William Morgan prepares to surf the same enormous waves that killed his father The usual morning fog is persistent today. The long jetty near Pillar Point is swallowed by the soupy grey, seemingly disappearing into the abyss. Through the panoramic view of my bedroom window, I see Half Moon Bay coming to life in the early morning. A man is taking a jog down the steep beach with his stumpy bulldog. A couple of early commuters’ headlights are slicing through the fog and heading into the overshadowing mountains. The occasional surf shop is lighting up and un-shuttering its windows. The ocean is roaring today, and an excitement bubbles up inside me as I remember that today is Mavericks. I hear the hissing of bacon hitting the frying pan and the hum of the espresso machine. My mouth waters as I stumble down the stairs. Mom is plating up my breakfast. A pink box is set in the center of the table. Wait, a pink box? I settle into my chair. “Donuts, Mom?” I ask, shocked. I open them up . . . My favorite—maple bars. “C’mon. An athlete doesn’t eat donuts on a day like this. My stomach will weigh me down more than the waves themselves!” Mom gives me one of those mom looks. “Now, last time I checked, donuts don’t weigh hundreds of thousands of pounds. And I spent good money on these, so eat. Mom’s orders.” I groan, then my wall caves in. If William Morgan has one weakness, it’s maple bar donuts. I dig in, cover the donuts with that greasy bacon, and feel that amazing feeling of a future heart attack. I swear, if this is what they eat in Vermont, I’m gonna move there someday. * * * The forecasters on the minivan’s raspy weather radio are warning that the Mavericks waves are larger this year than ever before. As I stand on the beach, I can see where they are coming from. Beyond the small ripples lining the shore, I see the world-renowned monsters. I’d seen them many times before, but not at this volume or this dramatic angle. It seems Mother Nature is having a temper tantrum. Do giant, lethal waves scare off William Morgan, a three-time Mavericks champion? Possibly. But not today! I can hear the engine of Mom’s ancient minivan kicking up dust in the parking lot behind me. It’s only a faint noise, drowned out by the sound of water pounding water. I know the usual question is coming: “You sure, Will?” I understand her concern. She doesn’t want to lose me in the giants like she lost Dad. I remember the day she came home holding pieces of Dad’s famous orange-and-pink surfboard, but no Dad. I manage a tiny nod. “Yep,” I mutter. “Yep, sure as ever.” But she doesn’t leave. She jumps out of the van, embraces me in a tight hug, then gets back in. As she pulls away, she calls, “I expect to see you at home at seven tonight. Promise me I’ll see you at seven. Mom’s orders.” I look down at my watch. I can’t stay down here much longer. Sandy’s waiting for me on the jetty. “You will,” I promise. Then she takes off, turning onto the main drag. I watch her go. I watch her go every time, hoping it won’t be the last. * * * I meet up with my friend Sandy at the jetty. The iconic foghorn is blaring in our ears. My skull seems to rattle every time it bellows loudly. Everybody calls him Sandy because of his trademark surfer-dude hair and yellow surfboard. From here, we have a clear view of the waves in all their glory. They are even scarier from this vantage point than from the beach. “The waves are wicked this year,” Sandy says excitedly. “I’ll be tearing it up out there. You just wait and see. Beating my records from last year.” I know those records will be hard to beat. Last year, Sandy scored a ten on his first wave, then doubled his score on the second one. On the third and final wave, he blew it but still got pretty high up on the podium. Top ten well within reach, at least. As we stare down the giants in front of us, I feel impending doom. The sun, which had been just a half-circle when I first arrived, is now high in the sky and frying us alive. All the fog I saw this morning has vanished. It doesn’t usually top 60 degrees in Half Moon Bay, but today it feels well above 80. My phone buzzes in my board shorts—an email from the guy I met yesterday, a Mavericks Competition commentator: get your butts down here quick. all these tourists are coming in by the tons. I take a nervous breath and tell Sandy, “Game time.” * * * The waves are even louder than the foghorn. Sandy and I push our way through the crowds until we find the restricted area by the public restrooms. We duck under the caution tape and find the guy, Mitch, leaning against a rather large rock. He totally fits the part of commentator at a surfing competition— he’s been in 20 model magazines, 60 issues of surfing magazines, and is a three-time Mavericks champion. So, yeah. Definitely a good dude in the public eye. But in real life, he’s a piece of work. His finger pushes down on something—a stopwatch—and he grins mischievously. The pressure underwater makes me feel like I’m about to be crushed. “Only two minutes from the edge of that jetty to the beachfront,” he tells us. “Not bad for some punk teens, huh?” “Punk teens that also happen to be Mavericks champions,” Sandy points out. “Not too shabby for some punk teens .
Sports
Game Time
You’re impatient. There’s no counting how many games you’ve played in your lifetime. No counting the screens you’ve set and the shots you’ve taken and the passes you’ve given and received. No counting the number of times you’ve waited in that small, dark, smelly little locker room, quick-stepping from one foot to the next. And yet, you’re the same third-grade girl, hair scraped into a reluctant ponytail, brand-new Nikes over blue cotton socks. Bouncing up and down. When? When? When do we start? Butterflies in your stomach, smile on your face. Since third grade, sure, you’ve gone to camps. You’ve guarded girls who broke your arms. You’ve gotten taller. You’ve gotten heavier. You’ve gotten older. Teammates dropped out, rejoined. You can no longer get away with wearing nothing under your jersey. Now, they whisper your name up and down the opposing bench. Girls play dirty under the basket because if they don’t foul you, you’ll go right through. The paper flashes your picture and cameras burn your eyes. But what’s different, really? You still have butterflies: spades of them. You still bounce. You’re bouncing now, in your laced-up kicks five or six sizes bigger than they were. There’s Ladell, your tiny point guard—she was tall for her age, in third grade, and they stuck her down at the block. There’s Desiree, your center. She’s been six feet since seventh grade. There’s Ellie, your wing. First player on your fifth-grade team to sink a three. They’re still here. You’re still here. So you got a little older. So you got a little stronger. So you got a little faster. But it’s the same locker room, the same girls. Your jersey’s half-untucked, the way it always is. Blue cotton socks rise from your Nikes. You’re made of bouncing and butterflies and anticipation. In ten minutes, you’ll be on that court, with Desiree stuck proudly in the middle of the jump circle. You’ll be behind her, to the right, ready to grab the ball when she tips it towards you. The bleachers will come alive. You’ll have fast breaks and steals, you’ll have turnovers and crazy threes. It’ll be just another game. The same extension of arms and legs, the same roar of the crowd. The same fumbling and breathlessness and calling out. Jumping jacks in the key, three-pointers from the right wing; pick-and-pop and pick-and-roll. L-cuts on the line. Baseline, baseline! Plant your feet and take the charge. The game’s the same, and so are you. Now, in that small, dark, smelly little locker room, you tap your feet. Across the room, Desiree’s earbuds are bleeding pump-up rap. Ellie mouths numbers as she watches the clock. Your girls. Your game. It’s almost time, and you’re impatient. Audrey Nelson, 13Bainbridge Island, WA
Baseball’s Sad Lexicon
Warm air, shining flowers, golden sunlight—summer in Chicago. And what summer would be complete without baseball? At historic Wrigley Field in Chicago, baseball has been a central part of summertime excitement for generations. I must confess that I am an avid baseball fan. I watch baseball, play baseball, listen to baseball, and read about baseball. Recently, while flipping through a book about the Chicago Cubs, I came across a short, comedic poem written by Franklin Pierce Adams in 1910. Adams was a newspaper writer for the New York Times, and also a Giants fan. He wrote the short, woeful tale, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon,” while at a Giants and Cubs game. It tells the story of three Cubs infielders, Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers, and Frank Chance, who were notorious for turning double plays (getting two runners out in the same play). The poem laments the strong teamwork of the trio, and how they always took the championship from the Giants. The Cubs won the National League Championship four times between 1906 and 1910, so Giants fans had good reason for their frustration. This is expressed well in the final few lines of the poem: Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, Making a Giant hit into a double— Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.” When I first read the poem, I was very curious as to what “gonfalon” meant. I discovered that it means “pennant” or “banner”. The winner of the Championship would always receive a pennant, which always eluded the Giants. I love poems that accurately reflect the spirit and thoughts of people from long ago. It gives a clear window onto history and helps me understand how people really felt about historic events. When Mr. Adams’s poem first came out in the New York Times, it was wildly popular. Fellow New Yorkers understood and agreed with Adams’ complaints. The poem turned Tinker, Evers, and Chance into double-play legends and is a big part of why they were elected to Baseball’s Hall of Fame in 1946. To a baseball fan, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon” provides a historic and fascinating view into the talents of these three players. Even someone who is not a baseball fan can appreciate the rich history the poem brings to life. It connects us with the events of the day, makes us feel as if we were there. When reading it, imagine yourself at the ballpark in the early 1900s, cheering on Tinker, Evers and Chance. The warm air, clear blue sky, golden sunshine—summer in Chicago. Catherine Woods, 13Frankfort, IL
