This essay is more or less a story -- I was wondering if something like this can be used for the common app essay. Does it tell enough about me as a person? Should I explain or add anything? And if there are any grammatical errors, it'll be great if you point them out. Thank you. (:
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Beads of sweat trickle down from my forehead, tracing the outline of my jaw before finally being liberated from my skin. It's kind of like those Gatorade commercials, except my sweat isn't some neon version of the colors of the rainbow. The field was vast, but we remain adamant about staying on the sideline, refusing to capitalize the space. I linger in the stack, stagnant for a few seconds.
Cut! Cut cut cut! The handler screams, or I scream in my head - the line between thought and speech becomes incoherent. She grips the disc, and fakes to the right, left, scanning the field for options.
I dig my cleats into the grass and cut for the disc. I pump my arms side to side and accelerate. The handler locks her eyes onto me for a quarter of a second; they shift to my defender, and take note of the close proximity between the said defender and me. Side by side, neck to neck. She moves onto her next option.
This is Ultimate Frisbee.
Ultimate Frisbee, as my friend fondly defines it, is the baby of soccer and football. Very generally, the sport requires two teams of seven players, each with its own end zone. The teams must throw the disc person to person toward the end zone before finally scoring in it. There is also the ridiculous amount of running and required endurance characteristic of soccer. From the name itself, it sounds like something easy peasy, but when you join, it's like, oops! Guess what? There's actually an athletic component to this sport!
And I wonder why I deal with it. I wonder why I suck it up and throw my body into physical agony as I condition in practice. I wonder why I force my abdomen, shins, calves, ankles, biceps, triceps, quadriceps, poly-whatever-ceps into overdrive 8 hours a week. I wonder how everyone else on the team still goes above and beyond under these conditions and why I can't do the same. I wonder how I manage to drag myself to the end zone line after each point. And for every disc I fumble and drop, I wonder how I deal with the handler's disappointment with me and the disappointment I have in myself and everyone's half-hearted encouragements saying that it's alright even though it isn't really alright.
I jog back to the stack, my breath coming out in large puffs air as I try to restore the proper oxygen to carbon dioxide ratio in my body. My defender relaxes as well, waiting for the stack to shift and my time to cut.
I bolt.
Never mind the sharp, 45° cut that I'm suppose to make and use my cleats for. I run one clean diagonal line into the space. The defender? I don't see her because she's behind me.
Out in the open, the path between the handler and the cutter becomes unobstructed, in the same cheesy manner when the ocean splits when Aladdin's father utters, "Open sesame!"
There is no slo-mo. The disc departs from the handler.
The piece of plastic hits my hand. As the vibrations from the impact quietly resounds through my palm to the tips of my finger, I forget about the disappointment, the fatigue, and the cries of my teammates.
I only feel the 175-gram disc in my hand, and it feels good.
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Beads of sweat trickle down from my forehead, tracing the outline of my jaw before finally being liberated from my skin. It's kind of like those Gatorade commercials, except my sweat isn't some neon version of the colors of the rainbow. The field was vast, but we remain adamant about staying on the sideline, refusing to capitalize the space. I linger in the stack, stagnant for a few seconds.
Cut! Cut cut cut! The handler screams, or I scream in my head - the line between thought and speech becomes incoherent. She grips the disc, and fakes to the right, left, scanning the field for options.
I dig my cleats into the grass and cut for the disc. I pump my arms side to side and accelerate. The handler locks her eyes onto me for a quarter of a second; they shift to my defender, and take note of the close proximity between the said defender and me. Side by side, neck to neck. She moves onto her next option.
This is Ultimate Frisbee.
Ultimate Frisbee, as my friend fondly defines it, is the baby of soccer and football. Very generally, the sport requires two teams of seven players, each with its own end zone. The teams must throw the disc person to person toward the end zone before finally scoring in it. There is also the ridiculous amount of running and required endurance characteristic of soccer. From the name itself, it sounds like something easy peasy, but when you join, it's like, oops! Guess what? There's actually an athletic component to this sport!
And I wonder why I deal with it. I wonder why I suck it up and throw my body into physical agony as I condition in practice. I wonder why I force my abdomen, shins, calves, ankles, biceps, triceps, quadriceps, poly-whatever-ceps into overdrive 8 hours a week. I wonder how everyone else on the team still goes above and beyond under these conditions and why I can't do the same. I wonder how I manage to drag myself to the end zone line after each point. And for every disc I fumble and drop, I wonder how I deal with the handler's disappointment with me and the disappointment I have in myself and everyone's half-hearted encouragements saying that it's alright even though it isn't really alright.
I jog back to the stack, my breath coming out in large puffs air as I try to restore the proper oxygen to carbon dioxide ratio in my body. My defender relaxes as well, waiting for the stack to shift and my time to cut.
I bolt.
Never mind the sharp, 45° cut that I'm suppose to make and use my cleats for. I run one clean diagonal line into the space. The defender? I don't see her because she's behind me.
Out in the open, the path between the handler and the cutter becomes unobstructed, in the same cheesy manner when the ocean splits when Aladdin's father utters, "Open sesame!"
There is no slo-mo. The disc departs from the handler.
The piece of plastic hits my hand. As the vibrations from the impact quietly resounds through my palm to the tips of my finger, I forget about the disappointment, the fatigue, and the cries of my teammates.
I only feel the 175-gram disc in my hand, and it feels good.