"GFL" by Victoria Lemmings

I suppose I’ve always been sort of a feminist. Even when I was in elementary school, I’ve always wholeheartedly believed that anything boys can do, girls are perfectly capable of doing, too (and usually, girls can do it even better). In fact, nothing frustrated me more than in fourth grade, when I was told I couldn’t play with the guys in their football game at recess. They played every single day, and I always watched and observed the plays they ran. Now, I was no stranger to football. My dad taught me how to throw a wicked spiral, and I often threw around the ball with my brothers in our backyard. I could throw, I could catch, and I could sprint pretty fast. I watched the Redskins on TV all the time so I knew all the rules and positions. However, when I asked the boys in my class if I could play with them, they laughed and said no.

This made me furious. They hadn’t even seen me play; they just refused because it would be weird for a girl to play with them. Not only was I angry, but I was also hurt, because I was friends with many of the boys in my class, and I expected them to treat me as an equal with respect. So I did the only thing that I could think of- I created my own football league for recess play. It was called GFL, the Girls Football League.

I recruited girls in my class whom I thought would be a good addition to the GFL. I organized the group into two teams for scrimmages, assigned people positions, and made up plays for the girls to follow. We practiced for weeks. I must admit, I didn’t have much talent to work with, and at first it was nearly impossible to execute a simple pass to one of our wide receivers. Despite our rocky skills, I had a blast proving to my classmates and to myself that girls could play football if they wanted. We actually got much better with time; by our final few days, we scored multiple touchdowns per practice by throwing passes and running the ball.

After a month of solid practicing and scrimmaging during our thirty minutes allotted for recess, we decided that we were ready for the big leagues- we were ready to play against the boys’ team. I’ll spare the details on the actual match (it wasn’t the best game ever, and we lost by about 30 points), but I will say that it was an empowering experience. Though we were less skilled compared to the boys’ team, just the fact that we were trying and holding our own was the most important thing for me. I scored a touchdown, which was a real “in your face” moment to the boys who wouldn’t let me play with them before. Through GFL, I realized that I am proud to be a girl, and despite the inequality we may face on the playground or out in the “real world”, I am happy to prove the incredible capabilities of females.

"This I Believe: A Ride to Remember" by Patrick V

This December, Advanced Composition students studied, wrote, and recorded audio essays. Students wrote and recorded their own "This I Believe" essays inspired by the weekly This I Believe Podcast. While we're publishing the text of each essay below, we strongly encourage you to listen to each student's audio essay for a more intimate experience.

It was a hot summer afternoon, and my coach had just told us to start warming up. It was a sweaty day, but it didn’t bother me. I knew what I needed to do. I knew that in my heart I took the necessary steps toward making it as far as we did: the district tournament. It was all simply just another game. The game had never changed, but I did.

My dad told me, “I love you, and I'm so proud of what you have accomplished, now go have fun." My dad came to all of my games and whether we won or lost, he would talk baseball to me the whole car ride home. Baseball was our bond, despite having to live a whole world away from my dad.

Baseball was never something I hated. It was something I knew I could be great at. I would practice baseball with my dad any free time I would get.It’s rough not having a dad around all the time. I will never forget the car ride home from that last district tournament and even though we lost and my hopes for a longer summer baseball season were crushed, that car ride home is something I will cherish forever, and with that, it taught me a life lesson I continue to implement to this day.

In that car ride home, my dad said to me, "Kid, that was a rough game and I'm sure you know that, what I want to tell you is that, you gave it your all, you put best foot forward and came up short. But, you practiced hard and you took care of what you needed to, and you did your part, and there is no shame in that, your character is how you hold yourself at this moment, right here, and right now. All I know, is you sure played one heck of a game kid." I was pretty distraught from that game and I was not necessarily the happiest fellow. From that car ride with my dad, I learned perseverance. Being able to keep moving forward and grinding along, even when things get hard or tough. Even though I live without a dad and only get to see him on the weekends, have learned to persevere and keep moving forward in everything I do. This is what I believe in.

"This I Believe: Taking a Shot at Success" by Danny

This December, Advanced Composition students studied, wrote, and recorded audio essays. Students wrote and recorded their own "This I Believe" essays inspired by the weekly This I Believe Podcast. While we're publishing the text of each essay below, we strongly encourage you to listen to each student's audio essay for a more intimate experience.

“One, two, three, four, five!” The ref counted aloud. I was on my back, counting the lights. I was struggling to regain my position. The ref gave the kid on top of me his back points. My opponent sunk his reverse half deeper, and turned both of my shoulders to the mat. The ref slammed his hand against the mat, and blew his whistle. My assailant rose up off of me, and returned to the center of the mat. The ref raised my opponent’s hand up high. I looked down, completely ashamed of myself. Even though I was just a freshman, with no experience in the sport, I was very disappointed. I had just experienced what, in my opinion was the worst feeling on this Earth. Wrestling for me became increasingly frustrating, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I considered quitting the sport, and moving on. But I understood one thing: If I were to quit wrestling, I would surely never have to face the regret and disappointment associated with losing so thoroughly, but if I stuck with the sport, I might be granted the chance at achieving a greater glory, and possibly the greatest feeling on Earth: Having one’s hand raised over another’s in victory. This loss was particularly devastating to me, and afterwards, I embarked a blind and single minded journey towards becoming a more successful wrestler.

By my junior year, I was ready to compete on a higher level. I had gained the basic skills and strength I needed in the sport to be a varsity starter. My season got off to a bumpy start, and my coach explained something very important to me. He told me that I wasn’t used to my body, and although I was strong, I didn’t have the thorough technique necessary to fulfill my potential.  He described my ability to wrestle as somewhat hollow. I was trying so hard to be strong enough that I had lost some of the technique which is so essential to winning.

I don’t wrestle because I am good, and I can tell you that I am most certainly not amazing at the sport. I could be defined as an average wrestler. I wouldn’t be able to compete at the division one or two levels in college; I might have a chance at being okay wrestling for a division three school. I wrestle because of the values that the sport has instilled in me. From my experiences on the mat, I have learned to never give up, no matter what. Wrestling has taught me not to fear adversity, but to embrace it. Many people, after facing devastating failure, make large and unilateral changes within themselves for fear of ever facing such a failure again. People can make over corrections, and lose sight not only of what is important to them, but also what is inside of them. Just as my coach explained that I was a hollow wrestler, I also became a hollow person. I was more concerned about winning matches and the more superficial aspects of life than I was about my family, my friends, or my own well-being.  I was becoming a selfish person. An over correction such as the one I struggled to deal with can quickly overwhelm and grow into a negative characteristic, such as being selfish, which defines a person. Avoiding this can be relatively simple. It is our goals which define us, and if a goal is selfish or single-minded, then it will lead a person to become selfish and single-minded.  I believe that sometimes, a person can lose a part of themselves in the process of over pursuing a single-minded goal or dream.  

"Between a Rock and a Hard Place" by Hiram McDaniels

“I think I want to go home,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I changed my mind! I want to go home!”

It was a little late to have a change of heart now, with only open air separating me from a long drop into the blue below. From this height it would be like hitting concrete.

My sweaty fingers were wedged into a crevasse in the rock face. I squinted up at Dan, once my climbing instructor, now a dark smudge edging out the light. He was so far away. A wave of vertigo surged up through my ribs and I nearly lost my grip.

He rappelled down to meet me. “You’re nearly there,” he tried to encourage me, checking the line connecting my harness to his, but all I could hear was my heartbeat thundering inside my skull as I tried not to look down. What ever had convinced me to scale this cliff? Mankind was meant to keep its feet on solid, flat earth. It was pure hubris to climb above one’s station. I would be struck down and fall to Earth for daring to get so close to the sun.

“You’re not going to fall,” Dan said, and I realized I had said that last bit out loud. He gave a long-suffering sigh, easily clambering sideways and up again, hardly looking at the rock as his chalked hands and feet expertly found each gap. I, on the other hand, was quaking in place. Any movement could be the one that sent me tumbling to my fate.

Finally I could hold on no longer. A bead of sweat dripped from my temple and I instinctively moved my hand to wipe my forehead; too late, I reached back for the rock face and met nothing. There was a half-second where I dangled, suspended over the abyss. Then came free-fall, the ground rushing up to meet me, air whipping my hair back from my face, the horrifying swooping in my gut that told me this was it, this was where it would end--

The line went taut and the breath was punched from me as I came to a halt. The harness had caught me, inches from death, the tips of my shoes brushing across the bottom. I felt a profound appreciation for the tenacity of life.

Then Don was back at my side, descending swiftly with the whirring of the harness mechanisms at his beck and call. He landed firmly on the blue mat and unclipped me.

“Maybe indoor rock climbing isn’t for you,” Don said dryly.

“I think I’d like to take up golf,” I breathed, and tried to keep my legs from crumpling.

"The Race of a Lifetime" by Parker

Bang!    The gun goes off, shoulders go up, elbows go out. Like cheetahs fighting over their prey, 10 lanky girls rush to the inner lanes of the track. Lap 1. The determined faces, the adrenaline flashing. I’m in fourth, but I’m comfortable. Follow their feet Parker, follow their feet. As we come around the second curve, I lock my eyes on the feet of the brunette in front of me. I put my feet in sync with hers and take a deep breath. We cross the starting line. Lap 2. One quarter of the way there. You can do this. Pain is mental. The millions of eyes in the stands look down at me, following me as I make my way down the back stretch. I step in to the second lane, kicking my feet up faster and faster. Moving in front of third place, I feel a spike scratch my calf. But I’m not letting that stop me. I focus. Lap 3. Time to make my move. I creep up behind second and first as everyone slows down on the most difficult section of the race, but this is my strength. I hear my coach scream, “NOW!” somewhere in the distance and I know it’s time. So I go. Lap 4. I take off like a bullet, leaving the other two girls behind me in the dust. It’s now or never. I kick like I never thought possible and I slowly stretch the gap between me and the pack even farther. Coming around the last curve, I see the clock. Last one, fast one. With everything I have left, I sprint to the finish. My body goes numb – there’s nothing stopping me now. I lean over the line and crash to the ground. There’s nothing left in me. I’m too weak to stand up, let alone walk. I see my coach jumping up and down. As he runs over to me, I see him mouth “5:29” and I relax. You finally made it.

"The Hockey Player" by Phil

Coaches criticize him, younger siblings idolize him,

teammates mock him, girls adore him,

officials penalize him, students and fans cheer for him,

dentists love him, and his mother worries about him.

He can be found everywhere and everywhere:

skating around, falling over, passing by,

gliding backwards, twisting across, hitting hard,

beating defenses, and scoring goals.

He is courage on skates, passion in a jersey,

pride in pads, and hope in a helmet.

You can ridicule him, but you can’t discourage him.

You can beat his team, but you can’t make him quit.

You can injure him, but you can’t get him out of the sport he loves.

"Seventeen" by Bartholomew Stewart

The red and green digital clock had seventeen seconds left on it. Anyone who knew anything about wrestling would know that the red man and the green man were tied four to four. I was the red man. It was a cold January evening in the Herndon High School Gym, and two schools were present: Herndon and Wakefield. The atmosphere in the gym was similar to that of all high school wrestling matches: Very intimidating, serious, and in your face. There were only about twenty people spectating in the stands tonight, we had a crowd. There was one large red mat with a big H in the middle of the gymnasium. Two rows of chairs facing each other were filled with my teammates, and the Wakefield wrestlers. I was standing off to the side, with Mrs. Petruzzi stuffing my nose with gauze to keep it from bleeding, and Ms. Bishop was wiping the blood off of my leg. For some reason, I was very cold, even though others would say that the gym felt hot and sweaty. Coach Gonzales was nearby, and he looked at me, and said, “You know what you need to do.” I nodded. Mrs. Petruzzi and Ms. Bishop finished, and the referee walked over to examine me. “You’re good.” He said blankly. I begin to walk back to the center of the mat, and I got into referee’s position, and my opponent got on top. “Bottom man ready?” My mouthpiece was in, I nodded.

The whistle blew. I exploded upward with all of my strength, in an effort to get my one point that I needed to win the match. The clock was ticking. Fifteen. I was now up, but the Wakefield kid still had control. Ten. As I continued to struggle to break his hands, I recalled something in which Joey Riley taught me earlier in the winter. Five. I began to rapidly grind my knuckles against the back of his hands. Four. All of my body weight was stacked against his. Three. He began to grunt out of pain. Two. His left hand came free, I threw it up, reversed, and took him down. One. “Red man, two points, reversal!” Zero. The buzzer rang loudly. I got up, and went to the middle of the mat. I quickly shook hands with the Wakefield kid, and the referee took my hand, and threw it up towards the ceiling. I can’t help smiling after a win a match, because it is simply the best feeling imaginable. Maybe it’s something about having your hand raised up high, or maybe it’s looking into the stands, and seeing your loved ones cheer for you. That was the last match of the duel. As I go back to my chair to put on my warm-ups, and my sweat shirt, I look over at the clock. The red and green digital clock displayed this: 10-8

"My Sport" by Bartholomew Stewart

There is something special about every sport I play, but Wrestling is unique. Honestly, there is no sport that is tougher than Wrestling. Each and every day, it kicks my butt. But I continue on. Hard work in Wrestling has the largest benefit, and leads directly to success. Wrestling is proof to me that hard work pays off, and because of my hard work, I am fourth in the Concorde District at 145 lbs. Wrestling is the most difficult sport, not because you have to cut weight, but because I can only rely on myself on the mat, and I cannot rely on my teammates. The best feeling on Earth, is winning a hard match, having the referee lift up my arm over the kid that I just beat, and looking into the stands to see my father, and how happy, and proud he is. That is the best reward for anything I have ever done.  Wrestling is competition on a completely different level. In order to win, I have to out muscle my opponent, out work him, out think him, and outsmart him. The only thing I regret is that there are only 72 practices in a season, and I only have two seasons before I graduate, and move onto college. Wrestling has also showed to me how time slows down, and how it also speeds back up. During practice, when I have to do suicides, or sandbags. During conditioning, seconds drag on, mocking me as I struggle to continue. Minute by minute, I fight on, until the clock runs out. Coach Gonz would then say: “Good work guys, break it down.” Then we would come together someone would say: “Hornets on three, one, two, three,” and we would all say “Hornets!” When I wrestle, I fight for my school, for my family, and for my town. People play sports because they are fun, but they also play to represent their town, and to help give their town a name. I also play to give respect to my name: Vedova. When a person gets first place at Districts, or places at Regionals, or States, their name is painted on the wall in the Wrestling room. Those people are then immortalized as part of Herndon’s history. Getting my name up on that wall is the greatest achievement, and honor that any wrestler could get. One day I will get there, but for now, the seconds just tick by.