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Saturday, September 29, 2012

Sykes After Dark: Comedian Michael Che

Last night I stayed with Christina. The school brought in a comedian and we went to see him. He was funny.


The leaves in PA are beginning to change. :) Christina and I went to Everhart today and took some. I am hoping we get a lot more colour.




Let me know what you think, please. :)

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Writing Prompt: Deadly Plans


For creative writing we were given this assignment: select a prompt and use it as the beginning of a short story/scene. With most of these, you can decide upon 1st, 2nd, or 3rd person. Write a minimum of three pages, typed and double spaced.

The prompt I chose: Yesterday, I only checked the phone twice and hour (OR-- "Yesterday, you only checked... or "Yesterday, he only checked...")

Now onto the story! Please tell me what you think. I might add some things tomorrow.

Deadly Couple: Brutality Plan
            Yesterday you only checked the phone twice an hour. Where was she, you think and you couldn't wait to get the deed done. Whether it be by knife or strangling, I’m going to do it. Ever since she came into Nick’s life, it’s been hell. That bitch must die. Ever since Anna came into your son's life, he only paid attention to her and Anna’s mothering skills—oh my God, you thought—her mothering skills are atrocious. She never does anything right
Bzzz, you feel your cell phone vibrating against your leg. Hopefully it's her, you think, it had been two days since you heard from your wife.
"Hello," you bark into the phone.
"Listen up," you hear your wife hiss, "you need to get this job done."
A smile lightens up your heavy, sweaty face. This August had been a hot one, topping out at 110 degrees with humidity, and that excuse you call a future daughter-in-law is no help. Now you are the one that was going to take care of this problem.
"Are you listening, Darryl," she barks at you.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. We have to kill her. I'm so tired of her ruining our son's life and she's a terrible mother. She needs to get out of our lives and we need to kill her."
You nod your head, as you nod, a yellow strand of your long hair falls in front of your blue eyes.
"You make the plan. I figure it would be best to act tomorrow morning. Just take care of her!” your wife is hysterical.
"Got it," you bark again.
"Good," your wife hisses.
The sun hides behind the black clouds. The sky is a navy stained with pinks and oranges. You estimate that you have an hour to act before sunrise—before people wake up and see you. Fortunately you live in the rural part of Greenleaf, but you still can’t risk it.
A red bench, Nick used to love that bench—he would spend hours taking pictures of it or drawing and painting it—glows in the darkness. You crouch in the backseat of her maroon Honda Civic. You are barely seen in your black Alice In Chains t-shirt and dark denim pants. There’s that fat bitch now, you think as you see Anna walk out the front door.
Grrr, you hear the engine start as Anna turns the key to the ignition. It’s time to move and move quickly.
“Ahhh,” she lets out a blood curdling scream. Shit, you think and you place your hand over her mouth as you hold her neck in a chokehold.
Dropping your hand from Anna’s mouth as she bites you, but you continue to hold her in a chokehold.Look at her squirm, you think and you laugh, she wiggles just like a worm. Like a caged bird trying to escape, Anna grasps air for safety, but fails.
“Darryl, please,” she is barely audible. Anna is crying. You grunt and laugh out loud now. You place your arm tighter around her neck. Quickly the crying stops, you hear the gurgle. Taking your hands, you grip her neck—crack—you hear; a measure for good luck as you feel the life around you grind to a loud halt.

Carrying her body up the ivory rug covered stairs; you have a chainsaw in the other. The blue tile floor looks cold; it feels cold as you kneel over the bathtub that matches the tiled floor. Brrr, the chainsaw roars and like cutting down a tree, limb by limb, you place Anna in a trash bag.

The sun sets on Greenleaf. The day is done and gone. Your wife smiles as she holds her grandson. Smoke looms in the crisp Wisconsin air. The branches sparkle and pop. Her books make great fodder.Thinking she’s better than us, you muse, well, I guess not after all.

You finish and stand next to your wife. “Say goodbye to momma,” your wife says to the baby, “she’s right here.” You both laugh as the flames get taller and hotter; the air smells of flesh.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Fall Picture Planning

Before I post the plans for the fall, I want to say this first:

I decided to give the flamingo picture to my 3rd cousin who is going for her doctorate in ornithology. I hope she does like it; I think she will.



Yesterday my philosophy class was canceled; I went to Everhart Park and planned some scenery for fall pictures. I did take a few pictures of the bridge (pre-leave change) to get an idea of angles that could possibly be good for when the leaves do change colour. What do you think?



Friday, September 21, 2012

Poem in Progress

I sorta got stuck, but I will work on it.

Eighteen

Oh how I wish I was eighteen again,
when nothing mattered but counting ten;
boyfriends numbered zero,
and the world soon resembled Nero's.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

A Journey into Volunteerism (September 15, 2012)

Last Saturday I ventured into Philadelphia to volunteer at a shelter with my aunt. Located in Rittenhouse Square, the shelter relies on organic gardens to feed the residents (and whatever the residents don't use is sold at the local farmers market with the money being used to go to the teenagers that live there). We ended up gardening. It was fun. :)






Baby Watermelon



Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Football season

As I posted about my story yesterday, this weekend started the official 2012-2013 season. The Packers sadly lost, but my Ravens and Chargers won. Packers are looking okay, but they need to step it up a bit (said lovingly by me as a fan).
Football started at school as well. Last Saturday I saw a game and we won. I got sunburn in the process of watching, but it was fun nonetheless. Hopefully this year my school will have a good season (I never really followed my school before). On October 20th, I'm seeing my cousin's school play since he's conductor of the marching band -- with Penn State out, we're expecting Temple to go far.


These were taken with my phone, what do you think?

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Editing Becoming Green and Gold?

Yesterday my class critiqued my "Becoming Green and Gold?" short story. For the most part, it was well received. Of course I have to make some changes like "showing not telling" and some "grammar issues; watch the past/present!" I will be working on it. I already wrote some changes and I think it'll be brilliant. I am also doing some research--I love reading football books. Andrew, when I'm done, I'll send you the story in a PDF. :)

Monday, September 3, 2012

Snowy Cabin Exercise (pre-critiqued)


For my creative writing class, we were given prompts we had to write from. I chose this prompt:
Directive 6- Your character certainly has memories and can recall past experiences, people, interactions, conversations, etc. HOWEVER- the focus is on your character in this setting right now. While memories are allowed in the piece, you are not allowed to say "here I am in this cold cabin thinking about..." and then go into the memory for your entire story. Note that I said not to write the story in terms of memories, but I also said the character has them and has thoughts. You are definitely going to use them. I just insist you keep the character in the snowy landscape I've created as much as possible while having these thoughts. The story, in other words, can't all be "recalled." It's got to deal with the present location of the character, the isolation or solitude within that setting, the physical nature of whatever that house/cabin setting is, and the reasons the character is there. Memories and thoughts all relate to these things and should be worked in and out of the current time-frame/setting.

So what do you think, do you think I follow it?



Eddies of navy, pink and a hint of yellow swirled in the dawn of the sky. It was another sleepless night; Holly couldn't discern day from twilight or twilight from night or night from dawn--it was the same for her; tiresome, frightful and anxious.

Has our conscience shown, has the sweet wind blown, the cassette, a mix from the best year of Holly's life: 1995, dances in the black boombox sitting on top of the

grungy wooden table. It hadn't been cleaned for a few days and Holly didn't care.  Her grandparents had left her their tiny cottage, once pristine and full of food,

but now it had gone to pieces. The beautiful furniture is now run down and dilapidated from wear from parties Holly had thrown in the year she has been here. It has

been four days since Holly last saw someone, and yet again, Holly didn't care - she was tired of people.


The swirl circle with the arrow hanging on the bottom, Collective Soul's logo, pulsated from white to a light blue to a purple and danced on the white ceiling that was

masked in black of the casino. This was the only section Holly and Ken were allowed in . Only 17, Holly was a big fan of Collective Soul and was so happy to be seeing

them with her best friend. The only thing that could potentially ruin this great night were the kids that were there (for some odd reason, in Holly's mind they should

have been in bed sleeping), but they were calm and none of them cried (thank God, Holly thought).

"So I walk up on high and I step to the edge to see my world below," Ed Roland sang as his grungy bleached blonde hair outlined - almost covering - his sweaty face.

Although Roland was kissing his mic, you could still hear his voice sing the lyrics carefully and clearly. Roland's brother's, Dean, who had long brown hair and was also

covering his sweaty face with the same features of his brother, guitar riffs exemplified Ed's voice. The drum's thunderous roar added "umph" to the song.

"This is great," Holly yelled over what seemed to be at the threshold of pain level of guitars, bass and drums to Ken. Ken wasn't a big fan of Collective Soul, but he

didn't want to ruin the mood of the evening and replied with "yeah."

"I'm hungry," her inner voice screams, "I guess it's time for me to go hunting." "But, I really don't want to." Holly counters what's in her head. The snow gently falls

and cover the windowsill. Watching from her window the feet of snow that covered the half dead grass, she thinks "although, it is no better in here." Holly was broke,

she was laid off of her job in an art store where she matted and framed pictures, and couldn't pay the bills.
"But, you must, if you want to survive," she rationally tells herself.
"I don't really care if I live or die, really."
"Hunt!"


"You're so selfish," Ken yelled at Holly as he drove his black Volkswagen Beatle to Holly's house.
"What," she said asasperated and then angry, "what do you mean?"
"I drive you everywhere," Ken snarled, "and you never thank or pay me."
"You never ask and I do invite you to go to these places and you say you want to go," Holly's voice began to raise.
"Oh my God, you don't get it."
"You're damn right," Holly began to chew her words; she was shocked she said that to her best friend.
"Get out of my car," Ken said excidedly, "you can walk the rest of the way," Ken was livid.
"Screw you," Holly screamed; she was nervous and scared about walking to her house from an unfamiliar place to her house, "I hope you die!" Holly unbuckled her seat

belt, opened the door and slammed it behind her.


She carefully laces up the black leather boots as she sits upon that filthy white couch. As she freezes and her tears turn to what feels like icicles, Holly notices the

cobwebs that decorate the corner of the ceiling. "I really should clean," she says aloud. Even her grandmother's Hummels sit dusty on top of the cherry stained

credenza. Holly always loved those Hummels.

She gets up the couch and walks on the squeaky wooden floor to the pantry where one of her grandfather's winter jackets hang. That pantry leads to the basement

and as a little girl it scared her. The blackness was always mysterious and you never knew if there were monsters that resided there. She outgrew that phase when

she was eight, but now with no electricicty that fear is back again.


"And I laugh to myself as the tears roll down 'cause it's the world I know," Holly sang along with her favorite song. She unwrapped her towel and lifted her black

Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt over her damp head. Her dyed red hair soaked the collar of her shirt.

"Holly come here," she noticed a tinge of fear in her mother's voice.
"Just a minute mom," Holly slipped on her jeans.
"Get out here now!" now her mother's voice sounded scared. Holly quickly zipped up her jeans and ran to the living room. Her mother sat glued to the TV; it was a

commercial at that point in time.
"Appleton family slaughtered," the news reporter said in an objective, cold voice as Ken's face appeared on the screen followed by Mrs. and Mr. Johnstone.
"No, this is a horrible jokem: Holly tried to hold back the tears.
"Listen to the rest," her mom snapped.
"It has been reported," that reporter's voice echoed in the room, "the daughter was found outside stating 'I killed mother, father, brother.' before she was taken

into custody."
Jennifer always had been troubled and Ken said his family learned of the diagnosis of bipolar disorder, but Jennifer didn't want to take her medicine.
"I could kill her," Jennifer screamed at the TV as she stood numb on the Afghan rug and noticed the teddy bears that laid on a shelf above a bookshelf.
"I'm sorry honey," her mother restrained her and then hugged her.


Deer tracks litter the snowy landscape near Holly's grandparents' cottage. Further and further down the path, the cottage becomes a distance memory; all that is

left is the smoke billowing from the chimney. Crouch behind the douglass fur tree, Holly spots the deer grazing or trying to graze on some grass. She is proving

unsuccessful, but she continues to lick the snow. Holly lifts her grandfather's Smith and Wesson SXS. "Granddaddy always said this was his best friend. Hopefully

he proves right," Holly whispers. Holly is careful not to make any noise to scare away the deer.


"Prosecutors alleged the fatal attack involved a “very significant struggle” and a chase throughout the house," the paper read. Holly loved watching crime shows; she

imagined the blood that stained the carpets and walls. Jennifer had used a scythe. Purchased from where? The authorities were unsure. However, they were sure that

right now she couldn't stand trial and was placed in a mental hospital.  Holly shook.
"I'm going to kill her," she angrily thought, "I'm going to go to that mental hospital with a gun and I'm going to shoot her."


The deer's blood stained the perfectly white snow.


"I keep thinking of how many wonderful things happened to me after I turned 18 and how you deserved to have all those life experiences and so much more," one friend

said as she spoke about Ken. The ceremony had been open casket, the mortician did a great job hiding the wounds. Holly was told that their throats had been cut; suits

covered Ken and Mr. Johnstone's necks, Mrs. Johnstone had a collared dress on with a necklace. Holly was sick to her stomach; the anger rose and then was replaced

by guilt. The last time she saw Ken alive was when she told him to die. She didn't mean it.
"I'm sorry," she whispers to the body.



"I truly am." She lifts the deer's carcass and walks back to the cottage.


Sunday, September 2, 2012

Hanging out with Taylor

Today I hung out with Taylor. We hadn't seen each other in two months. We went to the movie tavern and saw The Bourne Identity. I will admit I was a little lost because I didn't see the others. It was good regardless.

We then went to the mall and to LL Bean where they had a huge backpack; we had to get pictures.



Saturday, September 1, 2012

Pre-critiqued version of "Becoming Green and Gold?"

Next Monday I have this story critiqued. What do you think of it?


Jessica Marie Cavaliere
Dr. Luanne Smith
Fall 2012
August 30, 2012

Becoming Green and Gold?

"Hi coach," Ben sleepily said. He hated being dragged out of bed at 5am, but he knew he must do it for the team. But, why was he meeting with Coach McCarthy? The butterflies had turned into knots that twisted his stomach.
"Good morning, Firestone," Coach McCarthy paused and Ben noticed a slight sadness about him -- "I guess you know why you're here."
"No, coach" Ben whispered, "I guess it's not good news?"
"No. We have to cut you from the team. I'm sorry. You have such potential and I think you should finish college so a college coach can work with you to hone your skills."
Ben was devastated. His twisted gut proved him right.
"There's only so much a professional team is willing to work with. College coaches can work with it. We're the best players; in college you learn to become the best you can be."
"I understand, coach." Ben turned away from coach and headed back to his room to pack. He had to contain his tears; he wanted to work with the Packers.





"What if I didn't make it?" Ben said as he bit his nails. The waiting was killing him.
"Honey, don't talk silly. If you weren't good, you wouldn't be here," his mother reassured him.
"But, mom--"
"It's true, if you weren't good at football, we wouldn't be sitting here waiting. Be patient."
"Well, this happens from time to time," Ben meekly said as his confidence was beginning to wane. He had let out a sigh and breathed deeply to calm himself down. The tension in the room was thick, he could hardly breathe. His sister, Lily, his father and even his mother beyond the calm facade, were on edge and anxious for Ben. Like Ben, they were just as nervous.
"You still have a year left of college, son," his father said to break the brief silence that had filled the room.
"I know dad," Ben responded with a touch of irritability. This did not comfort Ben. He knew he had a year of school left, if he makes a team, he would be take online classes and have his degree mailed to him. He had it all planned out, he spent a year planning. It wasn't easy, either; it took several months and a lot of talking with administration to clear him from learning in person to online classes. Now, after all this work, he was unsure what would happen to him. Ben's stomach began to knot - he felt physically sick.
"Excuse me," he quickly said and runs to the nearest bathroom. He had shut the door and the toilet became his best friend for what seemed to be an eternity.
"Ben, honey, are you okay," his mother's voice muffled through the light knocks on the door.
"Yes, I'll be right out." Ben felt better; he washed his face with cold water and stepped out into the strained environment. "God, I wish they would call," Ben thought to himself.
I don't know if it was a box or a bag; the ringtone shocked Ben, but this is what he had been waiting for. He froze.
"Ben, why don't you answer," his mother whispered. Numb, Ben answered his cellphone with a simple "Hello."
"Ben Firestone?" The masculine voice barked through the phone.
"This is him."
"Congratulations," the voice sounded happy, "you have made linebacker for the Green Bay Packers. You are twenty eighth pick."
Twenty-eighth pick, he was low on the totem pole, but he was happy he made a team. Green Bay Packers. He loved the Packers. He grew up watching Brett Favre gracefully run through end zones and launching into the goal line to make touchdowns. Brett Favre was his idol until he left abruptly for other teams. But, it was not only Brett Favre, Ben just loved the Packers.
"Please report to training camp on August Fifth." The voice broke his train of thought.
"Thank you, sir." The call ended.
"So," his mother asked with a tint of happiness and nervousness.
"Green Bay Packers."
"Honey! That's great! You made your team!"
"Congratulations, son," his father smiled.
"Congrats!" Lily also smiled.
"I report to training camp on August Fifth, exactly two months from now."


Ben woke up in sweat, he was disoriented for a moment; he looked over at the clock: 8am, it was time to get dressed and meet the other recruits for breakfast. He had to shake off the nightmare he had of his dad shouting in the bleachers saying “you no-for-good son of a bitch, you throw like a girl!” Today was the day and Ben didn’t want this dream to ruin his game.

His hair, a dirty blonde, was slicked and pulled back in a black hair tie. He was wearing his favorite Packers shirt; yellow with GREEN BAY PACKERS written horizontal green block letters and 1921 in vertical white cursive letters. A football with a runner was below the green block letters. Black cargo shorts were worn; he assumed this outfit would be okay for breakfast and it was nice and cool before he had to change into the hot, heavy uniform.

"Firestone! Glad you woke up and joined us. I didn't have the heart to wake you this morning," Pat said as he stuffed scrambled eggs into his mouth. Pat was loud, but compared to roommates he lived with in college, Pat respected boundaries and was a kind spirit. However, when it came to the game, Pat showed no mercy to opponents. Ben witnessed this yesterday as Pat the wide receiver "murdered" the other team. Today was Ben's turn to prove his fierceness.
Coach McCarthy and the personal trainings had told them the night before to eat a lot of carbs and eat as much as humanly possible for breakfast. A banquet fit for a queen, princess and prince lay in front of him. "Holy shit," he thought to himself, and his once famished stomach twisted and turned yelling at him to help himself to croissants, bagels, bacon, fruits and a the numerous entrees laying in aerial view.
"Ya know, ya can't sleep in every morning and mama ain't here to wake ya," one of the recruits told him viciously. He was a big black guy, muscular, and someone the opposing team wouldn't want to meet.
"I know dumbass," Ben had mumbled with some French toast stuffed in his mouth.
"What was that, boy," the man had said in a thick Southern accent. He stood up and angrily stared into Ben’s eyes. He snarled, “what did you say? Don’t make me make you regret it!” He bunched up his fists ready to start a fight.
Ben was nervous. I should have kept my mouth shut so he didn’t want to knock my loud mouth out. Instead "I know," loudly came out of Ben’s mouth. "By the way, my name is Ben. I'm linebacker."
"Antoine, wide receiver." He puts down his fists and backed off from Ben.
Ben sighed. He sat down and continued eating his breakfast.
"Where you from?" Antoine asked as he pulled his dreadlocks back.
"Baltimore--"
"Oh, Ravens country!"
"Yeah," Ben blushed, he never was a Ravens fan unlike his family and neighbors, "how about you?"
"Atlanta."
"Ah, Falcons territory!"
Antoine gave a loud chortle that was almost on the obnoxious side before biting into his bacon, egg and cheese sandwich. Ben assumed that like himself, Antoine wasn't a Falcons fan. A fan wouldn't do that or would they?
“How long have you been playin’,” Ben asked to break the ice some more.
“17 years, since Kindergarten,” he replied, “and you?”
“About 12, since sixth grade.”
“You relatively new to the sport then,” Antoine said with a big grin on his face.
“I suppose.”
“What made you get into football?”
“It was always on in our house and although my dad likes the Ravens and is a fan, he doesn’t pledge allegiance to any team; every game was on in our household. I loved the way the Packers played; I admired Brett Favre and his lightning speed running and his quick passing techniques. He was, in my eyes, the god of quarterbacks. I wanted to be just like him. So, I decided to join a local team in sixth grade. It turns out I was pretty good at it and won some championships.” Ben never liked to brag and was always modest about his accomplishments in his favorite sport.
Ben's stomach continued to grumble; he ended his conversation with Antoine and returned to his French toast; stuffing it down his throat. He hoped there were opportunities for more food. He felt ravenous.
"Attention," said Chad, who was the Special Teams manager, "breakfast is over. Please report to the training field." With that said both the rookies and the professionals finished whatever food they had in their mouths and cleaned up around themselves.
Firestone #55 his jersey read. For the practice he'd be the away colour -- white. He'd be training with Matthews, Hawk and the few other linebackers. Ben fumbled around a bit putting on his jersey, he's excited yet nervous at the same time. What if I mess up, he thought, I don't want to make a fool out of myself around my idols.
"C'mon Firestone, stop daydreaming," Antoine said as he tapped Ben's shoulder jarring Ben out of his thoughts. Ben quickly placed the jersey over his head and closed the glass door of his locker (Ben thought it was cool that his new locker was made out of oak wood, stained in cherry and had glass doors, pretty royal compared to his college days if you asked him).

I’m at a payphone trying to call home—Maroon 5 blasted in the distance. In the hot August Wisconsin sun, the fans sat in rows on bleachers. He could see from where he was standing behind gate (as the professionals were signing jerseys from other adoring fans who camped outside Nitschke Field waiting for autographs) as well as the people standing with their backs toward  Nitschke Field. Ben assumed they must be taking pictures. He admired the fans’ dedication and remembered the day he first traveled to Green Bay to see a pre-season game back in his freshman year of college. He and a buddy came and spent four days doing Packers related activities. Now I’m finally living a dream, he thought.
The moment was here. His jersey with a patch that read BELLIN HEALTH was rolled up to his stomach and he had his full pads on. Walking along the green grass, Ben walked to where the linebackers were told to stand. Ben was first on the field. He noticed the white markers carefully and neatly sprayed on the green, fresh mowed turf and he noticed how bright the sun was shining. Ben imagined that the fans must be dedicated to sit on metal bleachers that deflect sun onto their skin, but he remembered those days and it never phased him. In his semi-conscious phase of admiration to fans and daydreaming of his greatness, Nitschke Field filled up quickly with the other players.
I just met you and this is crazy—a new irritating song blasted onto the field that “okay, line up by your numbers in a straight line…” that Coach Morton was saying in a low voice was barely audible to Ben. Ben eventually heard him and followed his instructions. He was in between Jamari and Dezman, both rookies as well, and very muscular. With Jamari’s and Dezman’s long dreadlocks and full padded bodies, sweat rolled down their faces from the heat of August. 
“Run on one foot, carefully hold the left knee,” the training coach said. Grabbing his left knee, Ben became unbalanced and toppled over.
“Wow, you need to get your balance right before you can play football,” Jamari snickered.
“Shut up,” Ben’s face turned as red as a tomato.
“You’ll be fine, don’t listen to him,” Dezman stood up for Ben and extending his arm out, Dezman helped Ben off the grass.
Now everyone was on the field. Ben grasped his left leg in his hand. The whistle blew, it was time to go. I can do this, I can do this, Ben thought.  He was struggling; his leg kept slipping out of his hand. The whistle blew, it was now over.

The fierceness in the white of his eyes was hypnotizing. He stood left of Harrell, the rookie quarterback from Texas Tech, just waiting for him to toss the ball underhand. Although he was competing with other teammates (as typical in practice training sessions), he was ready. Let’s kick some ass, Ben thought, Matthews and me can do this. All of us can if we continue as a team.
Harrell threw the ball; it was time for Ben to react. The boys in green were encroaching on the white team. To keep things gentle, Ben lightly blocked a few guys; in Ben’s mind he was on top of the world as the white team won.

Game day. Green Bay went wild. Ben noticed everyone draped in their Packers jerseys, the Cheeseheads walking the streets and the talk of the town was the upcoming game. It was time to face the Seahawks. Ben heard on the TV after switching from Green Bay’s local news to ESPN that it was predicted that the Packers were going to sweep Seattle.
Seahawks suck, his friends’ voices echoed in Ben’s head. Anyone can beat them. Haha, Ben had laughed to his friends, this is true. I never liked that team, there’s something dirty about them besides them being lousy and losing every game.  Ben bit his nails and the same queasy feeling he had on the day of the draft returned again. He felt like puking, but he couldn’t—he had to keep the food down to bulk up for tonight. Tonight, tonight—tonight was that game! Ben would debut.

“GO PACK GO!” was sung to a drum beat. The crowd was going crazy outside in Lambeau Field. Ben stood with the rest of the team in the hallway that led to the field. Running out the door in all his glory, Ben made it to the side where thousands of fans would be watching. Calm down, he thought, it’ll be just like a college game. Don’t panic. Hand over his heart; he followed the motions of singing the National Anthem to get his mind off the butterflies that danced around in his stomach.
The first string went first. The Thursday night lights were blinding, but Ben could watch the first string play. Rodgers nodded to Nelson and the ball snapped. Running for a touchdown, Nelson ran the red zone with minimal coverage all the way to the end zone, scoring a touchdown. The rookies went wild in hopes they will be as great as the first string someday.
Quarterback sneak. Rodgers was amazing with those. Second quarter; the game is still 7-0. As soon as the ball was snapped and Rodgers caught it, Ben noticed that Rodgers astutely watched how the Seahawks emphasis of coverage was on the linebackers. It was only two yards to the touchdown; Rodgers along with the offensive line pushed Rodgers for a touchdown. 14-0. Wow, the Seahawks do suck, Ben thought as the whistle blew signaling halftime. For the next half the rookies would play, it would be their time to shine and prove themselves.

“Red 32,” Harrell yells before the ball is thrown. What does that mean? Ben scrambled around; these damn butterflies are going to my head. I have to stop this.
Harrell was sacked. The ball goes to the Seahawks. I need to stop them; Ben’s guard goes up. Yet, he doesn’t tackle; in fact the quarterback flew past him scoring the first touchdown for Seattle.
The game was a disaster. “Blue 40,” Harrell shouted as the ball went to the Packers after an interception from Seattle. Ben was still confused, he had no idea what that code was.  Coming face to face with an offensive player from Seattle, Ben could see the whites of his angry eyes. Ben was supposed to…
“We need to step up the game Firestone. You need to do your job,” Harrell had said in the huddle.
“I am! It’s all of you who need to step it up!” “Ben regretted his words at that moment. The team looked angrily at him, but Harrell continued, “This is what we need to do.” However, Ben’s mind went elsewhere. I’m doing the best I can, he thought. Coming out of the huddle, they reposition themselves on Lambeau’s nice, soft and healthy green turf.
Ben stood alongside Hawk, he was thrown back in the game to give one of the rookies a rest. Ben knew that he would have to step up his game. Suddenly, a ball is thrown to him and he drops it. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thinks aloud and screams at the grass like it was a living thing. Fortunately, it was still the Packers’ ball and they still had a chance…
…However, the Seahawks had a different plan. Although, Matt Flynn threw an interception and the Packers made a field goal after three attempts at a field goal with nothing but dropped balls and bad plays. The Seahawks sacked Harrell a few more times, more rookies fumble or drop the ball and the running was so weak that even an elementary school child could have played a better game. The Seahawks beat the Packers 48-17.

“What the hell kind of game was that,” Matthews was livid. “We were doing so well up until the third quarter! You rookies need to step it up!”
“Clay, calm down,” Coach McCarthy said as he stepped into the locker room. “We need better plays, this is professional, not college…”


There was a loud rap on the hotel’s door, immediately waking Ben. “Just one moment,” he sleepily said. “Just one minute.” Ben rubbed his eyes and walked over the door, unlocking the hinge that held the door shut.
At the door was Coach Morton. He was wondering why he was here, but he knew it couldn’t be good. “Coach McCarthy wants to see you,” Coach Morton sadly said.
Leading Ben down the hall into the grand office, Ben noticed the intricacies of how the wall was painted and the pictures of past and current players that cluttered the nicely painted yellow walls.
“Good morning Ben, please sit down,” Coach McCarthy quietly said.
Ben’s butterflies had returned.




©2012. “Lambeau Field Past Sunset” in Green Bay, Wisconsin by Jessica Marie Cavaliere.