Poetry On Odyssey: If We Went Far Enough Away In The Night

Poetry On Odyssey: If We Went Far Enough Away In The Night

I don't know who needs to hear this, but this is for you...


No one would come to look for us. No ship lights glaring our vision. No helicopters whirling around trees trying to win a game of Hide and Seek with our shadows. If we went far enough, we'd be able to reach horizons and flip hemisphere lines to fit our
own standards.

If we went far enough, our parents would be forced to admit the one hard thing, That is indeed is not a phase This is in
fact not a passing star in the sky. That this could very well outlast their dripping hourglass. It is the night that gives us the strength to be free, to blend with shadows and avoid streetlights. It is the night that we shed our daytime skins and slip into something more comfortable.

When we bury ourselves under mountains of pillows and blankets, hiding from the approaching hours and preparing our mouths
to hiss at the sun. It is at night that I find myself going on all of the adventures. All of the ice cream runs right before
11 pm morphs into midnight. Driving with the windows down and the radio off, the sounds of two or three cars passing us;
comfort us.

You drive hand in mine for hours after the ice cream has melted as one would do for a restless baby. The movement of the car paired with the warmth of the right hand coasts me off into a slumber that only warm milk and cookies would be able to provide. Hours fall into one another like domino's falling off of the coffee table in the foyer. Hours are counted by the trees shapeshifting into mountains and then into the sand from beaches that have been kissed one too many times by a teasing ocean current.

It is moments like these that life should be equipped with a pause button and time stops but I can still feel your lips comfortable
placed on mine. "Your lips are so soft" is all that you could muster that one night, it was the only thing I heard like a scratched record stuck on a loop; "your lips are so soft," often phrased with a period at the end, or even a question mark as if you are unsure that these lips are actually mine and you are actually kissing them.

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The Coach That Killed My Passion

An open letter to the coach that made me hate a sport I once loved.

I fell in love with the game in second grade. I lived for every practice and every game. I lived for the countless hours in the gym or my driveway perfecting every shot, every pass and every move I could think of. Every night after dinner, I would go shoot and would not allow myself to go inside until I hit a hundred shots. I had a desire to play, to get better and to be the best basketball player I could possibly be.

I had many coaches between church leagues, rec leagues, personal coaches, basketball camps, middle school and high school. Most of the coaches I had the opportunity to play for had a passion for the game like I did. They inspired me to never stop working. They would tell me I had a natural ability. I took pride in knowing that I worked hard and I took pride in the compliments that I got from my coaches and other parents. I always looked forward to the drills and, believe it or not, I even looked forward to the running. These coaches had a desire to teach, and I had a desire to learn through every good and bad thing that happened during many seasons. Thank you to the coaches that coached and supported me through the years.

SEE ALSO: My Regrets From My Time As A College Softball Player

Along with the good coaches, are a few bad coaches. These are the coaches that focused on favorites instead of the good of the entire team. I had coaches that no matter how hard I worked, it would never be good enough for them. I had coaches that would take insults too far on the court and in the classroom.

I had coaches that killed my passion and love for the game of basketball.

When a passion dies, it is quite possibly the most heartbreaking thing ever. A desire you once had to play every second of the day is gone; it turns into dreading every practice and game. It turns into leaving every game with earphones in so other parents don't talk to you about it. It meant dreading school the next day due to everyone talking about the previous game. My passion was destroyed when a coach looked at me in the eyes and said, "You could go to any other school and start varsity, but you just can't play for me."

SEE ALSO: Should College Athletes Be Limited To One Sport?

Looking back now at the amount of tears shed after practices and games, I just want to say to this coach: Making me feel bad about myself doesn't make me want to play and work hard for you, whether in the classroom or on the court. Telling me that, "Hard work always pays off" and not keeping that word doesn't make me want to work hard either. I spent every minute of the day focusing on making sure you didn't see the pain that I felt, and all of my energy was put towards that fake smile when I said I was OK with how you treated me. There are not words for the feeling I got when parents of teammates asked why I didn't play more or why I got pulled after one mistake; I simply didn't have an answer. The way you made me feel about myself and my ability to play ball made me hate myself; not only did you make me doubt my ability to play, you turned my teammates against me to where they didn't trust my abilities. I would not wish the pain you caused me on my greatest enemy. I pray that one day, eventually, when all of your players quit coming back that you realize that it isn't all about winning records. It’s about the players. You can have winning records without a good coach if you have a good team, but you won’t have a team if you can't treat players with the respect they deserve.

SEE ALSO: To The Little Girl Picking Up A Basketball For The First Time

Cover Image Credit: Equality Charter School

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