I was such a joiner as a kid. Heck, I still am. That’s why journalism fits me so well. Often my desperate attempts at joining were blocked by the cold hand of ineptitude. The below instance is no exception, but at least I got a fun personal essay out of it for Vegas Seven’s 2014 Storytelling Issue.
THE ETERNAL OFFSEASON
Street basketball reigned at elementary school recess. If fate sent the ball into my hands, I would freeze in the confusion and exhilaration of everybody suddenly calling out to me. Cindi, pass the ball! Pass the ball, Cindi! Cindi! Cindi! Cindi! It was heady stuff for an invisible 11-year-old with delusions of grandeur. Dribbling would get me nowhere. Shooting would result in shame. So I clutched that orb of attention as long as I could, savoring my moment of glory. And then I passed. It would always be a letdown, my name forgotten as my classmates played on without me. READ MORE