Topical Essay For School

I like sharing what I write, mainly because I like to hear what people think, no matter if it's good or bad. This past week I had to write another topical essay for my English class, and I present it to you to read. Hope you enjoy it, and if you don't, then still leave a comment of your own opinion on what you think I could improve on.

I know first hand the struggles that Elizabeth Wong wrote of in her essay  “The Struggle to Be an All-American Girl”. For me, it was the smell of the locker room still gets to me. Sweat, grass and mud, mixed with dirty laundry, and covered with what seemed like an atom bomb of about 18 different colognes from the teammates trying to cover their stench up after a game, it still gets to me. FOOTBALL CAN HAVE ITS GREAT MOMENTS, BUT FOR A PLAYER LIKE ME WHO RODE THE BENCH, IT CAN BE A VERY LONG SEASON. 

Dad wanted me to play. I wanted to play. However, I never realized how much pain and work I’d have to throw into ‘playing’, which seemed ironic to me. You need work in order to be the ones that could play. After the excitement of the first few practices wore off, I started to get lazy about showing up on time. The coaches never took notice of my rep-work when I snaked my way through the line of wide receivers going out for a post pass, or a stop-and-go run. As much as Wong wanted to be in her Chinese language class was about as much as I wanted to be on the field when I realized no one was paying attention to me, yet paying attention their already star players. Even as Wong says “I had better things to learn than ideographs copied painstakingly in lines that ran right to left from the tip of a moc but”  (24), I felt like I had better things to be doing than running mindless plays, if I wasn’t going to be coached on catching the football wrong or stepping the wrong way.

As Wong states that she sat in a auditorium room with chairs and bad smelling Oriental odors and dreamed of ‘better’ countries and what they had to offer, I sat in a old and smoke filled room with my team mates and coaches watching films from previous games. I couldn’t stand the smell of the defensive coaches’ cigarettes. Waving his hand around in front of the projector screen, I worried he’d eventually burn a hole through it with as close as he got to it. He’d yell out a player’s name, and complain about things like a teammate dropping passes, or not tackling correctly. These guys were twice our age, and ten times more competitive than we were. I suppose that’s because they couldn’t play, and wanted to live through our own glory.

As I started my own season, I had to finish it, per an agreement made with my father. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hate it all the way through as much as Wong hated her Chinese class and talking to locals in Chinatown.  As my own season ended in November, I rode the bench and got a handful of plays in when we would be up on an opponent by thirty plus points. Yet at the last game of the season, coach started me. He said that he watched me be patient and wait my turn, and decided that I deserved to play. Finally, I was someone who could be counted on for the team.