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Excerpts from Sports literature

Friday Night Lights

H.G Bissinger

United States

In the beginning, on a dog-day Monday in the middle of August when the West Texas heat congealed in the sky, there were only the stirrings of dreams. It was the very first official day of practice and it marked the start of a new team, a new year, a new season, with a new rallying cry scribbled madly in the backs of yearbooks and on the rear windows of cars: Goin' to State in Eighty-Eight!
It was a little after six in the morning when the coaches started trickling into the Permian High School field house. The streets of Odessa were empty, with no signs of life except the perpetual glare of the convenience store lights on one corner after another. The K mart was closed, of course, and so was the Wal-Mart. But inside the field house, a squat structure behind the main school building, there was only the delicious anticipation of starting anew. On each of the coaches' desks lay caps with bills that were still stiff and sweat bands that didn't contain the hot stain of sweat, with the word PERMIAN emblazoned across the front in pearly thread. From one of the coaches came the shrill blow of a whistle, followed by the gleeful cry of "Let's go, men!" There was the smell of furniture polish; the dust and dirt of the past season were forever wiped away.
About an hour later the players arrived. It was time to get under way.
Welcome, guys" were the words Coach Gary Gaines used to begin the 1988 season, and fifty-five boys dressed in identical gray shirts and gray shorts, sitting on identical wooden benches, stared into his eyes. They listened, or at least tried to. Winning a state championship. Making All-State and gaining a place on the Permian Wall of Fame. Going off after the season to Nebraska, or Arkansas, or Texas. Whatever they fantasized about, it all seemed possible that day.
Gaines's quiet words washed over the room, and in hundreds of other Texas towns celebrating the start of football practice that August day there were similar sounds of intimacy and welcome, to the eastern edge of the state in Marshall, to the northern edge in Wichita Falls, to the southern edge in McAllen, to the western edge in El Paso. They were Gaines's words, but they could have come from any high school coach renewing the ritual of sport, the ritual of high school football.
"There's twelve hundred boys in Permian High School. You divide that by three and there's four hundred in every class. You guys are a very special breed. There are guys back there that are every bit as good as you are. But they were not able to stick it out for whatever reason. Football's not for everybody. But you guys are special. "We want you all to carry the torch in the eighty-eight season. It's got to mean somethin' really special to you. You guys have dreamt about this for many years, to be a part of this team, some of you since you were knee-high. Work hard, guys, and pay the price. Be proud you're a part of this program. Keep up the tradition that was started many years ago."
That tradition was enshrined on a wall of the field house, where virtually every player who had made All-State during the past twenty-nine years was carefully immortalized within the dimensions of a four-by-six-inch picture frame. It was enshrined in the proclamation from the city council that hung on a bulletin board, honoring one of Permian's state championship teams. It was enshrined in the black carpet, and the black-and-white cabinets, and the black rug in the shape of a panther. It was enshrined in the county library, where the 235-page history that had been written about Permian football was more detailed than any of the histories about the town itself.
Of all the legends of Odessa, that of high school football was the most enduring. It had a deep and abiding sense of place and history, so unlike the town, where not even the origin of the name itself could be vouched for with any confidence.

The Book Of Basketball

Bill Simmons

United States

Knicks fans did their damnedest to talk themselves into the Patrick Ewing era.⁹⁷ Everyone believed Ewing was the Evolutionary Russell, a destructive defensive force who would own the league someday. Only it didn't happen … and it didn't happen … and then it seemed like it was happening, only it turned out to be a tease … and it didn't happen … and at some point everyone except for the delusional Knicks fans realized that it was never going to happen. You know those movie scenes where a male character dies in a hospital bed and his wife stands over him talking like he didn't die, and everyone else in the room feels awkward, and then finally someone comes over and says, "Honey, he's gone" and tries to pull her away, so she starts screaming, "Nooooooo! Nooooo, he's fine! He's gonna wake up!" and then she collapses and has a crying seizure? That was every Knicks fan from 1995 to 1999. When Hakeem turned Ewing into ground beef in the '94 Finals, Ewing dropped dead in a "This guy's carrying us to a title someday" sense. But the Knicks fans kept standing there over the hospital bed waiting for him to wake up. Eventually they decided that Ewing's career was either "frustrating" (the glass-half-full take) or "phenomenally disappointing" (the glass-half-empty take). He peaked during the '90 season, averaging a 29-11 with 4 blocks and 55 percent shooting for a 45-win Knicks team, saving the Knicks with a 44-13 in a must-win Game 4 against Boston, then leading them to a shocking upset in the decisive fifth game (31 points). Sitting in the Garden as Ewing took over and swished an improbable backbreaking three, I remember thinking, "He's putting it all together; we're in serious trouble." But Detroit easily dispatched them in the second round and Ewing was never that good again. Why? Because of his knees. College Ewing prowled the paint like a tiger, jumped around like House of Pain and contested every shot within fifteen feet of the rim. NBA veteran Ewing picked his spots, jogged with huge strides and crouched before every jump. Never a great rebounder⁹⁸ or passer, never someone with a treasure chest of low-post moves, that subtle erosion of athleticism turned him into an elite center who did everything well and nothing great. Actually, it was a little sad. Poor Ewing perfected his "intense" game face, bellowed at the MSG crowd, pounded his chest after big plays, played up the whole "I'm a warrior!" angle in interviews and even made a clumsy effort to become an intimidating enforcer. All of it kind of worked … but not really. The sophisticated Knicks fans saw right through him, endlessly debating his virtues and repeatedly coming back to the same conclusion: As long as this is our best guy, we probably can't win the title.
That's when Pat Riley nearly salvaged Ewing's superstardom, remaking the Knicks into Bad Boys II, adopting thugball tactics to exact as much as he could from his secretly limited center (and nearly ruining basketball in the process). They lost back-to-back slugfests to Chicago before catching a break with Jordan's "baseball sabbatical," reaching the Finals behind a monster effort from Ewing in Game 7 (22-20-7 with 5 blocks and the winning tip against Indiana) before squandering a disheartening Finals. The following year, Reggie Miller ripped out their hearts in the Eastern Semis, with Ewing missing a series-deciding 6-foot bunny. And just like that the Ewing window had closed, although it took a few more years for everyone to realize it.⁹⁹ Before the 2001 season, the Knicks finally cut the cord (and inadvertently destroyed their future) by turning Ewing's expiring deal into a slew of horrendous contracts; then we watched Ewing slog through the "fifteen-year-old poodle with cataracts who starts going to the bathroom in the house and needs to be put to sleep" stage. Did we ever figure out why centers age in dog years once they hit their late thirties? They always have one final season where they gain 20 pounds, lose all hand-eye coordination, run in slow motion, and jump like their shoes are loaded with razor blades; all they have left is their turnaround jumper. It's like an automobile being completely stripped except for the radio, which is left behind for some reason. That's the turnaround jumper. For Ewing, that season happened twice, in Seattle and Orlando. And then he was done.

The Natural

Bernard Malamud

United States

Roy Hobbes pawed at the glass before thinking to prick a match with his thumbnail and hold the spurting flame in his cupped palm close to the lower berth window, but by then he had figured it was a tunnel they were passing through and was no longer surprised at the bright sight of himself holding a yellow light over his head, peering back in. As the train yanked its long tail out of the thundering tunnel, the kneeling reflection dissolved and he felt a splurge of freedom at the view of the moon-hazed Western hills bulked against night broken by sprays of summer lightning, although the season was early spring. Lying back, elbowed up on his long side, sleepless still despite the lulling train, he watched the land flowing and waited with suppressed expectancy for a sight of the Mississippi, a thousand miles away.
Having no timepiece he appraised the night and decided it was moving toward dawn. As he was looking, there flowed along this bone-white farmhouse with sagging skeletal porch, alone in untold miles of moonlight, and before it this white-faced, long-boned boy whipped with train-whistle yowl a glowing ball to someone hidden under a dark oak, who shot it back without thought, and the kid once more wound and returned. Roy shut his eyes to the sight because if it wasn't real it was a way he sometimes had of observing himself, just as in this dream he could never shake off--that had hours ago waked him out of sound sleep--of him standing at night in a strange field with a golden baseball in his palm that all the time grew heavier as he sweated to settle whether to hold on or fling it away. But when he had madehis decision it was too heavy to lift or let fall (who wanted a hole that deep?) so he changed his mind to keep it and the thing grew fluffy light, a white rose breaking out of its hide, and all but soared off by itself, but he had already sworn to hang on forever.
As dawn tilted the night, a gust of windblown rain blinded him--no, there was a window--but the sliding drops made him thirsty and from thirst sprang hunger. He reached into the hammock for his underwear to be first at breakfast in the dining car and make his blunders of ordering and eating more or less in private, since it was doubtful Sam would be up to tell him what to do. Roy peeled his gray sweatshirt and bunched down the white ducks he was wearing for pajamas in case there was a wreck and he didn't have time to dress. He acrobated into a shirt, pulled up the pants of his good suit, arching to draw them high, but he had crammed both feet into one leg and was trapped so tight wriggling got him nowhere. He worried because here he was straitjacketed in the berth without much room to twist around in and might bust his pants or have to buzz the porter, which he dreaded. Grunting, he contorted himself this way and that till he was at last able to grab and pull down the cuff and with a gasp loosened his feet and got the caught one where it belonged. Sitting up, he Bartered his socks, tied laces, got on a necktie and even squirmed into a suit coat so that when he parted the curtains to step out he was fully dressed.

Into Thin Air

Jon Krakauer

United States

In March 1996, Outside Magazine sent me to Nepal to participate in, and write about, a guided ascent of Mount Everest. I went as one of eight clients on an expedition led by a well-known guide from New Zealand named Rob Hall. On May 10 I arrived on top of the mountain, but the summit came at a terrible cost.
Among my five teammates who reached the top, four, including Hall, perished in a rogue storm that blew in without warning while we were still high on the peak. By the time I'd descended to Base Camp nine climbers from four expeditions were dead, and three more lives would be lost before the month was out.
The expedition left me badly shaken, and the article was difficult to write. Nevertheless, five weeks after I returned from Nepal I delivered a manuscript to Outside, and it was published in the September issue of the magazine. Upon its completion I attempted to put Everest out of my mind and get on with my life, but that turned out to be impossible. Through a fog of messy emotions, I continued trying to make sense of what had happened up there, and I obsessively mulled the circumstances of my companions' deaths.
The Outside piece was as accurate as I could make it under the circumstances, but my deadline had been unforgiving, the sequence of events had been frustratingly complex, and the memories of the survivors had been badly distorted by exhaustion, oxygen depletion, and shock. At one point during my research I asked three other people to recount an incident all four of us had witnessed high on the mountain, and one of us could agree on such crucial facts as the time, what had been said, or even who had been present. Within days after the Outside article went to press, I discovered that a few of the details I'd reported were in error. Most were minor inaccuracies of the sort that inevitably creep into works of deadline journalism, but one of my blunders was in no sense minor, and it had a devastating impact on the friends and family of one of the victims.
Only slightly less disconcerting than the article's factual errors was the material that necessarily had to be omitted for lack of space. Mark Bryant, the editor of Outside, and Larry Burke, the publisher, had given me an extraordinary amount of room to tell the story: they ran the piece at 17,000 words — four or five times as long as a typical magazine feature. Even so, I felt that it was much too abbreviated to do justice to the tragedy. The Everest climb had rocked my life to its core, and it became desperately important for me to record the events in complete detail, unconstrained by a limited number of column inches. This book is the fruit of that compulsion.
The staggering unreliability of the human mind at high altitude made the research problematic. To avoid relying excessively on my own perceptions, I interviewed most of the protagonists at great length and on multiple occasions. When possible I also corroborated details with radio logs maintained by people at Base Camp, where clear thought wasn't in such short supply. Readers familiar with the Outside article may notice discrepancies between certain details (primarily matters of time) reported in the magazine and those reported in the book; the revisions reflect new information that has come to light since publication of the magazine piece.
Several authors and editors I respect counseled me not to write the book as quickly as I did; they urged me to wait two or three years and put some distance between me and the expedition in order to gain some crucial perspective. Their advice was sound, but in the end I ignored it — mostly because what happened on the mountain was gnawing my guts out. I thought that writing the book might purge Everest from my life.
It hasn't, of course. Moreover, I agree that readers are often poorly served when an author writes as an act of catharsis, as I have done here. But I hoped something would be gained by spilling my soul in the calamity's immediate aftermath, in the roil and torment of the moment. I wanted my account to have a raw, ruthless sort of honesty that seemed in danger of leaching away with the passage of time and the dissipation of anguish.
Some of the same people who warned me against writing hastily had also cautioned me against going to Everest in the first place. There were many, many fine reasons not to go, but attempting to climb Everest is an intrinsically irrational act — a triumph of desire over sensibility. Any person who would seriously consider it is almost by definition beyond the sway of reasoned argument.
The plain truth is that I knew better but went to Everest anyway. And in doing so I was a party to the death of good people, which is something that is apt to remain on my conscience for a very long time.

Heart Of a Champion

Carl Deuker

United States

My father's game was golf. He was great at it, too. There is a box full of his trophies in our attic. If he hadn't died, golf would have been my game too. I would never have played baseball, would never have been best friends with Jimmy Winter. I'd have heard about what happened to him while I was hitting a bucket of balls at Palo Alto Muni to prepare for the high school tournament.
But my father did die, and I've spent the last five years living and breathing baseball. Most of the time Jimmy Winter has been by my side. No, that's not right. The right way to say it is I've been by his side.
I was born in San Francisco, but I've lived all my life in Redwood City, a boring suburb south of the city. My father was a traveling salesman for IBM. He died ten years ago, when I was seven. He was in a hotel in Los Angeles when he had something like a stroke. He called the lobby for help, but his speech was slurred. The switchboard operator figured he was drunk and ignored him. In the morning a maid found him dead. It's a horrible way to die-alone in a hotel room begging for help, with people thinking you're just some boozer.
People say I look like my father, and I guess I do a little. From old photos I can tell he was tall and thin and had brown hair, like me. But his face was broad and fleshy, and mine is all angles and bones.
My mother says that every once in a while I'll do something small -- scratch my head or plop down on a chair-and it will be exactly the way he used to do it. I always feel strange when she tells me stuff like that. His blood is in my veins, but I never got to know him.
The day of my father's funeral ournext-door neighbor, Mr. Mongolin, crouched to my level and looked me in the eye. "You're the man of the house now, Seth. You have to take care of your mother."
I remember my throat going fight, and a panicky feeling coming over me. "Yes, sir, I will," I stammered, and I meant it, even though I didn't have a clue how.
My mother must have overheard. She flashed Mongolin a dirty look, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me to a quiet corner. "Seth Barham, you're a little boy," she said. "You don't have to take care of anyone."
My mom waited a year before suing the hotel. She told me she waited because it didn't seem right to act like money could replace my father. She said she finally sued because she felt she had to make the people who were responsible feel responsible.
The hotel was owned by some huge corporation. They had a team of lawyers and buckets of money. My mother had one lawyer and no money.
It took four years before the case made it to court. We flew down to L.A. for the trial. One day I was in my sixthgrade classroom at St. Pius diagramming sentences; the next I was on a jet plane with my mother and grandmother.
I thought it would be exciting, but that courtroom was not fun. On a table in front of the jury. was a model of a human head. The doctors used it to explain how my father died. I'm not stupid. I knew it wasn't my father's head. But that model looked so real it scared me. And the way the doctors picked sections out, turned them over, pointed to this vein and that artery -- I still have nightmares about it.
On the third day of testimony something went wrong and the judge declared a mistrial. The the corporation offered to settle. We flew back to San Francisco and took a taxi
home. My mother wanted to talk with my grandmother, so I was sent outside.
I remember feeling disappointed as I closed the front door. I was back in Redwood City, and it was like nothing had changed. Whenever I'd asked my mother questions about my father, she'd described him as a saint, a perfect husband and father. I don't blame her-what else could she do? But I didn't have a strong sense of who he was. I'd hoped to learn from the trial what he was really like, good and bad. But to the doctors and the lawyers, my father was nothing but bones and blood and tissue. I hadn't learned anything.
I stood on the front lawn that day wondering what to do, where to go. Guys from St. Pius lived in the neighborhood. I wasn't best friends with any of diem, but if I showed up at Briarfield Park I could usually hook up with somebody.
But that day I didn't much feel like seeing guys from the neighborhood. I didn't want to talk about where I'd been. I didn't want to think about that model on the table. -So I walked a half-mile to Henry Ford School. I didn't know anybody who went to Henry Ford.
Once I reached the playground I climbed onto a swing, pushed off, and started pumping. When I was soaring, I'd jump out into the sand as far as I could. The whole time I was pretending I was a fighter pilot, one of the Blue Angels, -parachuting from a smoking jet. It's a dumb thing for a sixthgrader to do, but that's what I did.
I'd been there about half an hour when I heard a man's voice boom across the playground. "Use your new glove, Jimmy. You need to break it in before the season starts."
"But the new one hurts my hand."
"I said to use the new one."
That was the first time I saw Jimmy.

Short story

It was the bottom of the ninth inning, and i needed to come up huge for my team. I was
up against one of the best pitchers in the league, and he had already set down the leadoff hitter
in the inning. I stepped into the box and looked at my coach for the signs. He made a number
of motions and finally gave me the sign for swing away. I looked down at the pitcher, trying to
read his mind, when he began his motion. before i knew it ZOOM. Strike one. The next pitch
was a slider that i foul tipped back off the catcher. After a few moments for the catcher to shake
off the blow. the pitcher looked down for his signs. He nodded his head, began his motion, and
crack. The ball had hit me in the hip bone. A radiating pain shot down my leg. I tried not to show
weakness and did my best limp down to first base where my coach checked to see if i was
alright.
After several moments, i finally could move without excruciating pain. So i looked down
for the sign , which was to steal a base. “Oh great” i murmured to myself. i took my lead, and
when the pitcher delivered to home i bolted for second base. I slid in ahead of the tag and was
safe. The crowd was going bananas. I was in scoring position with less than two outs, and our
best hitter was at the plate. We have a chance to win!
The pitcher looked ratteled, you could see it in his body language. The next pitch was a
fastball outside, and in the dirt which got by the catcher. so i bolted towards third and advanced
a base on the wild pitch. The stadium was electric, everyone was on their feet, screaming for us.
If the pitcher wasn’t rattled before, he definately was now. He was kicking dirt, and
screaming god knows what into his glove. The manager for the other team came out to calm
him down, and after about 30 seconds of talking he went back to the dugout. So the pitcher got
back on the mound to deal with the huge task at hand, winning the game for his team. The next
pitch he threw was a fastball, which found the strike zone for the first strike, and then a slider,
which was swung on and missed for strike two. The pitcher looked home, came to a set,
checked on me at third, and delivered home. The pitch was a fastball which was hit a mile up in
the air to the left fielder. I ran back to the base so i could tag up. This was it, this could be what
determines the game. The outfielder caught the ball, and i was off. i was running as fast as i
could. I saw the catcher blocking the plate, and he was waiting for the ball to come in. i was
close, and i could tell the ball was close too. The catcher caught the ball and i slid for home. the
cather slapped the tag on me as i touched home. I looked at the umpire, awaiting his call, and
he screamed “out!”, and just like that. The game was over, and we lost.

Short Story

Critique 1

In Ancient Greece, the image of the human body was a large part of their culture. Spartans used to examine infants shortly after child birth. If they did not meet the requirements of the Spartans, they would be thrown of cliffs in order to “purify” the population. This just shows how important the body was to the Greeks. In the sculpture “Discobolus” by Myron, he puts great emphasis and extraordinary detail on the muscles, in order to convey the expectations of the ancient Greek culture.

The Ancient Greeks were very athletic, And militaristic people. Both of these activities require a fit, and powerful body. Men were required to serve in the military, so everyone had to be strong and skilled when it came to making war. All men were trained for the military starting at a young age. This was a perfect time to develop the bodies of the soldiers and also to ensure that their military was more youthful, and more energetic when in battle. Myron was exposed to these exposed to these expectations, and is why he chose to emphasize the muscles on the body.

The Greeks were also a very athletic people. The Olympics were first created in ancient Greece, and the many of the same events the participated in are still part of the Olympics today. One of those events is discus. The influence of Athletics in Greek society compelled Myron to create a statue of a discus thrower.

The human body was a vital part of the Ancient Greek civilization. They depended on it for protection, and for entertainment. Many artists have been influence by the Greeks views about the human body. and many of the most famous sculptures of all time are Greek gods and Greek figures. Myron was one of those artists who was influenced by Greek culture, which led him to create one of the most famous sculptures of all time.

Discobolus

Declaration

Art and sports doesn't seem like they would mix very well, but both have co-existed together for thousands of years, and both are used as ways to express ones self. I have played sports my entire life and they are the center of my world. I want to learn more about art, so I hope relating it to something i know like sports, will make it easier to learn and also more interesting.