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Tuesday, April 21, 2020

Reflective entry

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Birds singing in the air, grass is beginning to regain its chlorophyll, lawn mowers echoing in the distance; these are the typical characteristics that are associated with the season of spring. It is also the beginning of spring training for major league players. In our household, there is an ultimatum; you're either a White Sox fan or a White Sox fan. Not much of a choice I thought; it even fits into the communist system of government, but over the years, I grew up to become a loyal fan of the good, old palehose. I could even remember my first exposure of America's pastime dating back to my infant years. Photos on my living room wall and in memorabilia books display a wide conglomeration of baby pictures in White Sox paraphernalia. Many relatives of mine say its is the cutest thing that they ever seen, but I think its pretty horrid. A baby wearing an oversized jersey of Minnie Minoso laying in a catcher's mit is the picture that my mother cherishes the most. She chooses to display that picture in the living room wall over my Little League champion picture. Instead of picturing my feats and accomplishments, she chooses to go with the "little Minnie" picture, as my family members would refer to it. Whenever I go past the picture, the thought conjures, why?I guess it's a mother thing. Mothers seem to have some type of telekinesis that can compute things such as false testimony or whenever trouble lurks. Most fathers play catch with their sons, go fishing at times, or maybe even teach some tricks of the trade that has been passed down from generation to generation. My father was not the typical father. I don't know if there is term to describe him. If there were a word to describe a person that is over fatherly, a picture of him would be next to that term. He would be there during my Little League games, dates with girls, anything that can be thought of. The worst thing was that he was my Little League coach. It may not sound as bad, but imagine having Bobby Knight as a coach and a father. The continuous pressure to be successful on the field and off the field was the only thing that my father preached during the season.


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The game that is embedded in my memory is the game when I was six years old.My father told me that if I won the game, there would be a great surprise in the morning.Sure enough, I pitched a great game. Coming home later that evening, The thought of the "great surprise" culminated into my thoughts. I wonder what the surprise is, I thought for the whole night. Was it a new bike, a Nintendo that I coveted dearly, or was it just some kind of joke that my dad did to motivate me for the game? The anticipation was just so immense that evening that I could not sleep or drink. The next day came about when my dad woke me up at the crack of dawn. It was so early in the morning that I can see the paperboy delivering the papers on his bike. That was usually my measure of early. Being so weary from the night before, I lapsed from consciousness the "great surprise". I slowly rolled out of bed. As I walked out, I can hear my mother in the kitchen preparing breakfast. The sweet aroma of pancake mix, the sound of sausages frying in the pan made me hastily get ready for the day. Running down the stairs, I can see my father outside checking the car's oil. That usually detailed one thing, road trip. As I finished, my father told to hurry up and get ready. I thought, ready for what? Nonchalantly, I got into to the car and went with my father. On the way to my destination, my father tuned to a sports station. The pregame show was on. The announcers were Mac, Jerko, and Harry. Listening to their low tone, boring voices made me fall asleep. As I awoke to horns and to my father's stop and go driving, I can see in the distance, Comiskey Park. As my eyes got wider admiring the ballpark, I asked my father if that was our destination place. He told me, yes son; we're going to see the White Sox play today. As soon as I heard those words, I was ecstatic. It was like a kid in the toy store picking out a toy. Walking into this huge facility, I can see lots of advertisements, stands, morals of past White Sox players, and the best part, the batters were taking batting practice. I quickly ran towards the dugout hoping for an autograph. There were hoards of people crowding around with the same objective in mind. As I looked around for my father who was lagging behind, I noticed in the pressbox a sign with the insignia, WGN sports. Inside the box was Ken Harrelson. Watching him on TV was cool, but seeing him in person just blew my mind away. Focusing my attention on Ken Harrelson, kids around me started to act up. The thought came, why were they pushing? Sure enough, over in the distance, Robin Ventura was headed in my direction. I clenched for my ball and stuck it out hoping that he would notice. In desperation for an autograph, I looked up at my father like he would do something to get Robin Ventura's attention. As I was looking at my father, the ball slipped out of my hand. My first thought was darnit; I dropped the ball. As I looked on the ground for the ball, I noticed that Robin was signing a ball. In a blink of an eye, my goal was accomplished. As they would say in the military, mission accomplished. Please note that this sample paper on Reflective entry is for your review only. In order to eliminate any of the plagiarism issues, it is highly recommended that you do not use it for you own writing purposes. In case you experience difficulties with writing a well structured and accurately composed paper on Reflective entry, we are here to assist you. Your persuasive essay on Reflective entry will be written from scratch, so you do not have to worry about its originality.


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