Moving Out Day

Poem I wrote about the last day on campus before a break. Particularly useful today, last day of the Fall Semester.

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“Moving Out Day” by Danny Gessner (12-27-2012)

There were no leaves when everyone left.

They fell far down at our last respite,

still haunting the ground with a crunched litter

rather than pastel-painting the sky.

The trunks and bare branches still stand,

albeit alone and aloof -- barely swaying,

they still jut against the curved horizon.

A dusty chill crept up the hill

under brittle sunlight that wouldn’t warm

the empty roads. At our hillcrest

the only sound was a hushed whistle

of lake-driven Northern wind.

It beckoned them to leave, leave, leave --

so quietly they all packed

a week’s worth of waste

into unchaperoned sedans.

How mature.

The villagers scurried and fled.

Rushed “home” for the feeding troughs

to “feel” the spirit of commercial bile

(on every channel, now in HD)

overwhelming their nagging deadlines --

at least for another nine days.

**

I’ve stayed a day too late --

seen what rational minds would flock to avoid.

My perch wasn’t desolate

but I found no solace in

the trifle of tobacco I clung to.

So I tossed half-a-butt off the railing

and retreated back into the

manufactured electric-grey warmth

to compose my over-thought thoughts

before my brain went for another swim.

**

As I sit back inside, remembers flood in.

My thoughts pervade themselves,

but there is no nature to reflect on.

The only good stares are inside of my eyelids.

We’re not meant to be awake while inside.

Ceiling pondering doesn’t haunt as nicely as the balcony.

It doesn’t force me to think,

it merely allows safe passage.

Inside it’s the people who pervade your thoughts

They become a part of you

you can’t let their useless hashtags escape

But there isn’t any comfort in the warmth.

Not alone. Not with a still-breathing brain.

Stale ceilings and time-bomb ticking.

No inspiration --

an anxiety attack waiting to pounce.

The outside has its pleasure; you think rather than talk.

You forget and then think again.

Thoughts and forgets.

Your mind staggers freely.

Sports Heroes

Heroes and Villains: Fiction For Sport

There are no superheroes in real life, nor in the sports world. Superman is a comic creation, not Shaquile O’Neal’s alter ego. Vigilantes like Batman are given jail sentences, not revered as demi-gods. The Miami Heat are not villains in the sense that they lurk in a dark cave plotting how to take over the world; they are just a group of highly paid professionals, just like the rest of the NBA.

Fun Fact: These two aren't the same type of villain

I believe we live in a world without heroes. The most magnificent people in the world are largely ignored by the public. Good parents are heroes. Teachers can be heroes. Firefighters, police officers, hard-working individuals who risk their lives for a public service. Even then, all humans have their flaws, and just because someone is a dedicated firefighter does not mean that they are morally righteous people. Joe Firefighter might be a convicted criminal who used to save people from burning buildings. Police officers can take bribes. Would we want to call anyone a hero if we know they’re imperfect? And if so what would that say about us? Should we idolize every aspect of a person?

When I was younger my father was my hero; but by the age of 12 we all have a moment where we realize that our parents are human and flawed like the rest of us. I’m about at the age where my parents are becoming more like friends again, rather than the authority figures I hate just a bit as a teenager, because who doesn't?

I don’t believe in heroes in sport. That was broken a long time ago with my first sports hero, Mark McGwire. When he testified in front of Congress, the damning act of his post-career life, 13-year old Danny lost faith in sports heroes, and it’s made it easier to be a sports fan without being obsessed with the individual. Sport is entertainment, both for participation and spectating.

This moment made me stop believing that athletes are heroes

I root for teams, and I use the inclusive “we” when the team loses. When my Mets, Jaguars, Celtics, and Islanders lose games (A LOT OF GAMES) I feel the pain. And I have players I love regardless of what team they play on (David Wright, Aaron Rodgers, Kevin Garnett, Maurice Jones-Drew, Steve Nash) but I take my worship with a grain of salt: I recognize most professional athletes are not morally sound characters, and it’s always a nice thing when they’re also humanitarians of some charity. David Wright’s foundation benefits individuals with Multiple Sclerosis, for example, and Kevin Garnett calls fellow NBA players “cancer victims”. I may form opinions about which one I like better, but I have to expect the bombshells from my favorite players otherwise it’s too easy to be disgusted by athletes.

Good Guy David Wright may have some darker secrets,
but is it wrong to worship him while his image is still squeaky clean?

I have my heroes from the era, and I will be heartbroken when they fall. I love Mike Piazza; one of my first baseball games he hit a walk-off homer against the San Francisco Giants in the bottom of the 11th. Until he gets into the Hall of Fame, it seems like the opinion is to judge him harshly for steroid rumors. It’s not that I cheated, it’s that someone I believed in cheated. I think it’s more important to only be disappointed in yourself otherwise these semi-celebrities who we actually know very little about can let us down. It’s better to form heroes on people we know, love, and most of all trust. I trust David Wright to hit doubles in the clutch, not set moral standards for my children in the future. I trust DeSean Jackson to catch touchdown passes, not teach lessons about selflessness. And maybe these lowered expectations make it easier to be a sports fan.