The NFL has recently cracked down. No more helmet-to-helmet contact. This rule is great in theory. It would save the players health, as a helmet-to-helmet shot, can really rattle a person’s brain. It can hurt you neck, and cause serious concussion. It brings about a personal foul, 15 yard penalty, with a monetary fine, and sometimes suspension.
Though the idea of safer football sounds great, it will never work. Football is a sport televised to entertain. People, myself included, love big hit. I like to see helmets fly off, blood running from the nose and players wobbling around after a hit. People love violence, and professional athletes are our modern day Roman gladiators. Big hits like these, tell me the player is playing with emotion, the way the game was meant to be played.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLXJy3dap3o
He’s playing to win. He’s not trying to kill anyone, but he’s sending a message. If you send someone my way, he’s going to get smacked. There’s more to it than that. Receivers who are scared to get hit, (most likely because they’ve been hit hard one already that game) will be less likely to catch passes over the middle, or go up in the air after a high pass. They get scared and won’t catch passes, making their offense less productive.
The NFL has a rich history full of big hitters. Look here at Ronnie Lott.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVKVHvMJKT8
Famous for his “hard-ass” style, he cut off his mangled and broken pinky finger at half-time, to come back and finish the game. He was also a feared hitter. What made him such a great hitter, and player, was the time and day. Back then, helmet-to-helmet were not just encouraged, they were taught. If you wanted to be on a highlight reel, you banged your helmet off from the helmet of an opposing player, risking life, and limb, in an all out, 110% effort. My point here, is that in the old days, the players were let loose. Able to go out and play with all the passion in the world, nowadays it isn’t so.
Friday, October 22, 2010
"Spice" and My Marine Corps
The United States Marine Corps has recently banned the use of ‘spice’. Spice is synthetic marijuana, obviously smoked to achieve a feeling of intoxication, or buzz. From my understanding, it is a chemical smoked blend of herbs, intended to be burnt as incense; and not for human digestion. That’s what makes the risk so high with spice. Since it isn’t intended for human consumption, no human testing has been conducted. So you never know what is really in it, or what it is going to do to you.
The chemicals are almost undetectable on routine urinalysis test, but its detection will get you punished under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and/or kicked out of the military. It is illegal in Europe, yet remains legal in the United States.
The problem with spice, as I see it, isn’t that its necessary bad for you. The problem arises when you have men with loaded weapons, and impaired judgment. Marines or military members in general are often put into situations where the man to their left or their right, is placing his life in their hands. I wouldn’t want to place my life in the hands of a Marine acting as Cheech or Chong. If I’m going to have to trust someone, I’d like them to be thinking clearly without obstructed judgment. You wouldn’t want to in battle drunk, so why would you want to be high? One wrong call over the radio can have mortars dropped on your location killing your whole platoon. I could not call the mother of a man whose life my mistake has taken, and say it happened because I was ripped on some spice.
Marines are often put in situations where they have to react immediately, and without hesitation. Those reactions need to be hasty, and effective. It is these reactions that mean life, or death.
The Military, and the Marines, more specifically are supposed to be Americas role models. Not America’s deviant sons. What kind of a message does it send to America, but also the rest of the world if U.S Marines are high? A bunch of dope smokers are not intimidating, and do not convey the message that they mean business.
In the end, I think that spice has no place in the military, much less my Marine Corps. It doesn’t go along with the upstanding reputation the Corps, and we know for a fact, that Chesty Puller wouldn’t stand for malarkey like that. The real way to look at it is, what good can come from Marines being allowed to smoke synthetic marijuana? I see none.
The chemicals are almost undetectable on routine urinalysis test, but its detection will get you punished under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and/or kicked out of the military. It is illegal in Europe, yet remains legal in the United States.
The problem with spice, as I see it, isn’t that its necessary bad for you. The problem arises when you have men with loaded weapons, and impaired judgment. Marines or military members in general are often put into situations where the man to their left or their right, is placing his life in their hands. I wouldn’t want to place my life in the hands of a Marine acting as Cheech or Chong. If I’m going to have to trust someone, I’d like them to be thinking clearly without obstructed judgment. You wouldn’t want to in battle drunk, so why would you want to be high? One wrong call over the radio can have mortars dropped on your location killing your whole platoon. I could not call the mother of a man whose life my mistake has taken, and say it happened because I was ripped on some spice.
Marines are often put in situations where they have to react immediately, and without hesitation. Those reactions need to be hasty, and effective. It is these reactions that mean life, or death.
The Military, and the Marines, more specifically are supposed to be Americas role models. Not America’s deviant sons. What kind of a message does it send to America, but also the rest of the world if U.S Marines are high? A bunch of dope smokers are not intimidating, and do not convey the message that they mean business.
In the end, I think that spice has no place in the military, much less my Marine Corps. It doesn’t go along with the upstanding reputation the Corps, and we know for a fact, that Chesty Puller wouldn’t stand for malarkey like that. The real way to look at it is, what good can come from Marines being allowed to smoke synthetic marijuana? I see none.
(Draft) Life Has a Way of Working Itself Out
Michael Geier
Written communications
September 29, 2010
Have you ever seen your own bones? Have you ever seen them sticking out of your skin? Have you ever severed a tendon? And watched one of your digits hang helpless, connected only by skin? I have, and it changed my life forever.
I didn’t see it as a live changing event, but plenty of others did. I cut my left index finger nearly off. I severed tendons, and bone. I was supposed to spend the next months in a full arm cast, and watch my dreams sink away. The cast didn’t last long, but the dreams are no longer a possibility.
I played high school football, competitively. I played every down. I was an I had been all-conference for four years, and led the state, division six on defense. From my first day off pee-wee football, I told everyone I wanted to play for the packers. While this goal is seemingly unrealistic, I had my mind set. From pop warner on, everything I did was to help promote my dream of being a professional athlete.
I wrestled from an early age as well. I was, by no means a bad wrestler. It was fun, and it kept me out of trouble. Wrestling s a lot of work, and it isn’t always a whole lot of fun, but I ground it out and made the best of it that I could. Wrestling was a good sport for me, as a football player, because it taught me and awful lot about leverage, coordination, and how to get every bit of my weight to work for me.
I also began lifting weights when I was young. I started around age 14. I worked out for hours at a time, often the only person in the gym. I lifted before school, and sometimes after as well. My football coach had coached at NDSU, and worked with me on strength, as well as speed, agility, and coordination. I went from football camp, to football camp, traveling the nation. I was on the right path.
It wasn’t until my junior year of high school that I began getting letters from colleges. I had opportunities that many kids do not, as I had wrestled in the state tournament that year. I had the option, I could write my own ticket. Did I want to wrestle in college? Or play football? The choice was not a difficult one for me. It was my dream to play football, and that’s what I was going to do. After narrowing it down, I was either going to Ripon College, or NDSU like my coach had. At Ripon I would play fullback, in their single back offense, I good fit and an exciting time. At NDSU I would play linebacker on their explosive defense.
Fast forward now to a month after my senior year, and graduation. It was the day after my graduation party; I had a headache, a few empty kegs, and a plethora of my friends lying in the grass around me. I was the first awake, and the sun was beating down on us relentlessly. I woke my friends, and conned them into another adventure. A week in the woods! No food! No water! No phones, chew, cigarettes… nothing! We would take guns, and knives. Anything we could hunt we would eat. It took a lot of convincing, as my friends aren’t as adventurous as me. Yet, they agreed, and it was off to the forest we went. We were soon under the canopy that was my parents’ woods. I led the team of scouts to a place I had already decided on. A dry river bed, with a 5 foot waterfall. It was perfect. We would use the rock of the fall as the back wall of our shelter. If we were going to be staying a week, we would need a shelter, and a good one at that. I knew I had to be the one to build it. I took to the project like a pig to mud. I sent my good buddy Matt up a tree. It was a rather small tree, and the perfect one for the front entrance of our shelter. He hung onto the tree top, and pulled it down to me. I quickly tied the end to the ground, and began creating our new home. I was using a rather, or better yet, unnecessarily large knife to knock the branches of from this tree. This step was necessary in our building plan. I had my fist balled tightly around the tree, almost as if I was holding a beer. After a few good whacks on the branches, I began getting arrogant and careless. It didn’t take long for me to make a mistake, and a costly one at that. I swung the sword sized belt knife too hard. It went right through the branch, and into my balled fist. It hit my left index finger at a 45-degree angle, spraying my face with blood. I looked down to see my bone severed, and a rubber band looking tissue severed as well. That was my tendon. I quickly began swearing. Not yelling, or even cursing, just a few swear words at a time. I quickly took my shirt off, and wrapped my dangling finger in it, before putting it under my armpit. I held it there tightly to keep pressure applied, grabbed a buddy, and ran to the house. It was a kilometer walk, but it felt like forever.
When I got to the house, I regained my composer, sensing this as a good opportunity to mess around with my mother. It was a perfect set up. She was sleeping on the couch like a cat, and I woke her. “Mom, do you want to go to town?” “What for?” She rebutted in a groggy state. “To sew my finger back on? What do you think?” That is when I showed her. She was surprised, to say the least. She took me to the hospital, where I had 20-some stitches in my finger, and more in the tendon to reconnect it as well. I was put in a cast to stop my all my fingers from bending, as one bending can put stress on the other.
All of this happened on a weekend. When Monday rolled around, and I received my usually check in call from Ripon head coach, Coach Ernst. I told him the situation I was in with my hand and finger, and he made it clear to me that missing the upcoming summer camp, and preseason workouts wear going to cost me my spot on the team. He made it known that being unable to participate, would result in the early termination of my connection with Ripon football. I was done. This is when I realized, I would no longer be a professional athlete. I wouldn’t get my chance to play college ball, as my eligibility had started, and it was too late to get on another team. Besides, what team wants to chance it on a kid with a hand that might not function?
I, being the person that I am, did not let this get me down. I simple told him how good my foot would look, protruding from his backside, and hung up. Then I called the next person on my list, Sgt. McAdams United States Marine Corps. I had set my sights on a new goal. Not necessarily what I had hoped for, but what I was going to do.
He told me that by law, I would have to wait until my cast is off, for me to begin talking of enlisting. That was easy, I got it wet, and slipped it off with a Buck knife. I told him my story, and we conceived a way for me to get in without lying, yet without disclosing the gravity of the injury I sustained.
In just a few weeks, I was well on my way to becoming a Marine, it wasn’t what I had wanted, but in a way, I was still going to be a profession athlete. Someone who is paid to stay in shape, and whose athletic performance can mean success or failure for his team. In this case, failure means death.
Written communications
September 29, 2010
Have you ever seen your own bones? Have you ever seen them sticking out of your skin? Have you ever severed a tendon? And watched one of your digits hang helpless, connected only by skin? I have, and it changed my life forever.
I didn’t see it as a live changing event, but plenty of others did. I cut my left index finger nearly off. I severed tendons, and bone. I was supposed to spend the next months in a full arm cast, and watch my dreams sink away. The cast didn’t last long, but the dreams are no longer a possibility.
I played high school football, competitively. I played every down. I was an I had been all-conference for four years, and led the state, division six on defense. From my first day off pee-wee football, I told everyone I wanted to play for the packers. While this goal is seemingly unrealistic, I had my mind set. From pop warner on, everything I did was to help promote my dream of being a professional athlete.
I wrestled from an early age as well. I was, by no means a bad wrestler. It was fun, and it kept me out of trouble. Wrestling s a lot of work, and it isn’t always a whole lot of fun, but I ground it out and made the best of it that I could. Wrestling was a good sport for me, as a football player, because it taught me and awful lot about leverage, coordination, and how to get every bit of my weight to work for me.
I also began lifting weights when I was young. I started around age 14. I worked out for hours at a time, often the only person in the gym. I lifted before school, and sometimes after as well. My football coach had coached at NDSU, and worked with me on strength, as well as speed, agility, and coordination. I went from football camp, to football camp, traveling the nation. I was on the right path.
It wasn’t until my junior year of high school that I began getting letters from colleges. I had opportunities that many kids do not, as I had wrestled in the state tournament that year. I had the option, I could write my own ticket. Did I want to wrestle in college? Or play football? The choice was not a difficult one for me. It was my dream to play football, and that’s what I was going to do. After narrowing it down, I was either going to Ripon College, or NDSU like my coach had. At Ripon I would play fullback, in their single back offense, I good fit and an exciting time. At NDSU I would play linebacker on their explosive defense.
Fast forward now to a month after my senior year, and graduation. It was the day after my graduation party; I had a headache, a few empty kegs, and a plethora of my friends lying in the grass around me. I was the first awake, and the sun was beating down on us relentlessly. I woke my friends, and conned them into another adventure. A week in the woods! No food! No water! No phones, chew, cigarettes… nothing! We would take guns, and knives. Anything we could hunt we would eat. It took a lot of convincing, as my friends aren’t as adventurous as me. Yet, they agreed, and it was off to the forest we went. We were soon under the canopy that was my parents’ woods. I led the team of scouts to a place I had already decided on. A dry river bed, with a 5 foot waterfall. It was perfect. We would use the rock of the fall as the back wall of our shelter. If we were going to be staying a week, we would need a shelter, and a good one at that. I knew I had to be the one to build it. I took to the project like a pig to mud. I sent my good buddy Matt up a tree. It was a rather small tree, and the perfect one for the front entrance of our shelter. He hung onto the tree top, and pulled it down to me. I quickly tied the end to the ground, and began creating our new home. I was using a rather, or better yet, unnecessarily large knife to knock the branches of from this tree. This step was necessary in our building plan. I had my fist balled tightly around the tree, almost as if I was holding a beer. After a few good whacks on the branches, I began getting arrogant and careless. It didn’t take long for me to make a mistake, and a costly one at that. I swung the sword sized belt knife too hard. It went right through the branch, and into my balled fist. It hit my left index finger at a 45-degree angle, spraying my face with blood. I looked down to see my bone severed, and a rubber band looking tissue severed as well. That was my tendon. I quickly began swearing. Not yelling, or even cursing, just a few swear words at a time. I quickly took my shirt off, and wrapped my dangling finger in it, before putting it under my armpit. I held it there tightly to keep pressure applied, grabbed a buddy, and ran to the house. It was a kilometer walk, but it felt like forever.
When I got to the house, I regained my composer, sensing this as a good opportunity to mess around with my mother. It was a perfect set up. She was sleeping on the couch like a cat, and I woke her. “Mom, do you want to go to town?” “What for?” She rebutted in a groggy state. “To sew my finger back on? What do you think?” That is when I showed her. She was surprised, to say the least. She took me to the hospital, where I had 20-some stitches in my finger, and more in the tendon to reconnect it as well. I was put in a cast to stop my all my fingers from bending, as one bending can put stress on the other.
All of this happened on a weekend. When Monday rolled around, and I received my usually check in call from Ripon head coach, Coach Ernst. I told him the situation I was in with my hand and finger, and he made it clear to me that missing the upcoming summer camp, and preseason workouts wear going to cost me my spot on the team. He made it known that being unable to participate, would result in the early termination of my connection with Ripon football. I was done. This is when I realized, I would no longer be a professional athlete. I wouldn’t get my chance to play college ball, as my eligibility had started, and it was too late to get on another team. Besides, what team wants to chance it on a kid with a hand that might not function?
I, being the person that I am, did not let this get me down. I simple told him how good my foot would look, protruding from his backside, and hung up. Then I called the next person on my list, Sgt. McAdams United States Marine Corps. I had set my sights on a new goal. Not necessarily what I had hoped for, but what I was going to do.
He told me that by law, I would have to wait until my cast is off, for me to begin talking of enlisting. That was easy, I got it wet, and slipped it off with a Buck knife. I told him my story, and we conceived a way for me to get in without lying, yet without disclosing the gravity of the injury I sustained.
In just a few weeks, I was well on my way to becoming a Marine, it wasn’t what I had wanted, but in a way, I was still going to be a profession athlete. Someone who is paid to stay in shape, and whose athletic performance can mean success or failure for his team. In this case, failure means death.
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