Eagle Eye-Fall 2013

Tennessee Technological university

Great Day for a FightGreat Day for a FightTomato War at County FestivalTomato War at County Festival

Breaking One for Breaking One for the Teamthe Team

Baseball Player Takes One Baseball Player Takes One For His TeamFor His Team

The Gig on The Gig on SaturdaySaturday

Are You Afraid of Are You Afraid of the Dark?the Dark?

An Aspiring Guitar Player’s An Aspiring Guitar Player’s Unfortunate AccidentUnfortunate Accident

Childhood Memories of a Childhood Memories of a Spooky SeriesSpooky Series

FALL 2013FALL 2013Free Per Single CopyFree Per Single Copy

Eagle EyeEagle Eye

Contents. . .Page 3-5:The Old Man and The Lighthouse

Page 6-7:Are You Afraid of the Dark

Page 8-9:Great Day for a Fight

Page 10-11:The Misunderstood Neighborhood?

Page 12-13:The Ski Before The Gig

Page 14-15:Breaking One for the Team

Who We AreRosemary Apple Jacqueline AtkielskiAshley Ayub Lindsay BlakelyMelissa EdwardsJamal FergusonApril Gilbert Callen Harrell Drew Haston Matthew Hill Biskie Holman Emily HomanArthur Jackson Jordan Kerley

Jodi LawrenceJustin MatheneyAllison MillsSam Omachonu Ariel PerryChandler PecoraSarah ReeseMegan Severe Katie Vaughn Suzi VaughnZackery Warfi eldJessica WilsonCasey Woodard

WritersProfessor: Russ Witcher

Front Cover by: Casey WoodardCover Photo by: Sarah DingwallBack Cover by: Casey WoodardContents Page Layout by: Casey WoodardCopy Edited by : Sarah Reese and Casey Woodard

On The Cover A statue nicknamed “Charlie The Eagle”, donated by TTU alumnus Charles Haw-kins. It currently sits near the driveway of the Walton House.

2

3Fall 2013

The Old Man And The LighthouseStory and Photography by ALLISON MILLS

Layout by CASEY WOODARD

?

4 Eagle Eye

Fog is a white mist that erases oceans, mountains and people. It’s a sailor’s worst dilemma. Worse than the

storms at sea, it blinds them from sight of lurking dangers. At sea for months at a time, some fi shermen see things that others have never seen, but all fi shermen have seen the ma-jestic structures beaming with light welcoming them home and waving them goodbye. Stuck in the backseat wearing my new navy-blue rain jacket which I had purchased in Cape Cod, I looked out the window at the rock-strewn shore line of Maine only to see nothing. It was my fi rst time to Maine and I was disappoint-ed that all I could see was white mist. It seemed to roll in and out with the tide but never weakened enough to give me the satisfaction of sight. All I wanted was to see the Atlantic Ocean, the lighthouses, whales and fi shermen going out to sea with their lobster cages stacked high on rusty, rickety old boats that look like they should be at the bottom of the ocean rather than fl oating on top. But no, I couldn’t see anything but unforgiving fog. I had spent the past fi ve days in Boston in the hustle and bustle of the city and could not wait to get to the relaxing Maine shore. I had just eaten a woopie pie, a heavenly cake sand-wich with a creme-fi lled center. I drank a Moxie, a Coke-like product that is made only in Maine; it tastes like root beer cough syrup. We traveled along the shore line all day

begging for the fog to go away so we could see lighthouses and the ocean. I had no idea what was in store for me that afternoon as I whined and griped to my parents about driving thousands of miles to see nothing. In all honesty, I was pissed. We fi nally pulled up to Fort Williams Park to visit the lighthouse I had dreamed my whole life of seeing, Portland Head Light. It’s the lighthouse that is in all of my calendars and on the background on my computer. I just knew that it would be wrapped in the foggy abyss and that I would only be able to see it up close, instead of from a distance standing tall with waves crashing over the rocks like all the pictures I had seen. As I walked disappointed toward the lighthouse, I could hear the fog horns in the distance bellowing their loud warning. I never expected to fi nd the inspiration that I found waiting for me at the lighthouse steps. I soon stumbled upon a gray-haired old man in a worn, red Polo shirt sitting on an old milk crate selling landscape paintings of Portland Head Light. The lines around his eyes showed wisdom and experience as he wheezily chuckled and told endless stories of the lighthouse in days of its prime to tourists. I don’t know what compelled me to go over and talk to him because I usually just mind my own business, but something told me to go introduce myself.

The thick fog hid much of the Atlantic Ocean from view during Allison’s trip to Maine.

5Fall 2013

At fi rst, we started with small talk about the fog and I told him I was disappointed that I had driven all the way up from Tennessee and just wanted to see everything. He told me his name was Bill Thompson and that the fog was very unusual for July. We ended up talking for hours. He told me all about living in Maine his whole life. He was an old college histo-ry professor for 40 years and he loved to teach. He told me stories about the lighthouses, the keepers, ghost stories and how the lighthouse was built under George Washington’s instruction in the 1700s and has changed heights and shapes many times since. He told us about a shipwreck on the rocks right below the lighthouse on Christmas Day. The whole crew was saved by the keeper and they all ended up eating Christmas dinner at the lighthouse with the lighthouse keeper’s family. Bill’s voice dropped and his eyes gained a unique darkness when he said the light had been extinguished only once. It was turned off during World War II to avoid guiding German submarines into Portland Harbor. He said it was a dangerous time to live in Portland, Maine. This man lit up like the lighthouse he loved so much when he told stories of days past. The last words he spoke to me I will never forget. “You know why people are so drawn to lighthouses?” Bill said. “Well, look at them. They always stand alone; there is nothing that stands beside them. They are a symbol of strength and hope. They stand fi rm through storms, hurri-

canes, fog and snow; nothing can bring them down. They light the way when all you see is darkness. They protect you from treacherous paths and they are always trusted. They are the last thing fi shermen see as they take one look back at their home before leaving their families for months. It is also their fi rst hello they receive when they return, welcoming them home. They are beacons of light. They always lead you home safely,’” Bill said. “If you believe in something, even if you have to stand alone, always stand up for it and never back down. Do you see why people are so drawn to light-houses now? Lighthouses have a lot to do with life, don’t ya think?” Bill asked. As we said our goodbyes and I looked around me, all the fog rolled away and I could see Maine’s shore for miles. The sun was shining through, revealing miraculous jagged rocks being beaten by powerful waves below. I felt blessed that I got to experience Maine’s natural fogginess but also that I got to see it in sunny weather. It was as though this day was meant to happen. I purchased one of Bill’s paintings so I could remember all the stories. I thanked God for clearing the fog and, more importantly, for guiding me to an amazing person who lit up my life that day, the way a lighthouse lights up the shore for sailors. As I drove away, I looked back one last time at the tall white fi gure standing proudly. The light blinked as it waved goodbye.

Bill Thompson holds one of the many paintings he sells in Portland, Maine.

6 Eagle Eye

Are You Afraidof the Dark?

A look back at the classic children’s television show.

Story by KATIE VAUGHN

Layout by CASEY WOODARD

7Fall 2013

It starts with a dark and gloomy storm brewing in the background with the

sound of children laughing while emp-ty swings rock back and forth. After a few more frightening scenarios, you see a hand appear with a match that lights all by itself, then the most frightening words of my childhood appeared on the TV screen, “Are You Afraid Of The Dark?” I grew up with two older sisters and three older female cousins, so through-out the years, we had a lot of sleepovers at our Grannie’s house. The one thing I hated about those sleepovers were the time between my Grannies last episode of “Walker, Texas Ranger” and our bed-time. In that 9 p.m. slot is when the world’s most frightening show for any kid under the age of 13 came on. “Are You Afraid Of The Dark?” was my personal nightmare growing up, and in a sick twist of fate, it came on my absolute favorite network, Nickelodeon. How can a network that produces such wonderful things like Rugrats, Rocket Power, Hey Arnold and the other greats, put out such a horrifying nightmare of a show? It all started when I was about 7 years old, and I made the monumental mistake of wanting to be like the big girls. I begged and pleaded incessantly until they caved in on letting me stay up to watch their “grown up” shows with them. My oldest sister, Megan, and my old-est cousin, Meredith, were both worried about it and kept trying to reassure me that the show was stupid, and I probably wouldn’t like it. I rallied on and insisted I at least got a chance to decide for my-self. They continued to tell me there were some things in the show that even scared them sometimes. That, of course, freaked me out to no end, but I refused to coward down. I told them, “I’m not a little kid anymore. I know how to make toast, Pop-tarts, and sandwiches. I can handle it.” We ran all around the house to fi nd ev-ery blanket and chair we could to make the ultimate fort in my grandmother’s mouse-size living room. It made me hap-py to see my sisters and cousins excited

to add me into their sisterhood of late-night activities. After the fort was built and the junk food covered the fl oor, I heard my sister Brittany shout, “Sshhhh, It’s on!” I clutched a soft pillow and held on tight. As soon as the show’s intro came on I was already near tears. What kind of sick people show creepy clowns, doors slamming on their own, and a fi re ex-tiguishing with no water, all in the fi rst 20 seconds? I was terrifi ed! To the best of my memory, I think the fi rst episode I watched was about a girl

who meets a musician, and they spent the episode talking about her rock-star life. In the last 10 minutes, you fi nd out she was talking about her life in the 1950s the entire time. She had died in a car crash before one of her gigs and stayed to haunt people. She had been talking to a ghost THE WHOLE TIME! My mind was blown! Every 30 seconds of the episode, I would cover my eyes so tight I felt like I might puncture my eyelids. Sometimes the noises were worse than the visuals, and I would have to plug my ears to the point of pain. I kept thinking to myself, “This kind of fear is just cruel; who would like this?” When the episode ended the living room fi lled with a “Oooooohhhh gaaaah-hh... that was crazy!” I looked around the room to see everyone looking at me to see my reaction.

I was terrifi ed; I knew for sure I would have nightmares for the rest of the year. The show found every fear I had and put it into on a TV screen. So when they asked me what I thought of the show, of course I answered, “Oh, my gosh that was AWESOME!” I was no chump; I knew they would never let me live it down if I made such a big deal about being old enough to watch the show, and then I got scared. I could see in all their faces, I had done it. I had fooled them into thinking I was no longer a little kid. I was fi nally grown up. Now, they would have to let me go to the movies with them and their friends, and let me sit in on their “girl talk!” That was until later that night. We all slept six deep in a bed during those years, so there weren’t many places a girl could go to have a nightmare. I woke up screaming and kicking with Megan lean-ing over me, telling me I was dreaming. I was so embarrassed. I thought for sure she was going to wake everyone up to have a good laugh at my tantrum. Instead, she asked me if I was ok, and then we both went back to bed. Megan never told anyone about my nightmare, and she even let me keep watching the show. I think she knew how important it was to me to be in the “big girl’s group,” and she wasn’t going to get me kicked out. For the next few years, I kept this rou-tine. I would watch the show, then have the most vividly scary dreams of all time. Then, Megan would graciously wake me up and help me back to sleep. Some people would think this was cra-zy, but I knew it would pay off in the end, and it did. Years following the show, I was able to listen to Alanis Morissette, TLC, and Salt and Peppa, all way before anyone in my grade had even heard of them. I was a 90s kid genius. I knew way too much, and I liked it that way. This was one of the most memorable parts of my childhood because, without my sister’s help, I would have missed out on some of the greatest parts of the 90s, and for that, I will always be grateful to her.

As soon as

the show’s

intro came on

I was already

near tears.

“

”-Katie Vaughn

8 Eagle Eye

The mercury barely bubbled above 80, and the wind licked at my

shoulders just enough to tousle my hair. The July sun was far from scorch-ing and the clouds were sparse. It was a good day for a fi ght. My family toppled out of the van, child after child. The hour-long drive had been surprisingly pleasant, an oddity in a vehicle overwhelmed with pubescent angst. We followed my parents and traipsed across the fi eld together. The lines were not as long as I had imagined they would be. My mother reminded me we had arrived early. She reassured me more people would be coming in later. “They better,” I thought. “I have to have someone to hit.” We circled the Grainger County To-mato Festival for the better part of two hours. My father became entranced with the tractor show, and my mother

Great Day for a FightGreat Day for a FightStory by SARAH REESELayout by CASEY WOODARDPhotography Provided by: KATHIE SELF

Teams participating in the event face challenging competition. Everyone has a good time, but the teams play to win.

did her best to peel him away from the little blue Ford to which he clung. My sisters found their way to the stages and settled in the grass to watch the bluegrass bands compete. I could hear the wail of the mandolin a football fi eld away. There was no need to sit and stare at it while it sang. I kept moving. My brother was easy to pacify – there were Civil War relics scattered across the fairgrounds. I lost sight of him for almost an hour. When I rec-ognized his broad shoulders hunched over a computer, I investigated. “You can use the computer to track your ancestors and see if any of them were in the Civil War!” my brother whispered excitedly. “I’ve found three already.” Soon my parents wrapped them-selves up in the computer, too, and I found myself getting anxious. None of this excited me the way it did my family. I was here for one event and one event only. I wanted the fi ght to start.At 9:45, with the sun leading the way, I picked up my pace and scooted toward the registration table. My siblings soon

fell in line as my parents meandered their way over. “We have seven,” I told the teenag-er seated at the pop-up table. “These three are 16, there’s one that’s 13, and I’m 21. They’re ancient,” I told her quickly, pointing to my parents. She laughed and pushed our tags in my direction. The rule breakdown began. She held up her index fi nger. “You are being provided with a fi xed amount of ammunition. This is the only ammuni-tion you can use. Use anything else and you’re out.” She raised a second fi nger. “A team member will be considered ‘dead’ when there is evidence of a direct hit on their shirt. Hits anywhere else are considered ‘wounding.’” Her ring fi nger rose to make three. “Referees have the fi nal call. If you hear a whistle, the fi ght stops imme-diately. Lastly, a little housekeeping. No physical contact. Don’t be stupid,” she threw a set of elevator eyes in my brother’s direction. Everything about his physique said he knew a thing or two about tackling other players. “Stay at the infi eld site. Matches last 30 minutes at most, three minutes if ev-eryone wants to die off that fast. Wear your glasses. Don’t be stupid. Seriously. That’s a rule.” She jerked her head in the direction of the fi eld. “You’re good. Go on. Have fun.” I was long gone before she fi nished her breath. It took only 15 minutes to get the fi rst rounds going. We waited almost another hour for the under-12 crowd to get out their giggles and get off the grounds. Finally, I heard it. “Reese’s Pieces, ya’ll are up!” The voice boomed from the mid-dle of the fi eld. We crossed the turf to meet the other teams and receive ammunition. The announcer’s assistant handed my dad wooden boxes, and we

9Fall 2013

Great Day for a Fight

moved backward to establish position-ing. Within three minutes, the count-down was on. The announcer asked for thumbs up and reassurance we knew the rules. I glanced over at my brother, who was grinning with anticipation. I held his gaze as the coordinator shouted. “Three, two, one…go!” I reached down into the wooden crate and wrapped my hands around a tomato. Its fl esh was soft and overly ripened. I brought the tomato up out of the crate and wound up for the toss, aiming for a young man about 20 feet in front of me. As I released, I could feel the juice run down my forearm and off my elbow. My target shifted to the left, and my ammunition exploded on the ground two feet behind him. My eyes adjusted, and I dodged a tomato headed straight for my face. The fi ght was in full-swing. The match lasted for almost 20

The players competing in the event must follow the rules or they will be disqualifi ed. The rules include only using the tomation provided, and no physical contact.

minutes. In the end, only my brother and I held together what was remain-ing of Reese’s Pieces’ chance to win the round. I took hits to the knee, the ankles, the hips but never the shirt. I leapt and ducked dozens of toma-toes, answering almost every one with ammunition of my own. My brother was almost disqualifi ed when he took a hit to the neck and dropped his tomato and the f-word. In the fi nal seconds of play, it was just the two of us, side by side. We faced three opponents who had sig-nifi cantly less ammunition than us. My brother blasted one square in the chest as he leaned for a tomato, and the count evened two against two. Our opponents conferred with each other and committed the cardinal sin – they broke eye contact. In half a second, my brother and I reacted. We raised our arms and my brother yelled, “Left, Sarah!” I aimed for the center of his shirt,

and my tomato exploded on his white tee immediately after my brother’s. The player on the right was too busy laughing at his teammate to dodge the fi nal blow, a fruit aimed directly at his navel. My brother put his arms in the air victoriously, spun to see me and met a tomato to the tummy. He lowered his arms, taking it all in. I made a victory lap, the last Reese’s Piece untouched on the fi eld. He laughed and poured the remainder of the crate over my head. “Are you happy now? You can take it off the bucket list,” he smiled broadly. We joined our “dead” family team and made our way across the fi eld and to the car. I was happy. I had been hoping for a chance to compete in this fi ght for six years. Finally, my begging and pleading paid off. I left the fairgrounds that day not only a champion, but the winner of the Grainger County Tomato Festival Tomato War. It was a good day for a fi ght.

The Misunderstood Neighborhood?

Story by EMILY HOMANLayout and Photography by CASEY WOODARD

10 Eagle Eye

The bumping and shaking of the windows from some-one blaring their music is normal. You end up falling

asleep to your neighbor’s conversations at night through the walls. The parking lot fl oods into a small pond from the slightest bit of rain. The cinder block walls have been caked with multiple layers of what you’re sure is some type of lead-based paint. On the way to the laundry mat, you’re instantly cultured from the different smells and spices from the cooking in each building. There are worn-down, chipped remnants of a playground in the center of the complex. You end up getting used to seeing the red and blue fl ashing lights of cop cars in the main parking lot. It’s arguably the sketchiest place on campus, and many people call it home. The residents have many names for it, from its offi cial name, Tech Village, to the Villagio, The Village, or just the ghetto. My neighbors include my fellow athletes, the local cocaine dealer, engineering students, and foreign exchangers. I’m sure with all of the craziness and the at least once a year gun shot fi red, many questions can be raised as to why on earth anyone would want to live there. The outside of the non-renovated buildings looks like a complete dump, with chipped stairs, screens you can’t even see out of most of the year, and bathroom tiles that should have been gutted decades ago. For one, the cost to live in Tech Village is cheaper than most places on campus and in Cookeville. That’s usually a big selling point of these apartments. Another great feature of these apartments is that you can dress it up to be homey.

The fact that we knew our apartment was about to get ren-ovated gave us incentive to have a carefree attitude to what happened while we lived there. One of my friends ended up drawing on her walls the last semester she lived there. It was a mural of permanent marker, with stories and drawings of all the memories we had in the apartment. Every time you set foot in it, you had to sign your name with the date so we could pinpoint what memory we wanted to reminisce. Tech Village isn’t as dark and scary as it is cracked up to be. After I moved away for a year, I missed it. I missed the bumping of Will Johnson’s music every time he drove into the parking lot. I missed the closeness of it all, how you could just go downstairs and see what was going on in a friend’s apartment. There was always something going on at the intramural fi elds or on campus, and we were right there in the heart of it. I missed being able to walk to class even in the cold. Being able to do all 17 loads of my laundry at once in the laundry mat was also something I missed. Tech Village had left its mark on me. I had to come back. It just wouldn’t have been right to fi n-ish my fi nal year of college living somewhere else. Granted, I moved into a renovated apartment this time, with new win-dows, completely re-done bathroom, and even a dishwasher. But I just had to come back to this community. There’s a close, tight-knitted feeling when you see a neighbor. You might never ask for his or her name, but something about the fact that you both live in Tech Village says something. You give each other the residential nod, the nod that says, “We live in Tech Village.” We are villagers.

The newly renovated apartment buildings of Tech Village have bigger columns and new stairways.

11Fall 2013

12 Eagle EyeEagle Eye

The Gig on SaturdayStory by MATTHEW HILL Layout by CASEY WOODARD

I stabilize my body with my uninjured arm while standing on the moun-

tain-side, pressing the tips of my boots into the snow; I lose my foothold as I attempt to cross the mountain and plummet downward. As I repeat this process for the second time, I succeed in grasping my ski pole. After fastening my skis to my boots, I begin the multi-mile journey back to the ski lodge to meet my mom. I could see the refl ection of my pain on her face as she stared deeply into the pain in mine. I couldn’t move the fi ngers on my left hand, and today was Friday.

* * * * * * * * There was something about the soothing sound of newly changed gui-tar strings that made my ears explode with joy in a way no other sound could. I was eight when my dad bought me my fi rst guitar. I was 13 when I learned to play it. My brother had a friend named Robby, and Robby was my inspiration. Robby could play the guitar like nobody I had heard before. I would sit and watch him play for hours in hopes that, one day, I could make music like he made. I was determined to become the world’s greatest guitar player and had completely convinced myself that Ste-vie Ray Vaughan would one day ask for my autograph. Bound and determined to achieve this goal, I begged Robby day in, day out to teach me something, anything. I knew if I could learn one thing to get me started, my determi-

nation would carry me the rest of the way. And my determination did just that. Robby never taught me the fi rst chord, but rather, he taught me the most important lesson I would ever learn. No one will teach you how to be great. “Showing you even the fi rst thing about this instrument will confi ne you to approaching this instrument as I do,” Robby said. “This is what my dad taught me; this is what I will teach you. To keep from restrict-ing your creativity, you must teach yourself from the ground up.” So, I did. Three years later, I got offered my fi rst gig on a Saturday evening at a venue in Nashville. I was playing with a group of guys who had been pro-moting our band online when it was discovered by an independent record label in Knoxville. The time had come, and all my hard work had paid off. I was fi nally going to get to play in front of people who wanted to hear our music. This was what I had lain in bed and dreamed about since I was eight, and that dream was about to become a reality. There was one thing that stood between me and my fi rst Saturday evening gig in downtown Nashville- a family ski trip.

* * * * * * * * I could feel the thin, crisp, cold air at the top of the mountain as the fi nal day of skiing at Breckenridge, Colo-rado commenced. Six days of skiing had elapsed rather painlessly; I had

my falls- but nothing an evening in the jacuzzi couldn’t treat. It was closing time on the fi nal day of our family va-cation as I prepared myself for my fi nal run down the slopes. Fresh off the ski lift, I slid over to the unoccupied expert face of the mountain. After several mo-ments of internal debate, I confi dently selected a narrow trail so steep that the drop-in was the only thing visible from where I was standing. The initial drop sent a blast of adren-aline charging through my veins. My body’s weight shifted like a well-oiled machine, cutting the snow in a distinct, rhythmic pattern. As the trail took an unexpected curve toward a shaded region of the mountain, I suddenly began to feel my legs chatter violently. I could feel my skis scrape against blind ice patches that polluted the trail. I overcompensated and barely avoided a disastrous slip, but a break in my balance caused my knees to buckle helplessly. In a chaotic cloud of powder and ski equipment, my body came crashing onto the snow. My left hand pressed painfully into the ice, shattering it soundlessly at the wrist. My body tumbled down the mountain, and my head slammed against the ice. I fi nally came to rest underneath a tree. With my head pounding and blood covering the inside of my goggles, the only thing I could think about was the sharp pain in my wrist.

13Fall 2013

Photo By Sarah Dingwall. Matthew playing his guitar after recovering from his injuries. He practiced for years until he got his fi rst gig. Although the unfortunate events of the ski trip took away that opportunity, he still carries a passion for music to this day.

Standing up confused, I attempted to climb the mountain. I gazed down the slope to notice my left ski lying half-broken under a pine tree about 50 yards away. One of my ski poles had come to a stop beside me but was trapped on a mogul crevice. The lonely winter atmosphere bestowed little comfort; I was alone and remembering that it was closing time. I realized no one would come to help me and there-fore began immediate action. As I pain-fully peeled off my left glove to examine my wrist, the sound of the ski lift in the distance stopped. The mountain had closed. Now standing, I attached my skis and began making my way across the mountain in search of my missing equipment.

I stabilized my body with my unin-jured arm while standing on the moun-tain side, pressing the tips of my boots into the snow. I lost my foothold as I attempted to cross the mountain and plummeted downward. As I repeated this process for the second time, I suc-ceeded in grasping my ski pole. After fastening my skis to my boots, I began the multi-mile journey back to the ski lodge to meet my mom. I could see the refl ection of my pain on her face as she stared into the pain in mine. I couldn’t move the fi ngers on my left hand, and today was Friday.

I realized no one would come to help me and therefore began immediate action.

“

”-Matthew Hill

14 Eagle Eye

It was my mom’s birthday, July 14, 2007, during the prime of my high school

baseball career. This is a date that would physically and memorably change my life forever. I was a 5 foot, 8-inch junior going into my senior year. I was a left-handed outfi elder and pitcher, contact hitter and aggressive base runner. That summer, my 60-yard sprint time was 6.89 seconds; I had a bat-ting average over .350 and an earned run average on the mound of 2.16. I was tearing it up. However, that was about to change. Our team was in the quarterfi nal round of the Dizzy Dean Baseball World Series in Starkville, Miss. We were two wins away from being in the championship game. I was having the best summer of my life, along with some of my other teammates.

We had just dominated a tournament in Kentucky two weeks before where we run-ruled the opposing team in the fi nal game. In Starkville, we were at a local high school, playing on their fi eld. The winners would advance to the semifi nals, and then the winners of those would play in the championship game on Dudy Noble Field, home of the D-1, SEC, Mississippi State Bulldogs. Our team was down by one run in the fi fth inning and trying to make something happen so we could come back, get the win and be one game closer to playing on the college fi eld. I came up to bat with a runner on fi rst and one out. I got a pitch that I liked and roped it at the second baseman. Luckily for

me, but then again, not, it had rained earli-er that day, so the dirt was a little chunky. The ball took a bad hop and hit the second baseman in the face, bloodying his nose and forcing him to leave the game. Not only did the bad hop knock him out of the game, it also kept the shortstop and him from turning a double play on us and end-ing our potentially big inning. The runner on fi rst advanced all the way to third on the misplayed ball but I was stuck at fi rst. The next batter came to the plate with the tying run on third and the go-ahead run, me, on fi rst still with just one out. However, if the pitcher could get a nor-mal ground ball and potentially a double play, that would end the inning, and they would escape with their lead still intact. I couldn’t let that happen. The way that I didn’t allow that to happen was a little un-conventional, but it got the job done. The next pitch was slapped at the short-stop; there’s their potential double play ball. The shortstop made a great backhand play and fi red it over to the second base-man who was about to try to turn the dou-ble play. I dropped down to slide into the second baseman, take him out, and break up the play. Not adjusting my slide for the muddy conditions of the fi eld, the spikes of my cleat dug down into the dirt and stuck. My slide had just begun. My momentum carried me over my stuck cleat with my foot still inside it. My tibia and fi bula made one of the most disgust-ingly loud breaking sounds I’ve heard in all of my sporting days. I let out a loud yell and laid my head back to take a deep breath before I looked. I looked down and my lower leg was abnormally crooked, so I picked up my leg with my hands to straighten it out, and my foot just dangled there like a limp noodle hanging off the side of a plate of spaghetti.

Story by CALLEN HARRELL

Layout by CASEY WOODARD

ing One for the Team

Break

Photography by KIMBERLY MANNING (Right) and ALYSSA ADKISSON (Bottom)

15Fall 2013

Sure, I broke my leg and grossed out the second baseman, but they didn’t turn their double play. I could hear the crowd and teammates’ shock when they saw my leg as I held it up in the air for that brief moment. My coaches ran out onto the fi eld to check on me. I looked up at my fi rst base coach and said, “Coach Harrod, I think I broke my leg.” He laughed a little and re-plied, “No shit. Rub some dirt on it.” He immediately clarifi ed that he was kid-ding about rubbing the dirt on my broken bones. Luckily for me, my dad was in the stands with a Lortab pill in his pocket that he had just in case his back problems started act-ing up during the game. He gave me that while I lay on the fi eld waiting for the paramedics to come. The medics showed up, cut off my brand new cleat, my brand new sock and cut my pants up to my thigh to increase my blood fl ow and see if I was still getting a pulse in my foot. Once inside the ambulance, the paramed-ics strapped me down and shot an IV into my arm without any warning. I looked at

the guy and said, “My leg is the body part in shock, not my arm.” He just chuck-led, apologized and then told me I would thank him in about 30 seconds.

Once at the hospital, the x-rays were the most painful part of the experience, twisting my ankle and leg to get different angled looks at just how and where it was broken. My dad called my mom on the way to the hospital and said, “Happy birthday, hon-ey. I’ve got some good and bad news. The

good news is that the boys won the game. The bad news is that we’re on our way to the hospital because Callen broke his leg.” My mom left my younger brother back in Lebanon so she could come down and be with my dad and me during surgery. Dr. Gordon Jones was the man who performed my surgery the next day. He is also the main surgeon for all of Missis-sippi State’s athletic injuries. I was fortu-nate he was there and did such a great job. My family didn’t even have to pay a dime for the medical bills, thanks to the Dizzy Dean Baseball insurance. I now have eight screws and a plate, the arthritis of a 70-year old man and the fl ex-ibility of a steel I-beam in my right ankle. I did return to baseball ahead of sched-ule. I didn’t miss a single game my senior year and even went on to play three years of college baseball. However, I am a lot more careful around strong magnets with my ankle.

Sure I broke my leg and grossed

out the second baseman, but they didn’t turn their double play.

“

”-Callen Harrell

A reenactment of when Harrell broke his leg. Although the cost was high, his sacrifi ce helped his team win the game.

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