Watching from the Sideline

     The nagging presence of an imminent injury has plagued my life for the past 3 years. Reading this you may think, "hey, an injury isn't a failure, it's an accident!"Well considering my injuries have come at the worst times possible, I believe that they fit in the category of a failure. It's funny how when your younger the worst part about an injury seems to be the pain, because by the age of 13-14 pain comes second to the mental issue at hand. For me, it was letting my teammates down. Sure my accidents physically stung for a few minutes, but the real pain was emotional. I think this concept correlates with the responsibility you slowly attain as you grow up. It also proves that mental grief is 100 times worse than any physical pain you could imagine. 

     This brings me to the failure, the injury that keeps nagging me to this day. As a sophomore quarterback for an overachieving team, it was tough to gain respect from the upperclassmen. However, over the course of the season, I felt as if though there was some sort of connection to my teammates. With that in mind, breaking my left hand in the last game for many seniors exceptional hurt. I immediately knew that I failed my teammates, my coaches and the fans. Sitting on the sideline with an icepack in hand, I felt awful. 

     The most recent "failure" come from a few months ago during this past football season. Our team had come off to a great start, 3 wins in a row. Then came judgement day, a game against our arch rival, the hated Marlboro Dukes. On a chilly Friday night, all was on the line (they even flew in a parachuter with the game ball!) Anyways, the bitterness between us and Marlboro alone set the stage for a very physical game. 

     The game couldn't have started off better. We scored on our first drive, marching down the field at will. And of course, just when things were looking up, Marlboro retaliated with a score of their own. Unfortunately, that scoring play was also the play were I was hit in the shoulder and it popped out of place. That one especially hurt. I couldn't lift a football or even make a throwing motion, I was done for the game. The rest of the game was a deja vu: me sitting on the sideline with nothing but an icepack in hand, waiting for the final horn to sound. Once again, the injury bug latched on at the worst time possible. This past year was the first year New Paltz hadn't secured a playoff berth in 6 years. Although my shoulder hurt, it was the days at the practices watching from the sideline that proved I had truly failed.                           Football

The Earliest of the Early

     I guess it was about kindergarten when I realized I would be a bit "socially handicapped" for the rest of my life. While I didn't have a clinical disorder or take medication for my behavior, I relied on an unorthodox way of interacting with others that proves some sort of social awkwardness. While most of you are pure NPCSD students, I transferred in the middle of 1st grade giving me the cliche experience of being "the new kid."

     But before the awe of a new school and new people, I belonged to the traditional family known as St. Josephs School of Kingston. Catholic schools aren't any different from public schools; the only contrast being the seemingly endless appraisal for Jesus. So life as a kindergartener at St. Joes was comprised of either going to church, or using crayons to fill in outlines of churches. That being said, one can only imagine how an energetic 6 year old developed a social dilemma. 

      In reality, is most likely due to the fact that I never

created a close relationship with my peers in Mrs. Bakers class, but it is much simpler to explain in a single recollection of my awkward adventures in kindergarten. I don't recall how I got the scissors in my hand, but I like to imagine that I was mesmerized by the glistening luster of the metallic blades. When I think about it this way, what happens next is due to enchantment, not (in actuality) poor judgement. I used to see the other boys tease the girls through nicknames and chasing them without the intention of capture. Though I can admit to participation in the name-calling, I never understood it. So the reason I snipped off a sizable portion of  her hair wasn't malicious or out of revenge, but a pure misunderstanding of social graces. As I watched Mrs. Baker frantically rummage through Megan's hair searching for the missing locks (which I had carefully disposed of minutes ago) I felt sad for Megan, but more confused for myself. 

     The antics would carry on throughout my years at Duzine. Whether it was the inadvertent poisoning of a fellow classmate or the competitive reading games with my peers (that secretly only I knew about), my social skills would be in question for many years to come. While I am much more accustomed to interaction now, my nostalgia for the locks of hair I gripped in my hair remains one of my most interesting early experiences.