edit: my first paragraph has a chunk of "telling" in it, explaining the setting and my purpose in it. Some people may want me to work on that, but I feel it is necessary information so I can continue my "show" of the 8th grade workouts.
But, thoughts and comments are welcome!
Unless I disagree with your opinion, of course...
2nd edit: If you read this post, see critical comments, then look for places where I was deserving of these citicisms, yet see no areas where I was deserving of that paritcular critisism, do not be confused! This means that I edited this post, and fixed the errors specified.
I had never been to a workout room before, and I felt a little lost. I was in a school I wasn't familiar with yet, but was expected to act like I was. I was in an unfamiliar school, at an unfamiliar time of the day. It was 3:45, and Wissahickon High School was deviod of its usual inhabitants; in their stead were some 20-odd eighth graders, concentrated to one focal point: the workout room, in which I was standing. I was an eighth grader, and a baseball player. I had come to the 8th grade workouts. These after school meetings were designed to smooth the shock from being transplanted, not unlike a bulb of a flower, into high school. Eighth graders could experience the regimens that the high school baseball team performed every week. These workouts would help a prospective player decide whether he wanted to commit to a serious, high school sport. And I was one of perhaps 20 mulling about in the high school workout room. Names swirled through my head, names of people who were damn good at baseball; Randy Frankenfield, Tommy Kline, Will Ligus, Jake Fischer….and me. I was being put in the same pond as these big fish. Could I hold my own? I was lost in thought, until the shrill, unique tone of a high pitched whistle brought me back to reality.
I was excited, ready to work hard, but as the tall, intimidating head coach went through his obviously well-rehearsed speech, something caught my attention. I couldn’t figure out what exactly it was then, and I sure can’t remember now. However, my attention was caught nonetheless. What I saw shocked, then terribly upset me. I saw unspoken anger being stabbed at me, silent insults swarming through the irises of many. I saw body language. I noticed the scrunched brows, the crossed arms; it was amazing how so many people could communicate with each other, then organize together to convey their feelings, all without a soound. As someone who was completely aloof of how he would interact with others, and unknowingly push them away, the fact that I saw these quiet objections meant that it was plain and obvious for anyone to see; I was not wanted anywhere near these people, much less working with them on a team. My aspirations for high school baseball would be fought tooth and nail.
Every minute I spent in that workout room reaffirmed the decision I had just made more and more. This was the decider, this animosity diverted the path I was to take, and reshaped who I am and how I define myself. I Ignored the feelings of others for the rest of the workout, something I was unknowingly good at, and left when I was told to. The spring day gave me a great backdrop to walk home; I walked on a blacktop path, slightly yellowed by the overaccumulation of pollen. The path became covered in woodland, its sides swallowed by the forest. I noticed, not for the first time, how beautiful the scene was. However, even the beautiful day couldn't deter the feelings of dismay and hurt that swarmed me, attacking my thoughts, usurping my ability to think clearly, and pointing out something that I was only beginning to understand at the time: my only company for many, many years would be my thoughts, and I had no one to blame but myself. I mulled over the events of the day, preparing to make the decision that would affect my life the most nof any decision I've ever made, which was all unbeknownst to me at the time. As I crossed the main road into my development, the decision became set in stone. The memory of this mpoment is so vivid, it's sort of weird for me to relive it nowadays. But, I consciously remember telling myself, "Gandpa deserves better, and I deserve better than dealing with those...plebians." Those were my exact words, they ring in my head so clearly, like a bell that which has been perfectly cast, thus allowing the bell to reverberate for an amzingly long amount of time.
Later that night, I took my trumpet out of its case.
RESPONSES TO COMMENTS:
Yo Duvi, you are absolutely 100% percent right, and that really helped me build up the story even further. That is EXACTLY what I'm looking for: constructive critisism that helps me develop my writing. Rock on, Duvi!!!!!
R\
Jenny,
I think I get what you are trying to say, and I'll keep that in mind, fit in what I can, but more importantly, make sure I fit that in later in the story as well.
[less than 3],
Patrick