RJ Young Writes

Like trust, respect is earned not cajoled and should never be expected.

Give everyone the benefit of the doubt until they give you reason not to.

Before you ask a question, thoroughly understand the issue to the best of your knowledge.

Read. Everything. You must have words floating about your brain like letters in alphabet soup. If you don’t have to time to read, your writing becomes a plight of the shiftless.

Don’t be shiftless.

Dare to inspire.

Dare to rethink.

Dare to challenge the status quo.

— RJ

Because my father ain’t leave me no trust fund

Which ain’t to say I didn’t want one

I’m banging on the pavement while the sun sleeps

Grinding, stay shining to make ends meet

I am the 99 percent for which glossy means gutter

Calloused hands, beaten feet, sound mind — just like you sisters and you brothers

Since I’ve got 13:23 minutes to reflect before the tip-off of Oklahoma vs. No. 15 Kansas, I’m gonna. I always feel fortunate to be at a collegiate or professional sporting event. I feel even more fortunate to cover them.

 There’s a difference between being a sportswriter and writing about sports. While elaborating on their differences will take more time than I have to punch these keys, allow me to assure you I subscribe to the latter though I often refer to myself as the former for brevity’s sake. The things I love most about sports — and writing about them: The game is rarely the best story to tell. It’s simply the foundation for the greatness that will be seen, heard and retold. It’s special to be a part of those happenings. When I think of how many stories are forming around me in the span of two 20-minute halves, I can’t help but feel giddy.

My laptop is open, my pad and pen are out, and the teams have taken the court. I’ve got six minutes and 33 seconds left before stories happen.

It’s easy to understand why Lavar Arrington is upset at his alma mater. What’s not quite so easy to understand? Why it took so long for him to voice his outrage. Well to answer that, let’s backtrack for few paragraphs.

Two months ago, an unspeakable — yet highly writable — tragedy was brought to light by Sara Ganim at The Patriot-News. Former Penn State football coach Jerry Sandusky reportedly molested several children on Penn State’s campus. When the mad scientist behind The Grand Experiment, Joe Paterno, was told of Sandusky’s indiscretions, he simply passed it up the ladder to his superiors. What should have been publicly nipped in the bud years ago has turned Penn State University into the scourge of the college football universe. And allow me to (re)assure you: That universe is large and growing larger with each successive football season.

When word reached the masses — many of whom don’t even like football — chants tantamount of Queen Margaret’s “Off with his head and set it on York gates; So York may overlook the town of York” reigned supreme in regard to JoePa. The face of Penn State lives in State College, Pa. where the Nittany Lions play football on fall Saturdays. He will likely continue to live out his days there, overlooking the gates of Beaver Stadium.

In the wake of JoePa’s firing, the search for the next head coach of the program had begun and longtime defensive coordinator Tom Bradley was named its interim head coach. Usually that word — interim — is a death sentence for college football coaches. Here are some synonyms for interim head football coach: babysitter, caretaker, foster parent, alternate. Here are some antonyms for interim head football coach: first choice, top pick, best, JoePa. It’s (usually) not in the cards for an interim head coach at a program to simply become the head coach of the program. This would prove true in Bradley’s case.

Jan. 6, 2012, will be regarded by the Penn State brass as the day the program began to pull itself out of the abysmal muck its former head football coach, former athletic director and former president allowed it to so willingly slip and fall into. It also is the same day New England Patriots offensive coordinator Bill O’Brien was announced as the new head coach of the Penn State football program. O’Brien isn’t a bad choice, but it only matters that he looks like a bad. Those in charge of hiring JoePa’s successor — or Bradley’s depending on where you draw the political line — royally screwed the pooch on this one. Rumors of established and championship-caliber college football coaches were tossed around like dirty laundry that just missed the hamper. Who could be surprised when Penn State’s pink Hershey-highway thong was picked up and waved overhead like a Terrible Towel? Not I, and if you’re honest, not you.

However, that’s not what seemed to hurt Lavar Arrington the most when he spoke with Nate Bauer of “Blue and White Illustrated.” He held off judgment until the coaching search was through, and when it was over, he let loose. He spoke of putting away all of his Nittany Lions paraphernalia and putting many of his awards and accolades into storage. Why? Because Penn State didn’t stick up for Penn State. He believes by not committing to Bradley the Penn State brass all but accepted that the entire Penn State community — students, staff, faculty, alumni — was at fault. Here are some illuminating quotes from Bauer’s story:

“By these people making the decisions the way that they are making them, basically coinciding with everything that’s being written about our university, if they get rid of Tom Bradley, that means they in essence have accepted the fact that we are all guilty,” Arrington said. “You might as well call it all the same thing.  What we stood for and what we represented for so long, what we have been taught, what we have been trained to know and the values that I raise my own children with, you’re basically telling me it’s good, only as long as times are good.”

Arrington wasn’t the only former Penn State athlete to voice frustration with the leadership behind Penn State’s hiring decision. He won’t be the last — believe that. But he’s arguably the best and most highly profiled athlete the university has ever produced. His words carry weight. Arrington’s feels is hurt, and he feels betrayed by the institution he gave and gleaned so much. It took him long enough, yes. But he’s there now. I’m glad he’s angry. I’m glad he took time to illustrate why he’s angry. Sometimes, it’s OK to be mad. This is one of those times.

By RJ Young

I’m punching keys. I’m going to pound this out. There is a meaning to my endeavor — there must be.

I’m looking for something, but I don’t know what. The urge to write hit me just a few seconds ago for what I’m quite sure is the 155^th time today, and I don’t know why. I’ve finished my assignments. This is supposed to be my (unscheduled) day off. I could sit and stew about it. I could go back to reading about Steve Prefontaine and listening to The Band Perry (don’t judge me) but I don’t see how that would help. I mean, I was doing that before I sat down here to type the words appearing before you. And what is the definition of insanity but repeating the same act and expecting different results. I like pain — Pain makes sure I’m never alone. — but that’s a bit extreme even for me, a writer.

So, for next several hundred words, I’m just going to riff. I understand if you’re not down to ride. I understand if you’ve got better things to do; more important uses of the time you have left on this planet we’re collectively destroying. Cats caught on video and displayed on YouTube could be more entertaining and worthwhile (though I have no idea why).

I’ve come to understand the best of me can be — and often is — illustrated on a page. That’s not a bit of braggadocio on my part. In fact, I think it’s scathingly critical insight, and that scares me. I am more adept at displaying my opinions, observations and sharing stories with my hands on keyboard than I am when asked to describe those same sentiments using the oval orifice above my chin and below my bulbous nose. But that’s the price I have committed to pay. So it goes.

Poring over millions of words in the hopes of learning a new way to see the world, to write the world, I have forsaken much. Those close to me might claim I have given, and will give, too much. Friends’ weddings have been thrown by the wayside for freelance assignments. Stacks of books have been purchased, rented and read as if each of them is a 1UP mushroom with the ability to grant me literary eternal life. My occupation is mentally taxing.

For instance, I have gone from Chuck Klosterman to Jeff Snook to Michael Weinreb to Gary Shteyngart to Tom Jordan in the past two weeks, in addition to a paper mountain of ephemera. I’ve enjoyed each of them, but that doesn’t make the work any less difficult. There are so many books and not enough time to read them all. As I am a writer, that is only half my job performed. Just ask Stephen King. After all, the (meta) thing about being a writer: You have to, you know, write something.

Writing is just as practical as it is abstract. The challenge is balancing your discipline with the purity of your art and the dangers of your ambition. No man who calls himself a sorcerer of scribble can expect to summon the dark arts that propelled Morrison, Dickens, Heinz, and Angell to (literary) fame and (mild) fortune without committing to a lifetime of worship to the written word. The act of writing must become the way you pray, and you are expected to be devout in your praise. But from such religious acts, the miracle of miracles can be performed, for you, the writer: You could be published.

Your work — no, not work — your mental sweat, pain, fears, strength and weakness will be broadcast for the world (read: Internet) to see. Your close friends will congratulate you. Your parents will no doubt frame your essay or article or buy copious amounts of your book to give away to their friends and their associates, but not the Internet.

The Internet will seek to delve into your psyche; force you to reevaluate your own validity in the form of snide and snark in what is most widely regarded simply as the “comments section.” Against the advice of those whose advice you value, you’ll read those comments. That miracle of miracles will soon resemble a Wiccan candle spell. You’ll let things like “Ur stuped,” and “This is teribly wroting” knock you off a pedestal you had no idea you were deposited on. And then, you’ll write something new; something better.

You’ll cuss your LCD screen, grit your teeth and go back to doing battle with yourself. You’ll make every effort to push past the bounds of your art because your discipline has provided the resolve, substance and experience needed to cerebrally construct a new construct to unleash upon the legions that amass the Internet. You’ll find purpose in the words you form; the sentences you’ve born.

Or you won’t.

Writers write.

I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that spark should burnout in a brilliant blaze than it should be stilled by a dry rot. I would rather be superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.

— Jack London

RJ Young

RJYoungWrites.com

I am a writer; a journalist. My natural inclinations: observe, ask questions, read and write. That is especially true when I find myself experiencing something new. So, I followed my instincts while spending Thanksgiving with my girlfriend’s — who I lovingly call “The Beep” — family. Her father owns a large amount of land and raises cattle on it. He and his relatives picked today to vaccinate their cattle and asked me to tag-along. With his consent, I reported (read: tweeted) what I saw, smelled, felt and heard. (No, there was no tasting, thank God.) 

1. COWETA, Okla. — I’m with the father-of-my-girlfriend and his relatives. We’re vaccinating around 120 cows. (Yes, I’ll live-tweet this mess.)
2. We’re using trucks to round-up the cattle. We’re driving over 600 acres, and I’m in overalls for only the second time in my life.
3. Here’s a cow that just won’t do right: lockerz.com/s/159374938
4. They’ve given me a cow whip. This could get REAL interesting.
5. The stench of a newly pinched cow turd punishes the nose for daring to smell at all.
6. They sent the girlfriend’s cousin, Mikey, to get a bucket. He returned with an orange water cooler.
7. “I might need a defibrillator. I’m feeling kinda winded.” — girlfriend’s father after chasing a “wild cow.”
8. Cows with horns WILL use them. God must really want me to have children.
9. This is the girlfriend’s brother, Jimmy, vaccinating for insects and such. He’s a better man than me: lockerz.com/s/159388114
10. As the cow relieves herself, the girlfriend’s father yells, “Boy, they’re sh*tting good.” I must agree, sir.
11. Every time I think these cows are crammed too close for comfort, I remember that they never flew Southwest 
12. I was just handed the electric cow prod and told “Juice ‘em, RJ!” I have never felt more like a cop.
13. Nearly a dozen cows just crashed the gate, but hell was not loosed but for one man’s electric cattle prod. (It wasn’t me; it was Mikey.)
14. I took my electric cattle prod to the bull’s rump. He (rightly) took offense and reared up his hind legs. (My shorts remain clean, somehow.)
15. More than 80 cows have been rustled, electrocuted, whipped and vaccinated so far. “Hot damn we’re moving!” my girlfriend’s father says.
16. Look close. You’ll see “cancer eye” poking beneath this cow’s eyelid:lockerz.com/s/159411716
17. “I got a little pop on your truck,” Kelly says. “I’m sorry.” “Forget it,” Mikey says. “It’s a Toyota anyway.”
18. “It’s amazing how closely that cow resembles my ex-wife.” — Kelly, a close friend of my girlfriend’s father
19. After three hours, roughly 120 cows have been vaccinated. “Hell, it’s lunch time and a hot bath,” my girlfriend’s father says.