the fluffy "it was a great story" and "fun to read" comments, I noticed a lot of grammar and punctuation mistakes. Do you want me to edit them for you? I am in college to be an editor and I'm really quite good at it. (If you ask me)