I decided to change a lot during this last week of self-editing (especially to the first paragraph)! Please feel free to make any corrections!
Prompt: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk, or ethical dilemma and its impact on you.
Orange faux fur was everywhere. When I say everywhere, I mean it: in my hair, intertwined in the reticulations of my carpet, caught in the rivets of my jeans, and, I am pretty sure, stuck behind my molars. I was putting a band-aid on a finger pricked by a needle too swift for even my cat-like reflexes to dodge when I glanced at my limbless clay sculpture. At that moment, I realized I had gone crazy; instead of working on a sculpture due in just two weeks for an art exhibition, I sat in a pile of cut-up felt and fur, making a Giants bomber hat.
Although I have loved the San Francisco Giants ever since I tasted my first "J.T. Snow Cone" from a ball park food stand, this season I was the epitome of a zealot. My transformation from fan to fanatic began during a midnight car ride with my father early in the season. He, for the third time that week, went off about how much he wanted the Giants to win the World Series. I immediately tuned out until, seemingly out of nowhere, he told me that he was scheduled for another liver biopsy.
"What's wrong?" I demanded.
"The doctors don't know. That's why I want to see the Giants win; I may not get another chance t-"
"Stop! Can you please stop?"
"Sheryl, you're always so stressed. Life is short; simple as that. I could be here five years, or ten or fifty. But you don't know what will happen-no one does and no one can. So right now, I want the Giants to win it all."
I sat there a moment before I told him I loved him, and we drove home in silence.
My father taught me how to keep a game face during the most intense volleyball games, how to install a radio in a '69 Stingray, and how to figure out which shoe goes on which foot, but this was the best lesson of all: you don't know what will happen. Each moment must be cherished, even if it is just a smile after a home run or a spoonful of an overpriced snow cone with a pun for a name.
It seems foolish to spend years hoping a baseball team would win. The moments created by this hope, though, are the ones I will cherish for years to come: ice-cream after a win, tears after a loss, and perhaps most of all, post-game car rides with my dad, talking about baseball but always drifting off into our dreams and wishes and fears. These moments make big accomplishments worthwhile; the World Series means nothing to me without the foolishness of giving a high-five to the smelly man in the bleachers behind me or the childish elation of jumping on my bed. My high school endeavors amount to nothing without the hot chocolate breaks between late-night studying and games of slap-jack after endless days of testing.
This baseball season shaped my dreams in ways I never expected; I now understand that small details make big differences and seemingly insignificant moments can create the most significant memories. I aspire to always cherish details, to be the babysitter who remembers the preschooler's favorite crayon and the daughter who calls just to say "I love you." I do not know what will happen in my life, but as long as I make the most of every moment, no obstacle will seem too crushing, no blow too devastating, and no goal too ambitious. So thank you, San Francisco Giants, thank you.
Prompt: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk, or ethical dilemma and its impact on you.
Orange faux fur was everywhere. When I say everywhere, I mean it: in my hair, intertwined in the reticulations of my carpet, caught in the rivets of my jeans, and, I am pretty sure, stuck behind my molars. I was putting a band-aid on a finger pricked by a needle too swift for even my cat-like reflexes to dodge when I glanced at my limbless clay sculpture. At that moment, I realized I had gone crazy; instead of working on a sculpture due in just two weeks for an art exhibition, I sat in a pile of cut-up felt and fur, making a Giants bomber hat.
Although I have loved the San Francisco Giants ever since I tasted my first "J.T. Snow Cone" from a ball park food stand, this season I was the epitome of a zealot. My transformation from fan to fanatic began during a midnight car ride with my father early in the season. He, for the third time that week, went off about how much he wanted the Giants to win the World Series. I immediately tuned out until, seemingly out of nowhere, he told me that he was scheduled for another liver biopsy.
"What's wrong?" I demanded.
"The doctors don't know. That's why I want to see the Giants win; I may not get another chance t-"
"Stop! Can you please stop?"
"Sheryl, you're always so stressed. Life is short; simple as that. I could be here five years, or ten or fifty. But you don't know what will happen-no one does and no one can. So right now, I want the Giants to win it all."
I sat there a moment before I told him I loved him, and we drove home in silence.
My father taught me how to keep a game face during the most intense volleyball games, how to install a radio in a '69 Stingray, and how to figure out which shoe goes on which foot, but this was the best lesson of all: you don't know what will happen. Each moment must be cherished, even if it is just a smile after a home run or a spoonful of an overpriced snow cone with a pun for a name.
It seems foolish to spend years hoping a baseball team would win. The moments created by this hope, though, are the ones I will cherish for years to come: ice-cream after a win, tears after a loss, and perhaps most of all, post-game car rides with my dad, talking about baseball but always drifting off into our dreams and wishes and fears. These moments make big accomplishments worthwhile; the World Series means nothing to me without the foolishness of giving a high-five to the smelly man in the bleachers behind me or the childish elation of jumping on my bed. My high school endeavors amount to nothing without the hot chocolate breaks between late-night studying and games of slap-jack after endless days of testing.
This baseball season shaped my dreams in ways I never expected; I now understand that small details make big differences and seemingly insignificant moments can create the most significant memories. I aspire to always cherish details, to be the babysitter who remembers the preschooler's favorite crayon and the daughter who calls just to say "I love you." I do not know what will happen in my life, but as long as I make the most of every moment, no obstacle will seem too crushing, no blow too devastating, and no goal too ambitious. So thank you, San Francisco Giants, thank you.
