Trail Running is the Shit

September 15, 2018

Today was my first ever trail run and I loved it. If you know me at all, you’re aware of my running background, so no need to go into the history except to say I’ve been a road runner all my life. Pavement or sidewalks. Asphalt running paths. Smooth terrain for the most part, at least during the non-winter months. Running in the snow and ice is a different story for another time!

Anyway, today I went to Theo Wirth Park and realized very quickly that I had no idea who Theo Wirth was. So I looked him up just now and learned he was a park-designing big-shot in Minneapolis, and across the U.S. Good for Theo, and hey, thanks for designing so many parks!

So on a very hot and humid morning I set off and got lost within the first 10 minutes. I was running at a comfortable pace among a winding series of shaded trails that would often run side by side with each other, or split into two or sometimes three trails, only to converge at some point later on and feed back into a single trail that was in fact sending you in the opposite direction you thought you were going, just before circling 180 degrees and winding you back in your original direction only to split into two paths once again. Yeah, confusing. But so much fun.

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There were lots of rocky inclines like this….

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…and this.

I used no timer or headphones and praised myself for this decision almost immediately. Instead of loud rock and roll, I focused on the sounds of insects and wildlife and the peaceful singing of my suddenly noiseless mind. It also helped to be a able to hear approaching cyclists because we share these narrow paths and they come at you fast and seemingly out of nowhere. I heard one coming behind me and quickly jumped off the path. Instead of him shouting “ON YOUR LEFT!” or speeding by me close enough to brush my clothing, he calmly said, “Thanks man, enjoy the rest of your run.”

Huh. Not at all like city running. I think I like this.

The running part wasn’t about speed or pace or heart rate or any of that stuff but more about watching where you plant your feet, maintaining your balance and slowing down when you need to slow down – very much like running in snow, ice or wintry slush. I stumbled a few times. I crossed a tiny bridge a little too fast and nearly lost my footing. I tripped on a few rocks but I didn’t crash – yet. I got used to all of it very quickly and fell in love with the scenery. Thick, green foliage spotted with September leaves beginning to turn. A quiet lake over here, insects buzzing around a tiny pond over there. Sunlight cutting through the leaves and a cool breeze soothing me when I’d hit the shade. At one point I rounded a corner and found myself running through what was probably the set of the Lord of the Rings.

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I started calling these “Frodo bridges” because they were narrow and built for tiny hobbit feet.

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Get off the path, you fools!

Half expecting a Black Rider of Sean Astin to emerge slowly from the trees, I picked up speed and found myself on a nice sprint that made me feel like Princess Leia hunting stormtroopers on a speeder bikes from Return of the Jedi.

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That was me.

At another point I found a set of steep steps that climbed up and up to who knows where, so I figured why not, let’s see where they go! I was half expecting to find a 60-year old Luke Skywalker waiting at the top but instead I found more trails. More options. Do I go this way, or that?

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The Jedi Steps are steeper than they look!

I quickly lost track of where I was and relied on the sun to guide me. It was about 9:00am so I knew as long as the sun was to my right I was heading north-ish and away from where I parked my car. Figured the best way to get back was to just turn around and run with the sun on my left. Didn’t really work because the path was so twisting and overlapping and shaded and crossing other paths or opening into 3 different paths that I just enjoyed being lost and figured I’d find my way back eventually. Which I did.

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Here’s the first time I was lost.

After about 45 minutes I KNEW I was heading back toward the car and had about two miles to go. I just knew it. I ran through a field and then found a path and turned south, with the sun on my left. Easy. No problem. Until I arrived at an intersection I had been at roughly 20 minutes ago. Yeah, I just made a huge circle. The kind of stuff you see in wilderness movies when people are lost in the wild. One big circle. No idea how it happened but there I was, right back where I was before. But in this case, there is no danger of freezing to death or starving or being eaten by a giant bear or Ethan Hawke. Just follow a path, any path, and you’ll eventually reach a road. So I simply turned around and headed back the other way!

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Lost again! Full circle and heading the wrong direction.

Eventually I made it back to my car and checked my watch. I had been running for a little over an hour and my legs told me I had gone about 6 miles so I figured hey, I’m feeling good so I ate a banana, drank a Gatorade, squeezed the sweat out of my shirt (hey, it was about 95 degrees in the sun!) refilled my water bottle and went back out for another 45 minutes or so. Figured I did about 10 miles total. I hit the same trails I did before and STILL managed to take a few wrong turns. Just when you think it’s time to jump off one trail and switch to another, your new trail winds back around and connects with the original trail you were on meaning, yeah, you just made yet another circle.

It was great though. Never once thought about my pace. Never once heard the usual urban sound of traffic, or had to deal with stoplights or drivers who aren’t watching for runners, or avoid speedy cyclists who think they’re the shit. Because they’re not the shit. Trail running is the shit.

I quickly and enthusiastically exchanged messaged with a few of my “trail running friends” (who are also unknowingly my trail running mentors and coaches) and told them that I finally see why they run trails. I understand. I get it now! I’m sold. And I’m in it for the long haul, so move aside Frodo, and thanks for doing so, enjoy the rest of your walk.

Mark McGinty‘s work has appeared in Maybourne Magazine, Montage Magazine, Minneapolis Running and Yahoo! Entertainment. His novel The Cigar Maker won a Bronze Medal at the 2011 Independent Publisher Book Awards. Mark lives in Minneapolis with his wife and daughter.

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Ragnar Great River 2018: An Ultra Running Experience

August 19, 2018

An Ultra Ragnar can be defined with two words: completely unnecessary. A regular Ragnar is hard enough. 15-18 miles of running over a weekend, broken into three legs with little to no sleep, packed into a pair of vans with 11 other runners. Dealing with heat and humidity and nighttime running in the wee hours. Why would anyone want to make that twice as bad?

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But because we were all Ragnar veterans, we figured we could run twice the miles with half the team. Easily! (it wasn’t east at all) One van instead of two. Six runners instead of twelve. 30-35 miles of running apiece, with no chance to stop and sleep. No chance to stop for a meal. Running and driving all the way through for 203 miles. No time to park and gather sleeping bags to bed down for a few hours. Try to sleep in the van if you can. Eat whatever you manage to gather, and the team never eats together, except the final dinner the night before the race and some pizza and cheesecake at the end! Make the most of what you have.

It was the toughest thing I’ve ever accomplished, both physically and mentally.

My distances were 13.2 miles, 14.3 miles and 10.1 miles. 37.6 miles in total, in a period of  36 hours. Two runs took place in mid-day 85 degree heat, the 14.3 was a 1:00am run in a cool, thick fog. I slogged through all these distances, at a much slower pace than I normally run, dealing with some pretty steep hills and winding roads and some pretty bad heat. But despite the challenge of the heat and hills, the toughest part of the race were the miles. So many miles. Just miles and miles and miles of running that never seemed to end. And then more miles and even more miles. It just went on and on and on.

39278299_10100425250482004_8868768387161915392_nThere were times I wanted to quit and just walk my way to the finish. There were many times I DID walk, to catch my breath and lower my heart rate, or to help myself climb a steep hill. I had every pocket packed with nutrition and salt tablets and gels (even a small zip-lock bag filled with pickles) but I could not have completed this mileage without a fantastic team, The Ultra Butter squad, stopping every few miles to refill my fluids, dump a cold bottle of water over my head, or just cheer me on.

Double the Training

Training for an ultra Ragnar was a bit different than training for a regular Ragnar. When training for a normal Ragnar, where my total distance might be 15 or 17 miles, I would run an average of 20 miles a week. Sometimes as little as 15 a week, and usually no more than 25. And my longest distance was maybe 10 or 12 miles. If you can run 10 miles at once you can handle a Ragnar.

But an ultra is a different story. Double the mileage meant double the training. I peaked at 45 miles a week and once I started building my distances, never did less than 25 a week and would do back to back weekend long runs to mimic my actual distances. 13 miles on Saturday morning followed by 14 miles the following Sunday morning.

At first I thought of training as if I were running a marathon, but I quickly decided it made no sense to run distances of 18 or 20 miles on a Saturday and then rest on Sunday. Ragnar would be nothing like that in terms of distance or rest periods. Better to train for how you’d run the race and I found back to back long runs to be a great way to train.

8 months of training. Over 800 miles ran in every type of condition, including rain, heat and snow. By the time I got to Rangar, my mind and body were ready!

 

 

The Race to Top All Races

The race got underway at 5:30am Friday morning with Peder running both legs 1 and 2 for an opening stint of over 15 miles. This would be the longest run of Peder’s life and he was able to glide on through that first exchange point and hand off to Corinne at the start of the third leg. It was kind of cool at the first exchange to see the other teams look around in confusion as Peder flew through the chute without handing off to another runner and just keep going. Everyone else was handing off to their next runner so who were these turkeys who just kept running? “Oh, they must be an ultra team,” people would say. A few times random runners would come up to me to tell me how insane we were to be running an ultra. And outside of running, people often tell me that running Ragnar is crazy, but when other Ragnar runners are telling me that I’m crazy I know I’m in uncharted territory. It makes you feel like a bit of a badass but you also realize you’re doing something potentially dangerous (and definitely unnecessary).

39441989_10216867606140124_9128341186736553984_nCorinne took the bracelet from Peder and ran her first leg of about 11 miles as the sun started to come out and bring the heat. While standing at the exchange after leg 4, next to those railroad tracks and that huge smokestack, I began to think about the heat. I hate running in the heat, but had been training in it for months.

Not really understanding what I was getting into, I started to get nervous for not really my first run, which would be a half marathon, but the following two runs which would amount to nearly an additional full marathon. Sure, it felt cool to impress other teams with our ambition, but deep down I was worried that my legs and body simply would not allow me to get through the miles. Would the heat get to me and knock me out? Would my legs just shutdown? Would I get injured and be forced out of the race?

None of those things happened to me, but unfortunately our third runner Denise, one of the strongest runners I know, finished her 15 mile leg, handed off to Troy at the first major exchange, and then started limping. “I felt something pop,” she said as we handed her water and Gatorade.

“What do you mean?”

“In my foot,” she explained as she limped towards the van. “I’ll need to go to the First Aid tent.” Right away I told myself to think positive and hope it was only a minor sprain that would fix itself by the next time Denise would have to run again, in roughly 9 or 10 hours. But my realistic brain knew we needed to start thinking about running the rest of the distance with just 5 runners.39344118_10216871722523031_4897832712670281728_n

How would this be possible? “We’ll figure it out,” Peder said. “Let’s just get through these next few miles and see what they say at the First Aid tent.” But in the meantime, our driver Ali, plus Corinne and Amanda tended to Denise, iced her foot and got her ankle taped up while I prepared for my first run.

As I got ready to head to the chute and take the bracelet from Troy, Amanda emerged from the van and told me, “It’s bad. I don’t think she’s going to be able to run.” And I thought crap. Denise is one of the toughest and most determined people I know and if anyone tells her she is not going to be able to run it would probably just strengthen her resolve. Yet if an injury forced Denise out of the race, I knew that injury would have to be serious. I figured best case is Denise skips her next leg and rests for about 18 hours or so and is able to run her last leg.

Couldn’t think about it now because here comes Troy so into the chute and out I go for a 13.2 mile run in 2:00pm 85 degree heat – 5 miles up one of the tallest, steepest hills of the course (on loose gravel) plus an 8 mile journey along un-shaded blacktop. It was as terrible as it sounds and by the time I finished and handed off to Amanda, I was completely dehydrated. Mouth dry, body unable to produce any sweat, legs and body just shot, flaked bits of salt speckling my face and legs. Nothing to do now but re-hydrate, clean up and rest for the next leg.

“How is Denise?” I remember asking someone after my first leg only to hear the worst news. “She’s done.”

Well then how are we going to finish an ultra Ragnar with only 5 runners?

It turned out to be a stress fracture. 6 weeks in a boot at least. I knew Denise was devastated. I certainly would have been if I had trained as much as she did only to get injured on my first leg. I also knew Denise would not want us to quit the race because she was hurt. We were already a third of the way through and if we could figure out how to cover the last of Denise’s legs, we’d be able to finish.

When I finally had the chance to talk to Denise we hugged, because there were just no words. This was the fourth Ragnar we’ve done together. I know how hard she trains and knew, even before I talked to her, how disappointed she was. I told her I didn’t know what to say, and that nothing I could say would make it better. Just no words. The 15 miles she ran on her first leg was as much as any of the other runners would do throughout all of Ragnar! But she wasn’t training for that, she was going for a full 35. I knew no one felt worse about her injury than she did. She felt like she had let us down but I told her Ragnar was a team event and that the team would pull together and figure this out.

 

 

So that’s exactly what we did. Our driver Ali, who had brought running shoes and clothes just in case, suited up for a 4 miler* while Peder, Corinne, Amanda and Troy took on additional miles. That meant four of us would be running at least 35 mile in total with Amanda taking on an amazing 42 miles – the most she had ever run. The most ANY of us had ever run.

“Are we going to be able to do this thing?” Denise asked me a little while later. I honestly didn’t know because we were one small injury away from a DNF. And we needed to hold it together for another 125 miles!! This was no joke. The sun was starting to set but it was still hot and the weather called for more hot sun the following day.

The goal became to just finish the race no matter how slow we had to go. Walk/run, drink tons of water, stop and sit down if you have to. But just finish.

39441986_10216880926593127_6591340550866075648_nAli had been driving for hours and needed a break so I took over for awhile, then Peder. We made it through our night miles. We stopped often to refill water and check in on the runners. We slept when we could. Denise took over navigation duties while Ali got back in the driver’s seat. I ran my 14.3 miles at night. It was cool and foggy and I was in the middle of nowhere. The physical run was tough but this one put a lot of stress on my mind. At one point I started seeing things: shadows moving in the night, van lights shining into the fog, the reflection of headlamps and blinking tail lights in my glasses. A badger would run towards me and I’d jump out of the way only to realize it was just a passing shadow.  A bird would swoop by and I’d duck only to realize it was just my headlamp reflecting into the fog. I had to convince myself that I was just seeing shadows and reflection. I had to recognize I needed to take control of my mind. I basically had to talk myself out of going crazy.

But I finished that leg, finally, and then took my shoes off and stepped into the St. Croix River. The warm water felt great around my sore feet. I got back in the van and tried to sleep. I think I did.

39752066_10216887428875680_2772321825298841600_nWe cycled through the rest of our legs, mile after mile, hill after grueling hill. With the hot sun rising and beating down on us throughout Saturday afternoon, I summoned every ounce of guts I had left for my third run, and pushed through a 10.1 mile journey into downtown St. Paul. That was a tough one. Heat, sun, hills and fatigue all put together into one last run. I got a little emotional near the end realizing that we were close to finishing. Thinking about all the training I had done, all the wishes of encouragement from my friends and family, the positive thoughts I carried, that feeling that I can do more than I think I can.

I felt tremendous pride making it through my 37.6 miles. I reached the end of my last leg, handed the slap bracelet off to Amanda for the final leg of our journey and collapsed into the grass. I really felt it at that point. The pain, the triumph, the relief at being done. As I caught my breath and my team gathered around to pour cold water over me I looked up at them and realized they were the reason I had made it through.

“Have you lost weight since the last time we saw you?” Denise asked. Which was roughly two hours earlier. The answer was probably yes, around 3 or 4 pounds of pure fluids.

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Roughly two hours later, we gathered at the end as Amanda completed her last leg (a half marathon in sweltering afternoon heat!) and trotted through the finish line.

 

 

Now That It’s All Over

Ragnar taught me I can run when I’m sore, I can run when I’m tired, I can run when I don’t feel like running, in extreme heat or in the middle of the night, but when I run in these conditions, I can still have a great run. Apply this to any aspect of life. You can work when you don’t feel well, or be a parent when you’re tired, or take care of something you don’t feel like taking care of. And you can still do it well.

But Ultra Ragnar taught me I can do much more than I ever thought I was capable of, and that the people around me can also do more than they think. Can push themselves in directions they never expected to achieve. And that the people around you, your teammates and friends are the ones you need to make it possible.

People often ask me, “Why do you do these crazy races, Mark? WHY?!!?” This is not about setting goals, or achieving the things you set out to do, though those are a big factors. It’s not about teamwork, even though teamwork is the key to Ragnar.

It’s about being that person you never thought you could be. But more importantly, it’s  about the people that running brings into your life. I still have friends who I met 5 Ragnars ago. And even though I don’t see them as much as I’d like to, it’s these crazy races that have brought all these crazy people into my life. And because of that, I am better off.

But this Ultra Ragnar business….?? There is no way I’m ever doing it again. That shit was completely unnecessary.

*At the finish line we informed race officials that we used a 7th runner Ali to cover one of Denise’s legs and they awarded Ali a medal and a T-shirt.

Mark McGinty‘s work has appeared in Maybourne Magazine, Montage Magazine, Minneapolis Running and Yahoo! Entertainment. His novel The Cigar Maker won a Bronze Medal at the 2011 Independent Publisher Book Awards. Mark lives in Minneapolis with his wife and daughter


The Tragedy of Hungry Howie’s – Part II

June 12, 2018

Hungry-Howies_company_fullIt was a simple plan really. It required three things: 1) a dozen water balloons, 2) a big garbage can full of water, and 3) another pizza delivery from Hungry Howie’s. There may have been a few eggs involved but I don’t remember if any of us had any eggs. Maybe we just talked about eggs. And looking back, what college kid has a dozen eggs? They certainly would have come in useful!  

Other than Tyler and I, I remember at least two and possibly as many as four other guys being involved in these hijinks. My good friend Matt, who I am still friends with to this day, this guy Aaron, maybe this other guy Steve, and a different Tyler who lived down the hall. I can’t remember everyone exactly but there were enough “other guys” to form a small crew. Like something from a George Clooney movie only not as polished and also broke as fuck. Idiots 5 or something like that. And we all went along with this dumb plan because what else did we have to do? It was Sunday and none of us had homework or jobs to go to. We needed something to kill the time.

We devised our revenge, we idiots from that wing of Smith Hall who happened to be around that day. Just a crew of jerkwads who were going to take out their frustrations (really, did we have any legitimate frustrations?) on some poor pizza delivery guy who had nothing to do with screwing up our order. And always remember, we ate every last bite.

The important part of this operation was where we positioned that garbage can full of water. And I’m not talking about the small waste paper basket in your dorm room, but the larger streetcorner trash barrel, the 55 gallon sucker where you dumped all your empty beer cases and liquor bottles. We emptied that thing our and filled it almost all the way to the top with water. Don’t think we rinsed it out or anything. It was about 50 gallons of gross, ice-cold garbage water.

It was Florida, so everything was outside. The stairs that led from the parking lot to the first floor of the dorms, the walkway that turned left and headed to the stairs that went up to the second floor, and a concrete landing at the top of the stairs that led into the building. Even the callbox, a small rectangular box with a dial pad you’d use to call certain dorm rooms using a 4-digit code (we all had actual plug-in telephones in those days!) All of this was outside and all of this was accessible by pizza-delivery guys. They’d usually park in front of the building, walk up the stairs, take a left and GO UNDER THE SECOND FLOOR LANDING and head to the callbox to phone the correct room.

At that second-floor landing is where we placed that garbage bin. It was the perfect trap. Just as he turned left to head to the callbox he’d be smashed with a freezing waterfall and then the water balloons would come out as he retreated soaking wet to his car. “How funny will it be?” Tyler snickered. “Good old delivery man will return to Hungry Howie’s soaking wet to tell his manager that the boys at Smith Hall got him back for not fixing that crummy pizza order!”

It was just way too funny to him but we all went along with it because we were stupid dumb idiots who thought ‘why the fuck not?’

More about this guy Tyler who I knew for just a few months.  

Tyler and I did not get along as roommates. We eventually got into a huge fight a few weeks after the pizza incident because he decided to move two rooms down the hall yet REFUSED to relinquish the key to what was now my room. So for two or three days, Tyler was back and forth between two dorm rooms. I couldn’t tell if he was still moving out or exactly where he’d be. Coming into my room to get his laundry, or hanging out two rooms away in his new room, or coming in to grab shaving cream. I couldn’t figure out exactly what the fuck was going on except that Tyler basically had two dorm rooms: his regular room and a storage closet where I happened to live. I was having it no more! I remember Matt (my good friend Matt who I bonded with almost instantly) sitting in my room during my final confrontation with Tyler. Matt’s presence was an act of support meant to show Tyler that the people of Smith Hall were on my side. It was a gesture I never really thanked Matt for but have appreciated ever since.

“Tyler, you moved out,” I said. “It’s time to turn over the key.”

Matt say on the recliner across the room, listening quietly. Of course Tyler got pretty pissy about my demand for the keys. “I’m still moving my stuff out! Why you getting so pissy?”

“Because you have two fucking rooms. So pick one and stay there. If you don’t live here, you can’t have a key.” He threw a fit about it or acted like I was unreasonable, I don’t exactly remember. But I do remember earlier that day taking what remained of his stuff, which I believe amounted to one laundry basket with a pile of unwashed clothes, and placing it in the hall where it sat for several hours.

Well, you see I wasn’t Tyler’s only enemy. Someone else who lived in that dorm saw Tyler’s stuff in the hallway and spat and big glob of chew onto those dirty clothes. And tried to make it as obvious as possible that it was no accident. Tyler was livid!

“Someone spat tobacco juice all over my fucking clothes that YOU put in the hallway!” he yelled at me.

“Then maybe you should have put them in YOUR room!”

Tyler was obviously blaming me for the unnamed citizen who heroically spat chew on his clothes. But hey, it happened in the hallway so it was out of my jurisdiction and Tyler knew it. In a bout of frustrated defeat, Tyler yanked the dorm room key off his keychain and threw it at me before storming out of the room. I now had a room to myself for the rest of the year and an extra key. Matt rolled his eyes, shook his head. But Tyler was gone. He would drop out of college a few weeks later.    

I tell you this not because I need to show that Tyler was eventually bested, though I guess that’s part of it. Nor to show that he was a bad person, because he wasn’t. This only illustrates that Tyler, while a central person in this story, was not a hero doing a heroic deed. But that he was just a young kid trying to find his place and fit in. It was just weeks into our freshman year. None of us even really knew each other. We were just four or five kids who, through coincidence and proximity, found ourselves engaging in an act that would (while stupid) somehow make us closer and provide a sense of belonging and inclusion that any young kid away from home would want.  

I wasn’t doing this to get back at Hungry Howie’s. None of us were. We were doing this because we thought we would make friends. I think that, deep down, the other boys in the group probably felt the same.

Back to Operation Pizza Guy.

We fucked it up. Not even close to what we planned.

Tyler called Hungry Howie’s and ordered another pizza, but that was about the only thing we got right. Then we all got into position. I was on lookout, right at the top of the stairs that pizza guy would climb after he parked. I would be able to see him coming and then signal up to Tyler and Matt, who were ready to tip the garbage bin from the second floor landing. Around the far corner of the building, beyond the callbox, Aaron and the rest of the gang were armed with a bucket of water balloons. I also had a small armory of water balloons that I could fire from my spot once the guy made it back to his car.

We were all set for an onslaught of water and adolescent revenge. So we waited.

And waited. And eventually a tiny red Ford Escort rolled into the lot and parked in place just before the stairs. Just as planned. I don’t know why the rest went so wrong. Maybe we weren’t watching for the pizza guy and just weren’t ready. Maybe he moved too fast. But when he arrived, he didn’t even go to the callbox. He was unfamiliar with the setup of our dorm rooms and wasn’t sure where to bring the pizza. I remember him wandering this way and that. Didn’t he know he was supposed to just walk under the landing and go to the callbox? Then everything would work out as planned!

But no, he didn’t. I think he may have knocked on a completely different door. And he did eventually walk under the landing, the big water bin was heavier than expected and it took the guys too long to turn it on its side. Water came crashing down, but pizza guy had long since cleared the landing and was already on the other side. In fact, the water dumpage was such a colossal miss that when the water crashed down and splashed onto the pavement, I don’t think he even noticed.

He eventually found the callbox and rang our room, but there was nobody there to pick up. Sensing something was amiss, the pizza guy turned around and walked away, probably hearing our frustrated whispering to each other as we tried to salvage the operation.

Our water balloon men were grossly out of position. I personally didn’t fire a single shot. The guy eventually made his way back to his car, set the pizza in the front seat, got in and started to drive away. Aaron ran out to the parking lot and launched a single water balloon as he drove away, only to see the balloon splatter uselessly onto the pavement behind the escaping car.

I was appalled. One water balloon? That splashed uselessly in the parking lot, probably unnoticed. It was like waiting for a hurricane only to get 10 minutes of cloudy skies. Frustrated and disappointed, we regrouped back in the dorm room and debriefed our miserable failure.

“We weren’t ready, we just have to time it better next time.” One person said.

“We need a backup plan in case he takes a different route to the door,” said someone else.

We had different ideas for our specific tactics but we all agreed we were going to try it again and get it right this time.  Tyler picked up the phone and called Hungry Howie’s.

“I’d like to order a small cheese pizza please,” he said while we all watched. “Smith Hall,” he said. Holding the phone at his ear, Tyler squinted at what he heard. “What do you mean you’re not doing anymore deliveries to Smith Hall?” He listened for a moment then said, “Well then fuck you!” and hung up.

“What did he say?” we all wondered.

Tyler sighed. “He said they’re not delivering pizzas to Smith Hall anymore today because that last driver mentioned some complaints about…water?”

We were crushed. No more pizza deliveries today? What were we going to do? We had our second strike all planned out. The failure of the first would only make the second more precise. We knew what to expect now. We had this shit DOWN, and now Hungry Howie’s was pulling out of the operation and messing up all our plans. We had so many water balloons left over. And an weapon unused is a useless weapon.

We all sat there dumbfounded and disappointed.

“What do we do now?”

“Easy,” Tyler said as he reached for the phone book. “We order from Domino’s.”

We looked at each other. We nodded. It was on.

To be continued…


The Tragedy of Hungry Howie’s – Part I

June 9, 2018

Hungry-Howies_company_full.jpgThis is probably the worst thing you could ever do to a pizza guy. In fact, it might be the worst thing I’ve ever done to a person. And looking back, in the grand scheme of all the horrible things that have happened in the world, it’s not like I started a dumb, pointless war, or went on a 5-state killing spree. Not yet. But I still feel pretty bad about this one, I really do. No, it’s not a war or a murder or even a crime. I mean, I guess one could argue that there were a few petty violations of the law, even a case for assault, and most definitely an example of civil disobedience but at the time, I placed it in the category called Typical Crap That College Kids Find Themselves Doing on a Boring Sunday Afternoon When They Should Be Doing Homework But Are Slackers Instead.

You may know the category I speak of, or one like it. There is a similar category for working-world adults called Typical Crap Adults Find Themselves Doing on a Boring Tuesday When They Should Be Working But Are Bored. These things might be playing games on your phone, going for a walk, surfing the web, or staring blankly out the window.

Sure, there is always better shit to do, but on that particular Sunday a certain situation presented itself and we took full advantage, amusing ourselves to no end.

And here I am in my early 40’s still thinking about what our boredom meant for that poor pizza guy with the bushy brown hair and pizza-delivery-man jacket. I honestly can’t remember much else about him other than his hair and jacket, but what I do remember is that there were two pizza places that delivered to our dorm Smith Hall at Stetson University in Florida. National chain Domino’s Pizza and small local player Hungry Howie’s. Having multiple pizza options will be important later in the story.

Allow me to set the stage. I was a freshman at that small university in Central Florida and it was early in the first semester, September or October I believe. I can pinpoint the time because my roommate Tyler was a key player in this story, and he lasted all of two months before dropping out and doing whatever life called him to do at that moment. So I know it happened within those first couple of months. Anyway, it was Sunday, we were bored and hungry, so we ordered a pizza from Hungry Howie’s. Hungry Howie’s because they were close to the college and gave poor college kids a deal. It was like $8 for two pizzas or something. Plus $2 for tip. A couple college kids could usually scrounge up $10 for two pizzas so it was a good deal.

I don’t remember if the pizzas were just for Tyler and me, or if our neighbors in the next dorm room were in on the deal, but there are two important things here: 1) several college guys were involved and 2) Hungry Howie’s screwed up our order. But what did we do? We ate the pizza anyway and once we were finished with all of it, only then did Tyler call to complain. Who is so bored to call and complain about a pizza after eating the pizza? Couldn’t we have just played video games or put on some TV? Well, no because none of us had a video game system and what kind of TV was worth watching on Sunday afternoon before Netflix?

I distinctly remember not being behind this complaint call to Hungry Howie’s. It was completely Tyler’s idea but did I try and stop him? Well, no because I thought it was pointless and wouldn’t lead to anything. Boy was I wrong! As expected, the manager told us to bring back the pizzas and he would give us a refund, and as expected Tyler, the smart man that he was that day, told the manager we had already eaten the pizzas. So of course the manager said “Too bad, hope you enjoyed the pizza, go away.” Of course there would be no refund! It was obvious. Time to move on.

But what happened next took my Sunday on a twist that I never expected, and on a course that quickly got out of hand. Tyler declared war on Hungry Howie’s. You have to know a few things about Tyler. You see, Tyler felt easily slighted and personally offended over the smallest things. His father was a doctor who lived in a big mansion near the campus and many of us wondered why Tyler would ever move away from there to live in the dorms just two blocks away. Tyler answered, “Dorm life’s cool!”

And he declared this during the first week of school, which made me wonder how a college freshman of one-week with no older sibling could know anything about dorm life? Tyler was just that kind of a character. I remember he called me over the summer before school started, at my home in Minnesota before we ever met, after our roommate assignments had been handed out. He saw I would be his roommate so he decided to call and get to know me first. A friendly and thoughtful gesture. I remember on that phone call he told me, “We need to have a fridge in our dorm room. We need to keep the beer cold, right?”

So I bought a fridge and brought it to the room, proudly showing it to Tyler on Day One to declare, “To keep the beer cold!” But Tyler surprised me by dismissing the gesture with a casual, “Oh, I don’t drink.”

“Huh?” I remember thinking. Why hype up a beer-fridge if you don’t even drink? Are you just trying to fit in? I knew from Day One that Tyler was a bullshit artist. But what could I do but enjoy my fridge (I still own that fridge and almost 25 years years later, it’s still in perfect operation). So Tyler would just say shit and do shit, because he had nothing better to say or do. In just a few short months, Tyler would disappear from my life forever but my memory of him is based almost entirely around that war he started against Hungry Howie’s discount pizza joint in DeLand, Florida…

To be continued….

Mark McGinty‘s work has appeared in Maybourne Magazine, Montage Magazine, Minneapolis Running and Yahoo! Entertainment. His novel The Cigar Maker won a Bronze Medal at the 2011 Independent Publisher Book Awards. Mark lives in Minneapolis with his wife and daughter. 

 


Why We (Still) Hide Cookies From My Dad

May 1, 2018

This is mostly a true story. If my dad doesn’t know about all this, people will be mad. 

My mom used to have to hide cookies from my dad, otherwise he would eat all of them before anyone else had a chance to. To my knowledge, she does this to this day even though the kids have moved out of the house and it’s now just the two of them living in retirement. I guess he’d still eat all the cookies if only he knew there were some in the house.

She had a secret hiding spot in the dining room, under a spare chair that rested against the wall just outside the kitchen. We hardly ever used this dining room – for anything. Maybe for Thanksgiving dinner, or Christmas. But usually we just ate in the kitchen. We didn’t even use that room to store things, or to work or read. It was just a an unused dining room, with silverware hidden away and a decanter that was seemingly empty every time I saw it. And this room wasn’t on the way to any other rooms, so there was never really any reason to go into it. It was just tucked away in the back corner, clean and unused, waiting to entertain the upper-middle class souls who every so often decided to fancy things up and actually live the upper-middle class life they worked so hard to maintain. I remember it was always quiet in that dining room. It had a good view of the backyard and acres of undeveloped woods beyond, and was nice in the winter when the snow covered the grass and small groups of deer wandered by to eat our bushes. But other than for the view, and the occasional holiday dinner, I never went into that room.

Unless I wanted a cookie.

It was a secret I kept with my mother the entire time I lived in that house – I left for college after high school – and have not spoken of until now. She knew that I loved cookies. What child didn’t? Vienna fingers. Chocolate chip. Oreo. And even her special Christmas cookies that she made every year. She knew how much I loved those things. And she also knew that my dad would devour every last one as quickly as his teeth would chomp before anyone else even knew they existed. He had set records for how quickly he could go through a package of cookies. So fast that the dad to kid cookie consumption ratio was roughly fifty to one. And he’d often be scolded for eating all the cookies. “Jerry!” he mother would snap. “You ate the entire package and I only had two!” And Jerry would shrug his shoulders and mumble something about how she shouldn’t be buying them in the first place and that they needed to set a better example by only consuming fruits and vegetables. Then he’d open the pantry and search for whatever remained of the potato chip bag he had nearly crushed by himself the night before.

So my mother would wink at me and nod and when my father would disappear to bed, or would go to work, or be out playing racquetball, she’d inform me that there was a fresh pack of cookies under that spare chair in the dining room and that I could go in there and get one whenever I wanted. “I bought you some Vienna Fingers,” she’d say. “Don’t tell your father,” (as if I needed the reminder).

Sometimes she would leave half a box of cookies in the kitchen as a decoy so that Jerry would be tricked into thinking those were the only cookies. He’d usually eat what was there but it wouldn’t matter. “That half box is just to throw him off the trail of the real supply hiding in the next room,” Mom would say.

The secret cookie stash would nearly always be there, regardless of what was in the main pantry in the kitchen. Our supplies could be nearly empty and we’d be in need of a weekly store trip, yet there would still be half a box of Nilla wafers under that chair. She used to place folders and phone books and things there, to disguise the cookies so it just looked like any pile of stuff the father of the house would usually ignore. But he had no reason to ignore it – he simply never went into that room. It was literally the best hiding spot in the house!

And so my mother and brother and I would have our secret lot of cookies that were ours for years and years. When she’d make her famous Christmas cookies, good old Jerry knew there would be plenty of those available for consumption, and Christmas gave him the excuse to overindulge, yet Mom would place a few dozen of them into a secret cookie tin and stick them under that chair. Dad’s attention would be drawn to the cookies in the kitchen – the decoys. Token cookies left in plain view that he was free to eat at will. The REAL stash of Christmas cookies was safe in the next room.

She would use this same trick years later after they retired and lived together in a house in Florida. I didn’t really pick up this until my daughter Avery told me about an interaction she had with her grandparents during a visit to Florida. “Abuela has a container of peanut M&Ms in her office in a little  ashtray. There’s a picture of YOU in the ashtray, Dada,  but Abuela said it’s to make the ashtray look like it’s holding a stack of photos.”

“I put this photo of your father on top,” my mom told my kid. “But underneath, the dish is filled with my own secret stash of peanut M&Ms.” She’d lift the photo to reveal a small stash of peanut M&Ms. 

“Shh, don’t tell your grandfather!”

Because on a shelf at the opposite side of the office, was a big jar of peanut M&Ms. Jerry had one just like it in HIS office at the other end of the house.

“He’ll finish all his M&Ms,” grandma would explain to granddaughter. “And then he comes in here and eats all of mine!”

So she kept a secret stash of M&Ms in the ash tray and made Avery PROMISE not to tell Granddaddy.

And if I’m visiting, she lets me steal an M&M or two too. But I try to stick to the M&Ms in that main jar. I don’t want to take any of Mom’s. She has a hard enough time getting her sugar fix as is it, and doesn’t need me hurting her cause. Yet if I did take an M&M from her secret stash, she wouldn’t hardly get mad. She might fake slap me and tell me to go away. But if my dad went in there and took her last M&M you’d want to steer clear of the house for at least a few hours. She would get so mad at him and yell and start cussing in Spanish. And then Jerry would wander away quietly mumbling that she needed to stop buying those things anyway and then head to the kitchen to see if there were any cookies to be found. There was usually half a box, staged brilliantly, and nothing but a decoy.  

Mark McGinty‘s work has appeared in Maybourne Magazine, Montage Magazine, Minneapolis Running and Yahoo! Entertainment. His novel The Cigar Maker won a Bronze Medal at the 2011 Independent Publisher Book Awards. Mark lives in Minneapolis with his wife and daughter. 


Silent Bus Ride

January 4, 2018

Disclaimer: roughly 95% of this story is true. I won’t tell you which parts aren’t but they’re very minor and only meant to clarify certain moments. This means I’m using real names – but only three of them. And respectfully, I hope. I wasn’t able to track down Efe (pronounced EFF-ee like F-Bomb) to see if he’d approve of this story but my guess is that he’d find it enjoyable. If you find him, let him know he’s been immortalized in this blog post. And if he wants me to take this post down then he’s just a big baby.  

Silent Bus Ride
by Mark McGinty

Efe was crazy. And by crazy I mean crazy funny. Sure, he had his serious side but for the most part, he was a big cut-up. Class clown type of guy. Always doing impressions of famous people, or our teachers. Talked about one day being on Saturday Night Live and probably could have been but like me, and most kids of Generation X, he was more interested in laughing with his friends then pursuing a serious career in acting or comedy.

And this is a story about two things. One: laughter. That uncontrollable laughter that erupts from your body loudly and obnoxiously, before it can be contained, so that it disrupts the people at the next table and causes them to look over to see what is so damn funny. And two: a situation where laughing out loud can have dire, life-altering consequences.

But Efe. He was one funny guy. You could hang out with him for an afternoon and never stop laughing. It was almost like he existed purely to make you laugh. And he knew this. He was one of those guys that at age 16 had already discovered his mission in life – making people laugh. The funniest thing he ever did took place on the silent bus ride to one of our high school football games. Yes, that’s correct – a Silent Bus Ride. For anyone who has not played high school football, allow me to educate you on the extreme reverence we football plays all observed while in transit to this most important high school attraction. Yeah, I know it’s like a multi-billion dollar sport and the Super Bowl is always like the most watched event of all time every single year. But c’mon. I’m talking about high school kids here. Many of whom are playing high school football simply to be part of the team and to get in to all the best, and often most of the worst parties. But there are some elite players who may make a short career out of football or even get a scholarship or make their dads very VERY proud. I recognized at that age, age 16 or so, that I was involved in a sport that is taken very seriously! Almost too seriously at times, but I did my best to respect the game and keep my real opinions to myself.  

Because to guys like Efe and me, high school football was just a convenient way to fit into a larger social group while fooling the casual observer into thinking we were actually in it to experience the allure and adrenaline that came from being under those Friday night lights. Which was pretty cool when there was a large crowd there watching. And there was usually always a large crowd watching, because this is a very serious passtime.  Truth was, Efe and I were minor players and barely saw the playing field. I think I probably played in 3 or 4 games at the varsity level, and only for a few plays at a time or when the score was extremely lopsided. I wasn’t getting a scholarship and I knew that wearing the uniform was enough to make my parents proud. Looking back at it all, I don’t think I ever really cared about the game, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that I did. I cared about the parties, and sitting at the right lunch table and not getting my ass kicked by bullies. I had dealt with that in middle school and figured football was an easy way to inoculate myself from the pain and frustration. It worked, so I followed the rules and acted like I really, truly, honestly cared.

Because a lot of these boys did care. The coaches certainly cared. The rest of the faculty and student body seemed to care. And I know the alumni, the dads and former football players who were writing the donation checks definitely cared. So we took it seriously. All of us did. Even when we didn’t really care. Because not taking it seriously meant you got yelled at (by coaches, other players, fans and those dead-serious alumni), or worse….not taking it seriously could get you kicked off the team, bullied and discharged from society.

And that meant missing out on all those fancy high school parties.

Before each game, after a week of grueling practice that built up to those climactic Friday nights, the entire team would pack into a school bus, seating two players to a seat, and ride to whatever stadium would be illuminated for the big battle. And there was one BIG rule that everyone followed as strictly as any rule I’ve ever encountered. The entire bus ride was to be silent. Not a word could be spoken. It was heads down, eyes closed, locked in deep meditation about your role. Remembering your plays. Talking yourself into a fire, a burning wad of venom ready to douse your opponents and melt them into puddles of chalky Friday night mud. Each and every Silent Bus Ride took place immediately after Coach Slater’s pre-game speech.

Prior to boarding the bus, after we were in our uniforms with pads in place and helmets in hand, we all filed into the school gymnasium – which was almost completely dark – and laid quietly on our backs. I had only seen the gymnasium so dark on the night of parent-teacher conferences, when you’d wander down the dark and empty halls exploring the school that looked so different when it was devoid of children and faculty. No slamming lockers, no shuffling feet, no teasing voices or laughter, no teachers telling us to knock it off, or to “Step lively!” and hurry up and get to class. All classrooms were dark and locked. All lockers were shut. There was no one around. I’d crack open the door to the gym and peer inside, only to see complete darkness. A silence the high school gymnasium has never known.

That’s the gym we all gathered in before each game. Dark and silent and sacred. Like a Catholic church on Monday morning. Just us, the football players, our coaches, and our thoughts. Serious meditation time. Though there were probably 50 of us, as I laid on that floor on my back, surrounded by football pads with my helmet resting beside me, I felt like I was all alone in the dark. Waiting for something to happen. Never knowing that Coach Slater’s weekly pregame speech would end up being, to this day, some of the most memorable moments of my life.

Gone was the yelling, intimidating, authoritarian coach who pranced the field each afternoon, shouting commands at his boys and running us through sprints almost sadistically. Like he wasn’t just training us to play football, but punishing us for the very notion of deciding to be alive at all. That coach that we all feared was gone and in just a few minutes, I understood why this man was so well respected by faculty, alumni and students alike.

His pregame pep talk was nothing but sincere, honest positive reinforcement. There is no speech or lecture in my life that made me feel so good about myself – and I hardly played! It’s the type of speech that I wish could be given before every job interview, before every big presentation, before any high-stakes social event, before any race or physical challenge, and before any evening of love making. We felt SO GOOD about ourselves when we left that gymnasium that I look back wishing it was a feeling everyone in this world could feel just once. I wish I could have felt that way more than just once a week for 10 weeks every fall and I realize that’s a whole lot more positive vibes than many people on this earth will ever feel. I guess high school football is good for one thing: boosting your self-esteem.

Whenever I encounter someone about to embark on such a challenge, be it a job interview or a tough race, I try to replicate Coach Slater’s pep-talk, usually falling way short in the confidence-boosting. He was a natural who really thought it through. His pep-talk was always very detailed. He would call out individual players by name and tell them nothing but how ready they were for the night ahead. And he did it with such nurturing honesty that you believed him. Whether you were ready or not, he convinced you that you were.

And after he was finished, the team silent rose from the gymnasium floor and filed quietly to the bus, speaking not another word until we took the field. I treated my first Silent Bus Ride the way I treated my first communion. It was a serious thing that I needed to take seriously. Speaking a word, making any sound whatsoever would break the collective silence, and could possibly cost us the game. At least, that was the mentality of the Silent Bus Ride. Everything was on the line and you’d better keep your mouth shut and think about what you’re supposed to do on that field – or else. Or else you’d disappoint the team, the fans, your school, your parents and those ever watchful alumni. So I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even look at anyone. I didn’t want to risk it. I kept my head down and my eyes closed and for the first three or four games, I was a model Silent Bus Rider. Like laying in a dark, silent gymnasium, or attending church on Sunday – I pretended like I wasn’t even there.

It worked. For those first three or four games, I was as silent as the rest of them. No distractions. Total concentration. I was focused. I was ready. I was IN THE ZONE.

Until one day, one unforgettable Silent Bus Ride, when I sat next to Efe.

We filed in quietly as usual with the rest of the team. I remember the coaches, captains and star players tended to sit in the front half while juniors and B-team players sat in the rear. Efe and I were of course, almost all the way to the back row. We took our seats without saying a word and I think I kept my eyes forward and observed the rest of the players in their silent meditation as the bus pulled away from our high school and took to the road.

Having no clue what Efe had in store, I glanced over and saw him making an unusual movement in his seat. He appeared to be glancing over the top of the seat in front of him as if he were looking to see if anyone was watching. Then with a quick motion, Efe loosened the string that kept his pants tight, where the zipper would normally be, reached down the front of his pants and pulled out….I couldn’t believe it…a wrapped McDonald’s hamburger.

Immediately I thought of several things. There were so many questions I wanted to ask but couldn’t. So many thing I needed to say but due to the present rules and restrictions, had to say these things with my eyes.

When did you get that?

Was it down the front of your pants during Slater’s entire speech?

Do you plan to eat that right now? (he did) How are you going to unwrap it without making a sound?

That wrapper is going to be LOUD on this silent bus!!

And most important – I hope to God I can keep myself from laughing.

Because right away I was attacked by a sudden jolt of that uncontrollable silent laughter. Where you can’t help but laugh but are using every ounce of strength in your body to stifle the noise, to keep the chuckles and snickers buried down deep. But your abdomen is not cooperating. And your brain is simultaneously telling you to unleash the laugh, to let it fly with a burst of happiness that will provide instant relief – while at the same time, warning you that making any sound means you’re a dead man.

This type of suppressed laugh is popular during a typical high school lifespan: when someone passes you a funny note during a boring teacher lecture – or even riskier – during a test! During Mass when everyone else is praying yet your pal a few seats away makes a funny face directed at the priest, or that same boring teacher from before. Or during the school play, when the most serious acting student in school is making the most serious monologue of the play, and your buddy jabs you again and whispers something totally inappropriate. Laughing at any of these times would likely result in detention or serious reprimand, so you do everything to can to keep that laughter inside, even though it’s fighting with all it’s might to be set free.

Your body shakes, your face turns red and your clench your arms and legs around yourself, tightening your own muscles around your torso and squeezing that laughter inside. Keeping the sound down is one thing, but the reddened skin and spastic gyrations are almost always a dead giveaway.

“Boys!” The teacher would finally shout once you’d been caught. “What the devil is so funny back there?” Usually all you needed to do was stop laughing, say sorry and the teacher’s lecture would continue. Sometimes you’d be removed from the room and scolded in the hallway. But usually you and your friend were just separated and not allowed to sit next to each other, until they next time when you could.

But hysterical laughter during the Silent Bus Ride? Until this moment, as I sit here and write these words, it is something I never actually considered. The way you never even want to consider what would happen if you jumped off that bridge. It would be nothing short of instant and gruesome death. Death of a football career, death of a social life, death of your high school honor. I don’t want to even imagine the dirty looks from players and the reaction from coaches as I upset the balance of the all important pre-game ritual. The coaches would have no choice but to berate the obvious laughing traitor- that would be me. What about the guy with the hamburger? He wasn’t laughing, he was just hungry, and I didn’t want to get Efe in trouble. If I let out even the tiniest snicker, it would lead to infinite methods of death. I mean one of our coaches, one of the largest and loudest coaches known casually as “Zee” had been known to kill students with the volume of his shouting alone. I did not want to face his wrath nor live the rest of my pathetic high school life having to avoid Zee, or any other angry player or coach. No, the consequence of laughter are so dire that I can’t even go there.

But none of those things happened. As difficult as it was, I was able to hold my laughter inside for the duration as Efe silently unwrapped his hamburger and chomped it away in about three bites. Now just try and imagine Efe trying to chew a mouthful of an entire burger while trying to suppress HIS laugh. Can you imagine trying to chew an entire mouthful of McDonald’s burger while at the same time containing hysterical laughter? I had to look away because if we made eye contact with each other, our laughter would win and he’d spit his entire burger all over the guy in front of him. Look at the floor, I told myself, look out the window, close your eyes and pretend it’s not happening. Ignore the whole thing.

It was my only defense.

To this day I’m not sure if anyone noticed. No one said I word to us (that I remember) and no one looked our way. Though I was so caught up in fighting my own laughter the memory of anything happening around me is a bit foggy. Yet, Efe got away with it. He crumpled the wrapper and wedged it into the seat and then sat back quietly while the hamburger made its way to his stomach.

Why did he do it? Hunger? For laughs? For thrills? An act of rebellion? Maybe a bit of both. As a growing high school boy I remember always feeling hungry. And find me a 16 year old kid that it’s a little rebellious. But if I think back to those days I figure Efe probably thought “I’m not going to play anyway,” and so he had nothing to lose. Even if he were reprimanded or kicked off the team, he wouldn’t lose any friends over it. In fact, he’d probably GAIN friends. Be exalted as the hero who dared to defy the rules of the Silent Bus Ride and scarf down a McDonald’s hamburger. The unusual and daring idea alone was enough to garner respect from just about every non-football in the school, which was just about everyone who wasn’t on that bus.

But they guy sitting next to him? The guy laughing his head off and disrupting the silence. The guy WITHOUT the hamburger? The one who broke everyone’s concentration and potentially cost them the game? That guy would be no hero. He’s be forever remembered as the guy who laughed out loud during the Silent Bus Ride.

I didn’t laugh during that bus ride, but I did later that day. Plenty. And I’ve laughed about it often since that wonderful day. With others, and with myself. On buses and in gymnasiums. While eating burgers and while clinking beer glasses with friends at those big, important parties. Efe’s hamburger didn’t cost me my life, and if I had laughed, it probably wouldn’t have big that big a deal anyway. Heck, even the coaches would calm down and laugh about it. It might take them five years to get over their rage. But who can’t laugh when a high schooler smuggles an entire McDonald’s hamburger down the front of his football pants?

Maybe it’s not funny at all. Maybe it’s just two dumb high school kids doing dumb things. Maybe you  just had to be there, and really, I wish you could have been.

~MCM

Mark McGinty‘s work has appeared in Maybourne Magazine, Montage Magazine, Minneapolis Running and Yahoo! Entertainment. His novel The Cigar Maker won a Bronze Medal at the 2011 Independent Publisher Book Awards and was named Finalist at both the ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Awards and the 2011 National Indie Excellence Awards. Mark lives in Minneapolis with his wife and daughter. 


The Last Jedi and Our Young Men

December 24, 2017

The Last Jedi. This is not a post about The Last Jedi. But The Last Jedi. I really liked it. It’s much better the second time because the hype is gone and you can just sit back and be entertained. The visuals are just stunning. So many amazing shots. Plenty of all-time great shots. Lots of great moments for all the characters. No lacking in action and intrigue. Fastest 2.5 hours in movies.

But extremely controversial. Polarizing. Most people who I interact with, follow, read and listen to enjoyed the movie. But there is a very vocal minority who has serious problems with the movie. I’m not talking about anyone who didn’t like the movie and professed their disappointed, and then went about their lives. That’s fair. I’ve been disappointed before so I know the feeling. I’m talking about the people who are on a crusade to let the whole world know exactly how they feel, in every nook and cranny of social media. I mean, DAMN if the passion among a minority of fans isn’t a bit over the top!!

I love when a new Star Wars movie comes out because all kind of discussion, debate and analysis takes place and for the most part, it’s enjoyable and all in good fun. But this time the debate has a much different tone. It’s nasty. And I’m trying to figure out why. On Twitter and Facebook alone I’ve been discussing the movie with random people – the general populace – about how people liked the movie, about Kelly Marie Tran’s character, about how the male characters are portrayed, and how they fail, and are sometimes put down or bested by the female characters. Overall I’ve been sharing my experience that watching The Last Jedi was in fact a very enjoyable experience, but during these discussions there have been some strong dissenting opinions and it’s amusing and almost comical to note that during these debates I have been accused of being:

1. A fake fan
2. A big baby
3. A little baby
4. A nerd
5. Hysterical
6. A snowflake
7. A moron
8. A crackhead
9. Brainless
10. A little bitch
11. A simpleton
12. A fan for not long enough
13. In need of a safe space
14. A cuck
15. A bro
16. Extremely retarded

Now….I partly amused by how quickly and easily these insults are tossed my way. But I’m also a bit concerned. This has nothing to do with the movie at this point. These insults are ALL coming from the same demographic: younger white males or people I would classify as “bros.” Not a single female has used any of these insults, and no one under the age of about 20, or older than 40. And the whole thing (forget about the movie) just makes me wonder – what the hell is going on with the young men of America?