I got the email on Tuesday asking if I would be interested in covering the game. Since I didn’t have a ticket, this in itself was lucky. The rest of the week was pretty much over for me at that point. You’re telling me that I have to focus on Astronomy when I know that come Friday I’m going to be rubbing elbows with *gasp* real journalists watching my team play? Sorry, planetary nebulae.

Friday itself was a blur. I picked up my credentials and made sure that I was at Autzen as early as they would allow me. I don’t know how many time I’m going to be afforded this opportunity, and I wanted to soak as much of it up as possible.

The press pass felt like a skeleton key to another world… A world full of Marcus Allens and Gus Johnsons, full of free food and kegs of Ninkasi, full of LA Times writer Bill Plaschke (though to be fair, the dude can fill up a room).

[I'm really trying not to let blog post devolve into one self-indulgent boast, but I can't make promises. The only thing I can say is that I don't really think it's bragging when you're entirely aware of how blessed you are — I just want to share the experience.]

The game too was a blur, but then again it’s Oregon’s offense we’re talking about. I tried to write my piece as the game was wrapping up to speed along my whole process, but once I got onto the field at the end of the game, I realized that I wasn’t capturing the emotion at all.

My previous lede: For the second time in three years, the Oregon Ducks are headed the Rose Bowl.

Yeah, I know. Yawn.

That’s why my new lede goes for something more visceral. It was a crazy situation postgame. Players were getting gear stolen from them by souvenir-minded fans. Drunk college kids were basically molesting Chip trying to shake hands with him. It was insane.

Also — my first experience with press conferences. They’re a lot shorter than they seem, or at least this one was. Then there was the sprint back to the press box to finish and file my story. And then? It was over. I was gone. But I overheard Phil Knight say something to his friend as the press conference ended, and people were filing out into the Mo Center. With a rose in his hand, he looked over and said, “How about that? That was pretty neat.”

Couldn’t agree more, Uncle Phil.

So far, most of the stuff is just pieces I’ve written for the Emerald or the Pac-12, but hopefully as I continue to put my name out there and get more assignments, I can diversify the list a little bit. Coming soon are my articles on Matt Barkley and Sherry Calvert.

Yesterday, I was given the opportunity to meet with industry professionals from both The Oregonian and Willamette Week to discuss the ins and outs of their working day and to pick their brains on what makes both the individual journalist and the news organization as a whole successful. It was a career-affirming trip for me, as I saw the passion required to carve out a life in print, but it was also eye-opening.

Portland actually has some beautiful architecture, especially in heart of downtown. (Aaron Marineau)

The first stop was The Oregonian, the Pacific Northwest’s biggest paper and the 19th biggest daily in the country. About four stories, gray and unassuming, the building isn’t impressive on the outside. But after taking the service elevator up into the heart of the building, I couldn’t help but get excited. The newsroom thrilled me, partially because I’ve never truly seen a real one before, but also because it was exactly as I had pictured it in my head. Seeing the individual cogs at work cranking as one to put out something so important every day was undeniably exciting.

Oregonian reporters Brad Schmidt and Rachel Bachman both were nice enough to sit down and let us hound them with questions for a few minutes. Brad’s method for covering his City Hall beat is something from which I think the Emerald can learn a lot. Because covering Portland politics is so competitive, constant online updates (with less regard to length) are vital. It’s journalism that raises the question of balance between immediacy and accuracy, and that give-and-take will only grow to be more important as the ODE leaves the halcyon days of print-first and dives into being an online force.

After hearing about the controversial Civil War-themed lotto tickets, I had to try my luck. Incidentally, I did not win the grand prize of $7,000. (Aaron Marineau)

Bachman was just as enlightening. Her CV caught my eye first — with a decade and a half of sports journalism under her belt, including stints covering the Sonics and Blazers, she’s doing what I always see myself doing if I let my mind wander that far into the future. She stressed the importance of maintaining that gap between fan and journalist when covering sports teams.

“If one of your guys gets arrested, can you write about it?” Bachman asked. “If you feel uncomfortable, or don’t think you can do it, maybe it’s time to step away from your beat.” It’s good advice for anyone, but especially for the Emerald, as a student paper, the temptation to slip into fanhood is stout.

We took a full tour of the offices, and it was impossible not to see the lengthening shadows of journalism’s insecure future. Entire blocks of cubicles sat empty, stripped bare and ominous. The paper cut 24 jobs in March of 2009 and another 37 eleven months later. The gloominess of the newsroom wasn’t entirely due to the ghosts of employees gone — after all, we were there right at lunchtime — but it was hard not to notice, as was the newsroom’s dearth of youth. I would guess upwards of 90% of those we met were over 35 years old; probably not uncommon for a regional newspaper of that size, but discouraging regardless.

After sampling some of PDX’s finest food carts, we visited the Willamette Week and met with virtually everyone who was available. I wish I remembered their names a bit better, but the early morning drive from Eugene was taking its toll, and I was a little out of it. I learned more about targeting your audience, recognizing and focusing on what you do well as an organization and setting the environment in the newsroom that reflects what kind of content you disseminate. They run a tight operation, publicly acknowledging that they hire candidates who A.) Report, B.) Tell narrative stories and C.) Possess what they call “Critical Intelligence.” It sounds elitist, but they can’t afford to pay people who aren’t capable of producing the thoughtful and critical (not to mention highly regarded) pieces that make up the WW’s bread and butter.

Emerald photographer Alex McDougall sticks his hand out the window on the drive home. We were all pretty tired at this point. (Aaron Marineau)

The drive home was uneventful, and it left me thinking of my future. I’ve no doubt that this is what I want to do with my life, and I’m full of just enough youthful arrogance to believe I won’t have trouble making a living in the industry. I know I can tell stories, and I know I’m a hard worker. But after this trip to Portland, intangible words like “future” and “career” just got a little more real.

He's judging me. (The Guardian)

So, this is interesting.

My piece on the first day of Sasquatch! — the first piece I’ve written for the Emerald — has drawn heavy fire from fans of Bob Mould. During the piece, which I’ll dig into a little deeper in a second, this is what I said about Mould:

“Bob Mould, a forty-something with thinning hair and no other musical accompaniment, hit the stage first. He tore off a brisk 45-minute set, warming up the crowd with his electric, Ted Leo-esque sound. Although he wasn’t well-known, Mould has collaborated with Death Cab for Cutie’s Ben Gibbard and Foo Fighters. The surging crowds, fresh off a full day in the sun, met him with equal intensity.”

Bob Mould, if you didn’t know (and don’t be embarrassed because, surprise, you’re not the only one on this planet), is an influential alternative rocker who was in both Husker Du and Sugar.

Naturally, that paragraph angered Mould’s fanbase, many of whom blasted me across the board. A few of the highlights….

“Oregon Daily Emerald music critic doesn’t seem to know who Bob Mould is.”

“Matt Walks needs to go to iTunes, right now, and download a copy of  ’Copper Blue’ by Sugar. Then, he needs to find a pair of tongs and some grease so that he can take his head out of his ass.” I actually kind of like this one.

“Oof. This is like a blend between an enthusiastic and ignorant high schooler and a uninformed and embarrassing dad.”

“Pretty sure the “about Matt Walks” section should include the words “ignorant”, “lazy”, “teenager” and “has equally clueless editors”…not necessarily in that order.”

“I’m crying..”

And this, from Ted Leo himself: “Holy shit – that id kind of the most fucked-uppedly ahistorical thing I’ve ever seen!” http://twitter.com/#!/tedleo/status/76889150032326656

Yeesh. At least Ted Leo has read my work.

My primary reaction is amazement. The fact that people are still commenting on it — its most recent activity was three hours ago — is a testament to both the power of the internet and the passion of Mould’s fans. My article has been forwarded and tweeted around the world and read by thousands more people than I had ever thought possible. In fact, if it wasn’t so universally hated, my ego might have actually inflated. The story’s subsequent comment thread has morphed into a lop-sided argument between uncompromising music intellectuals and those blessed contrarians who’ve stepped up to my defense (in many cases my friends).

Let me explain the situation at Sasquatch! a little more.

First, I didn’t have a press pass. I told the Emerald that I was going to Sasquatch! after the deadline for applying for one had passed, and I agreed with my bosses to cover the festival from a fan’s perspective. I would type up nightly reports from my campsite and email them off to the newsroom off any kind of internet I could find. I had never been to the festival before, and assuming that I could somehow find internet there was my first mistake. The Gorge is, as a CMS officer told me, “set up in the middle of a crop field in Central Washington. You’re not going to get internet here.” Compounding the problem, my laptop had a limited battery, and I didn’t really have any way to charge it (as it turned out, that wouldn’t be a problem).

After meandering through the District 9 campgrounds, I finally found someone to let me use a few minutes of wireless internet on their cellphone’s hotspot.

I had worked out a system where I would handwrite each article based on my experiences, personal background knowledge of the bands and the Sasquatch! program guide, which contained a brief bio of each artist. Then, I turned on my computer for as long as it took to type up the article and emailed it out to my editor. I didn’t have the opportunity to thoroughly — or, I admit, even briefly — research each band that I saw. In Mould’s case, he was the opening act on the mainstage Friday, and his modest bio in the pamphlet guide didn’t exactly paint him in the same light that the commenters on my story have. I guess when you’re a legend, you don’t say that in your PR blurb.

Regardless, on the third night, someone slashed open our tent and stole my laptop, digital camera and, yes, even our sandwiches. This was probably due to my advertising the fact that I had a laptop as I searched for someone to give me internet. In hindsight, that was a naive, foolish thing to do. At the time, it was the only conceivable way to turn in a piece that I had promised would be in.

The piece isn’t the best thing I’ve ever written by any stretch, but given the conditions under which I wrote it, I’m still proud of it.

Nothing I wrote in that paragraph about Mould is untrue. Well, he’s technically not a forty-something — he’s 50. Other than that, he did sound like Ted Leo, or, as my detractors eagerly point out, Ted Leo sounds like him. He had collaborated with DCFC and FF, a fact pointed out in the Sasquatch! pamphlet. Even the clause that nailed me to the cross, “Although he wasn’t well-known…” was absolutely true in the context under which I saw him. During his set, for whatever reasons, there just weren’t that many Mould fans. The sloping lawn facing the Gorge was pretty sparse, and he didn’t fill the lower standing-room area. Those directly around us were only there to get better spots for Death From Above 1979, The Bronx and Foo Fighters.

The only part of this that actually stings a little bit is that in cyberspace my name is now tied to a piece of musical ignorance. I know music. I do. I have Husker Du on my iPod, for God’s sake. For whatever reason, Mould slipped through the cracks. There’s no other excuse. And for that, Mould fans, I’m sorry. I know the bitter resentment of having a favorite musical artist blatantly misrepresented (it’s that same feeling I get every time people think that Edward Sharpe is a real person).

As much as I’m disappointed in myself for the flame war I’ve ignited, to me, this result is infinitely better than if no one had read or cared about my piece.

Plus, I’ve learned a lot from Mouldgate.

I’ve learned that in this day and age you can’t phone anything in. Every piece, every paragraph, no matter how trivial you deem it, matters. As a journalist, that’s incredibly reassuring and powerful. I’m also reminded that passion plus internet anonymity can be humbling.

Finally, at the most basic level, exhaustively do your research. If you don’t, people cry.

We have to do it. That’s what Tim says, and no one says no to Tim. But the more I think on it, the more I think he’s right. What they did to Gibs was messed up.

Tim and I went to see him last night at St. James, and he’s still banged up bad, lots of beeps and boops doing his living for him. His neck was wrapped tight, but I know what’s there. Tim says it’s called a Harlem sunset. I thought it should have a worse name than that, but no one says no to Tim.

I’m not as tough as the rest of the Four Swords think I am, but at least I know that. I don’t think I could do what Paul did to that kid he caught messing with his cousin. That night, as the rain soaked my feet through my shoes, he told me it was a piece of cake.

“All it took was a bat,” he said, grinning at me. But I saw it took guts. He’s a strong kid, and now no one will mess with his cousin. I wish I could do that. I wish I had the grit and fire and smoke in me that guys like Tim and Paul have.

“Why did they cut up Gibs?” I asked Tim on the drive home from St. James.

“Hate to ask you this, kid, but do you got a smoke?” I fished in my coat for my cloves and lit one for both of us. He was trying to quit smoking, and I was trying to start.

“I think it had to do with Kate,” he said.

“Who’s Kate?”

“Mike D’s girl.”

“Who’s Mike D?”

“He’s a Duke.”

“Oh.” I gave Tim a grim nod, apt for the rare use of the D-word.

“You’re in tonight, right?” I knew what he would want me to say.

“We have to do it,” I said.

“That’s my guy,” he said, ruffling my hair.

The rest of the ride went quick, my head full of smoke and fear and the sound of Gibs breathing through tubes.

“Meet at Paul’s at eight,” Tim said when he dropped me off. “Bring your dancing shoes.”

Mom had left for work by the time I got home, so I knew it was at least six. I called Sid and Jack to see if they would play some ball with me to calm my nerves, but both calls went straight to voicemail. I went up to my room and locked the door. I dug my old Ray Charles disc out from my desk and put it in my boom box. I wished I had Georgia on my mind like old Ray. I lied on my bed and tried to sleep, but when I closed my eyes I saw Gibs.

What will I feel like? The guy that got Gibs, what did he feel? Did he know who Gibs was or just that he was a Sword?  I felt my hate for the Dukes well up, and, remembering what Tim said as I was getting out of the car, I reached under my bed for my knife. The 6-inch switch caught the light from my lamp when I clicked it. The back of the blade was scraped up from rubbing it on the brick wall next to my house — no Sword’s knife is new.

Seeing that it was ten to eight, I locked the house and left for Paul’s. My fear was gone, and my steps were quick and light on the walk. I would make the Dukes pay for Gibs and then I’d smoke a clove with Tim and go to St. James to tell Gibs the whole story. And then it would all be done.

This was the player recruited to play wide receiver in college.  Buried behind six other quarterbacks at the beginning of the year, Favre was running the Southern Mississippi offense by the third game of his freshman year.  It would prove to be the first of one thousand surprises Favre had in store.

His career at Green Bay — in the end, the team with which Canton will honor him — was characterized by rapidly evaporating shock.  Packers fans simply became used to the extraordinary.  His historic run of three consecutive MVP awards was checkered with miraculous drives, plays and games.  Favre claimed entire quarters of games for himself. His systematic carving of the Raiders’ secondary on Monday Night Football — just a day removed from his father’s death — stands as one of the most complete games by a quarterback in history.

Football is notoriously cruel to the aging quarterback.  Names that read to football fans like books in the bible — Unitas, Namath and Montana — all languished for obscure teams late in their careers.  And yet, Favre’s decision to play for the New York Jets, in effect cutting the 15-year-old yo-yo string tying him to the Packers, was as surprising as it was publicized.

Favre’s contemporaries have long since hung up the cleats.  John Elway got the storybook ending he wanted, allowing him to retire with peace of mind and a legend that will only grow with time. Dan Marino’s legs wore out.  Both Steve Young and Troy Aikman were concussed out of the league.  Drew Bledsoe, Favre’s closest competition in terms of longevity, finally limped out of the league in 2007.  Defying the odds by learning an entirely new offense, Favre maintained decent play for the New York Jets.  Mark Sanchez’ stunted development allowed a certain tolerance for Favre’s mounting INT totals, and although Favre split at the end of the year, no one can say the experiment was a total failure.

Even more surprising was his complete resurgence the next year in Minnesota.  He took up the mantle of the most polarizing figure in sports (one that LeBron would snatch back the following summer) and, what’s more, he had one of his best years in his career.  Watching his legion of Vikings supporters that no doubt two years earlier would’ve cheered at his head on a pike, Favre proved that skill and experience can overcome wild, unchecked fandom.

The NFL has succeeded in its king-of-the-hill marketing strategies.  Anything less than a Super Bowl victory is nothing.  One team to rule them all, as it were, which is one reason why Brett Favre’s season-ending interception in the NFC Championship game battered his image so much.  The casual viewers won’t remember Adrian Peterson’s repeated miscues, including two costly fumbles.  No, the lasting image of the 2010 NFC Championship game is Favre looking up from the ground as Tracy Porter hauls in his wayward pass.

Minnesota fans were almost disgusted with themselves for allowing their hope to swell.  Shouldn’t they have known better than to put their hopes in a 40-year-old?  Favre the magician had tricked America once again.  Many, including myself, thought this success would be enough for #4.  Hasn’t Favre seen Rocky?  By going the distance and proving his doubters entirely wrong, he had one final feather to put in a cap overloaded with them.

But no, the consummate contrarian, Favre was back under center week one in 2010.

The hits Favre took this year (after skipping training camp, no less) were vicious and violent.  Images of a boyish Favre skipping his way down to the endzone to celebrate with his receivers were wiped away.  In their place was a wincing, tired, old man getting helped off the ground.

No, sorry, make that a wincing, tired, old man taking pictures of his, er, kleinsasser and sending them to co-workers.

Seeing Favre human, like the rest of us, is depressing.  His slow reduction to mere mortal status was distasteful and sobering.  Relegated to the bench, television coverages generally avoided Favre like the deposed leader he was.

As vocal as I am about my dislike of Favre, I have immense respect for him.  What he did inevitably became less important than the way he did it, but for a man who was once addicted to painkillers, he has certainly made a name for himself.  The long-running theater Favre created out of his career may have come to an end in mediocrity, but, as Favre no doubt likes, no one saw it coming.

I suppose David was on my family tree, although our branches were so far apart it’s hard to tell.  He was my half-sister’s half-brother, which really only meant we were two members of a sprawling, broken lineage patched together with patience and remarriages.  I was not related to him, and truly wasn’t completely aware he even existed until the day our sister got married.

It was a joyous day in May, one that overshadows prefixes like “ex”, “half” and “step.”  David and I had both been selected as groomsmen, and I met him during the rehearsal.  He was the type of person who never speaks without purpose and accuracy.  He was three years older than me, and I don’t really know what I was expecting when I met him.  We first bonded over the fact that neither one of us knew anything about formal wear.  It took two uncles to help fix our tuxes.

I knew that he knew that we both knew I was closer to our sister than he was.  That didn’t matter, though.  The love and pride he had for our sister was clearer than anything in the room.  We did our jobs with stoic honor, me following his lead.  After the ceremony, rides to the reception were organized and designated.  David and I would ride together in my dad’s Buick.  David drove.

What do you say to your half-sister’s half brother for thirty miles?  I think he sensed that I didn’t know how to answer that, so once again I followed his lead.  He was a mechanic, and he gave me his thoughts on the Buick.  The left blinker needed work—something about electricity currents.  He could fix it in a few minutes if he had his tools.  The car rode smooth, but felt a little weak on the highway.  He could take a look at that, too.

My contributions to the conversation remained embarrassingly bare.  If my car breaks down and the gas tank isn’t empty, I’m out of ideas.  I knew he could tell, but he was a gentleman about it, and I appreciated it more than I could articulate.

The reception came and we went to our respective family corners.  That was the last time I ever saw him.

Last week, Montana Highway Patrolman David Delaittre was shot and killed during a routine traffic stop.  The man had expired license plates, and the forensics indicate that when David approached the driver side window, the driver—a nobody, dead weight, malignant to society—fired once into David’s torso, and again into his head.  More recent reports indicate that before he died, David managed to return fire and even injure the driver.  Police found the car later with the suspect inside, dead.  He had killed himself.

It’s the kind of senseless violence that corrodes one’s belief in humanity.  Unlike the bird, there’s no beauty here; just brutal, meaningless cruelty, and now a gaping hole.  The thing that affects me deepest is the agonizing helplessness.  This could’ve been anyone, anywhere, but it wasn’t.  It was David Delaittre of Three Forks, Montana:  a fine officer and a better person.  Funeral arrangements will be held tomorrow afternoon.  Flags in Montana will fly at half-mast.

When my mom called me in Oregon, I was a little confused.  I didn’t even know he had become a highway patrolman.  As things became more clear, and my side of the family rallied around my sister (the bridge, if you will, between the families), I realized that I’d missed out.  Familiar loyalties dictated that we did not have much to say to each other, but it’s only now that I see how pointless that is.  David’s death has had a profound impact on me.  I guess it’s because I knew him in the context of extremes.  From the joy of marriage to the sorrow of murder, David will be missed—by me, yes, but also by a whole community, a state, and most importantly a family.  One family.

Except the Cowboys aren’t 1-7.  They’re 1-6.  When the franchise head can’t keep track of your losses anymore, it’s time for an autopsy.

Dissecting the Cowboys’ fresh corpse is a comprehensive process.  We’re talking about a team completely devoid of leadership on both sides of the ball.  The only player on the roster with any inherent ability to inspire people, LB Keith Brooking, simply hasn’t been within the organization long enough to make a significant difference.  Those in positions of traditional leadership, like head coach Wade Phillips or quarterback Tony Romo seem not only reluctant to lead, but entirely disinterested with the idea.

Watching the revolving carousel of Phillips’ game faces is admittedly a fun game.  He looks as if he’s trying to determine what he ate for breakfast as he stares at his team’s weekly collective defecation.  He seems baffled by challenges and general playcalling, and you can forget about the finer points of clock management—they completely elude him.  His supposed knack for defense showed itself last year when Dallas geared up for their playoff run:  the Cowboys shut out opponents for 10 straight quarters on their way to winning their first postseason game since the Aikman era.  Since then, the heart has just gone out of the team.  Phillips’ laissez-faire approach to coaching worked last year, when the team had a clear, definable goal.  However this year’s squad is taking advantage of how pillow-soft Phillips is on his players.  The defense has zero discipline (which isn’t something unquantifiable—look no further than the constant downpour of yellow flags every time Dallas’ opponent has the ball).  During the Jacksonville game, they simply gave up.  No pride.

But Dallas has won a Super Bowl with an awful coach in the past.  With the team and talent Jimmy Johnson had assembled before he left town, anyone with a room temperature IQ could’ve walked in and won the Super Bowl.  And some might argue room temperature is a lot higher than Barry Switzer’s IQ.  What happened in that instance had everything to do with players stepping up and taking control.  Troy Aikman was notorious in his preparation and his insistent refusal to let anyone—Irvin, Deion, Emmitt—slack off.  He led.

Tony Romo just … hasn’t.  Every time it appeared he had turned the corner in his maturation, he would buckle under pressure.  And with all his similarities to Brett Favre, that one may be the most damaging.

Dallas’ coaches and PR team have smoothed out the likeable wrinkles in Romo’s charisma.  He’s no longer the guy going out there, having fun, winning games, making plays like this.  Granted, no one has fun when their team is tied with the lowly Panthers for wins, but that aw-shucks grin was evident even last year after the big playoff win in Philly. I’d be hard-pressed to find a Cowboys fan who would take this incarnation of Romo over the Cabo-bound playboy who routinely won 10-13 games a year.

Romo has always had certain incapacities built into his game.  He’s never had the long ball, and he has never been economical with his turnovers.  But he was winning games, and with less talent around him.  Let me throw some names out there, you tell me what they have in common.  Chad Hutchinson.  Quincy Carter.  Vinny Testaverde.  Randall Cunningham.  These are quarterbacks far worse, statistically speaking, than Romo who were surrounded with less talent.  However they have all led their respective Dallas squads to more success than this year’s Romo.

If Jerry Jones gets his way, the fault will fall on his own shoulders.  Yes, he’s publicly taking the blame—but I suspect that’s only because he craves the inevitable credit when Dallas rebounds.  Instead, his stubbornness to refuse to fire Wade Phillips midseason is merely compounding the problem.  If this year finishes even half as bad as it started, Jerry will want to schedule more boxing matches, because he’ll be lucky to find 100,000 paying Cowboys fans.

Then again, this year hasn’t been without silver linings.  I mean, it’s inevitable when you’re talking about a team laden with Pro Bowlers (and we’re talking players in the uppermost tier of their respective positions) that you’re bound to have individual greatness.  DeMarcus Ware is tied for 2nd in the league with sacks.  Miles Austin is 3rd in the league in receiving yards.  Mat McBriar’s never had a lower punting average.  And let’s not forget about Dez Bryant, who has exceeded all expectations during his spectacular rookie year.

I can’t help but get depressed when one of the few things my football team has done right all year is punt the ball.  All I have to look forward to this year is Jon Kitna throwing the ball fifty times a game, with two or three of those guaranteed to go to the wrong jersey.  Yay.

At least the Lakers are undefeated.

I don’t really know why I first connected with Edgerton Park. It was old; I was young. It was big, with long sloping hills lined with trees that became toothpicks in autumn. I was decidedly small, even for my age, already cognizant that I would have to win fights with my mouth–assuming of course that Option A. (codenamed “Run Away”) had failed.  Edgerton’s playground equipment was aged, splintered and dying. I epitomized  youthful exuberance. Yet, the park somehow became my home-away-from-home.  It became my castle, my helicopter, my Millenium Falcon, my secret headquarters, my Jedi Training Grounds, my sanctuary.  I longed for any time I could sprint the 150 yards from my house to the adventure it promised; a place where I did all my best 9-year-old philosophizing. Propped on the rusting monkey bars, I contemplated life’s major issues: Why did girls smell so good? Why was long division necessary to learn if one was going to play in the NFL for 25 years?  And could James Bond beat Han Solo? What if no guns were allowed, Han had Chewie, and Bond could use gadgets?

As the Brady Bunch sang, though, autumn turns to winter, and then winter turns to spring. Things changed, and life in my comfort zone held no immunity. The Edge always seemed to be the backdrop for the seminal moments in my adolescence.

My first real I’m-Gonna-Marry-Her crush was Kortney Kemmis. She lived across the park from me, and I exercised every possible opportunity I had to see her. She had a smile you had to watch through tinted glass and a giggle that had my heart on the uneven bars. I remember doing push-ups in the park–by myself, mind you–hoping she would notice me and more importantly, how buff I was, and let me sweep her off her feet. Inevitably though, I accepted she just wasn’t into fitness-minded 6th graders, and I moved on. It also probably didn’t help that I almost drowned at her birthday party, but that’s a story for another blog. The park, though, was there to soften the blow of rejection and remind me that I could survive without girls. It would just be a lot more boring.

Edgerton’s grass also softened the blows in Little Guy Football, a sport which roughly amounted to me being pounded by oversized lineman daily, to the point that the “WALKS” on my jersey was reduced to “WA K”. Some particularly clever teammates took my new last name as a request, and never missed an opportunity to make me sample the lush grass.

The park was home to not just my lows, however. It was under the amber glow of the park’s lone, flickering streetlight that I planted my first awkward, warm kiss on a girl. Electrified by the perfection of the moment, I told her I loved her and ran home, my heart thumping in my ears. My wingman Andrew (yes, it was the three of us) wasn’t two steps behind me.  And just a couple months later, on a balmy spring day I got the news that I was a big brother standing on the basketball court.  Naturally this court would be where I dislocated my knee playing basketball two years later, prompting a barrage of cell phone photos (from my friends) and swear words (from me).

I’ve left Edgerton behind, and I absolutely miss it After all, you can never cut something that big out of your life without leaving a hole to heal. I’ miss the late-night-hide-and-seeks that inevitably ended with the cops being called on us. I miss carving my name in the benches every summer with Ben, making sure we left as indelible an impact on the park as it left on us. I miss counting down the seconds on my cell phone to 3:15 AM, that magical moment when the sprinklers click on. But most of all, I miss just being a teenager. The carefree days of growing up are almost over, and the time to be a man is inexorably approaching. I know I’ll be ready, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be scared. At the very least, I’m equipped with the memories, experience, and understanding the park gave me. I know a little bit more about life thanks to those sturdy swings and football fields. But I still don’t know why girls smell so good….