The following piece came up in a link on the suggested reading sidebar on a sports blog I frequent. It's all about the "other education," one developed through emotion, and in this case, the professor is Bruce Springsteen.

I wouldn't consider myself a fan of Mr. Springsteen, and I have a very love-hate relationship with his work. I go through times in which it is all I want to hear, but other times (particularly this time of year when I hear that version of "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town." You know, the one where he asks if everyone has been a good boy or girl this year. And when the Santa laugh plays and Bruce starts laughing too. Yeah, I can't stand that once I start hearing it on the radio seven times a day...) I can't stand the guy. But no matter one's opinion of The Boss, this column by David Brooks is a good read, and applicable to people other than just Bruce Springsteen.

Click to enjoy.

A bunch of us students are working on compiling a publication for our writer's group, The Arm. Today, we submitted and read over the pieces each of us shared. I submitted a short story.

I actually began writing the story about this time last year. During one of The Arm meetings, we took a walk along the Allegheny River Trail and found objects that would serve as subjects in a writing exerise. I picked up a brown leaf and decided to write a story about him.

What I turned in tonight looks nothing like the original story I had in mind. It bears the same premise, but it turned out much different than what I intended to write.

Anyway, here is the story. There was some controversy over what kind of leaf Lyle was, but that has been corrected. Other than that, these are the words I shared tonight.

( The Life and Times of Lyle the Leaf )
Lyle the Leaf is still around. He sits on top of my desk in my room.

"I Love You, Beth Cooper," Larry Doyle's high school, coming-of-age teen romantic comedy, lives on a premise sold on "carpe diem" and "live to be alive" principles. Geeky valedictorian Denis Cooverman blurts out his love for the pristine head cheerleader in his graduation speech,  in which he encourages his fellow graduates to have no regrets.

No one will have any regrets reading the book or watching the movie (released Nov. 3) on DVD.

Doyle's book received a near-perfect translation to the big sreen. Its characters, especially Denis (Paul Rust), setting and overall presentation look just like the scenes Doyle painted in the book, perhaps a testament to Doyle's ability to create such vivid scenes with his words.

The movie kept loyal to the book's pace as well. The opening scenes could have been kept much shorter, but the decision to slow them down helped build the characters and gave audiences a chance to allow the plot to soak in before the rest of the move took off at break-neck/nose/back/spirit speed.

However, some scenes (grocery store, Valli Wooly's party) took on a pace much too quick, as the director decided to move the story along instead of dwelling and developing secondary characters (Becky Reese, Zooey Bananafish and Henry Giroux, among others). Unfortunately, a lot of the characters not crucial to the plot, received no  mention, a shame because Doyle displayed a fabulous ability to create colorful, but believable, characters, ones readers could almost recall going to high school with.

Ironically, the three scenes with the greatest cinematic possibilities ("storytime" and Denis' encounter with Kevin at the playground and on the dock) were cut from the story's movie version. The dock scene at the end, specifically, had a movie feel to it in the book, almost to the point that it seemed as if Doyle constructed it the way he did just in case it would turn into a movie.

But it doesn't matter that a few scenes and characters were cut, or that Rich wasn't as adorably awkward in the book, or that the school was Buffalo Grove High School instead of Buffalo Glen High School, and the colors were blue and orange, not blue and gold. Doyle's book translated well into a movie because it translated well into another language everyone can understand: high school. Parts of all the characters were identifiable to anyone who has ever experienced the teenage years.

A lot of the book utilized back stories and the characters' thoughts, things that can't be replicated in films so well. However, the visual parts of the book held up to make the movie work.

The differences between them make the movie and the book worth experiencing in either order. Fans of "I Love You, Beth Cooper" can enjoy them without regrets.

Facing elimination, the Phillies entered tonight's Game 5 with the Yankees on the right day of the week. In the past two years, the Phillies posted a 4-0 playoff record on Monday night (counting 2008 World Series, which started on Monday and suffered a rain delay lasting until Wednesday night).

And Chae Utley's first-pitch hack of Yankee starter A.J. Burnett paced the Phillies to a perfect 5-0 with an 8-6 victory.

On the field, Utley, rumored to be playing with injury, matches any one of New York's superstars in  intensity, athleticism and talent.

But on camera, behind microphones and during post-game interviews, Utley's the anti-A-Rod. The anti-Jeter.

Not that it makes him better or worse than the Yankees' superstars. It's merely an observation.

While guys like Jeter and Rodriguez (and Rollins and Howard) stand and smile in front of the camera, eager to talk about their personal triumphs or the team's overall success, Utley stands awkwardly, head slighly bowed, cap shadowing his eyes. He may field ground balls with focus and skill, but he hates fielding questions, especially about himself.

Utley's bat threw him into the spotlight, though, as the slugger hit two home runs, giving him the most World Series home runs by a second baseman and a single-series total of five, the most since "Mr. October" Reggie Jackson hit that many for the Yankees in the 1977 Fall Classic.

More important than Utley's continued success, Jimmy Rollins, Shane Victorino and Raul Ibanez started to come around. Those three were quiet at the Series' beginning, but all three got on base tonight, and Rauuuul hit the ball hard, even when he recorded outs. If the Phillies can post eight runs without the struggling Ryan Howard, their lineup can certainly catch fire if "The Big Piece" finds his swing in the Bronx, where the series shifts for Wednesday's Game 6 -- and a potential Game 7.

In the past three years, the Phillies happen to be 6-1 on Wednesdays in the postseason, including the second part of 2008 World Series Game 5 (which resumed with a tie score). They have won six postseason Wednesday games in a row since losing to the Colorado Rockies in the 2007 NLDS.

A cool piece by philly.com's Will Bunch takes a look at Philadelphia's perveived inferiority complex -- and how the boys in red pinstripes helped establish the city's new identity.

The day Philly stopped being a joke [philly.com]

On July 8, 2007, I happened to be at Bonaventure for freshman orientation.

Hopefully, we Phillies fans can be just as proud of our Fightin's after tonight's Game 4.

The defending champs get the Onlion treatment.
http://www.theonion.com/content/news/phillies_hope_to_end_364_day_world

On Wednesday, Pearl Jam opened up a concert set  to close out the Spectrum, one of the most iconic sports venues over the past half-century. Aside from dedicating songs to players like Brad Lidge, Shane Victorino and Raul Ibanez (Before this season, Rauuuuuul had played in grunge music's capital, Seattle, since the late '90s), Eddie Vedder & Co. provided fans with score updates between -- and even during -- their songs.

Take a look:

With two old, prominent baseball franchises slugging it out for the 2009 World Series title, journalists have an endless list of stories to dig up and explore.

Or fabricate.

In Bart Hubbach's story for The New York Post's Yankees blog, Phillies shortstop Jimmy Rollins, exhausted with talking about himself or his team's matchup with the Yankees, obviously took a shot at former Phillie Pat Burrell, who is without a doubt the teammate Rollins hated the most. Obviously.

Read about it here.

Even though Rollins "made it clear" and that his comments "made it obvious," Burrell's name appears nowhere in the quotes. Despite how obvious the quotes are, the quotes need 11 words of author/editor comments to tell readers what Rollins is saying.

Without those comments, and the proper context of the interview, Rollins quotes actually are open for interpretation. Ibanez has not had a stellar career in the field, and he dropped a fly ball in Game 4 of the NLDS against the Rockies. Perhaps Rollins was talking about Ibanez' improved performance in last night's World Series Game 2.

And nothing screams "professional journalist" like whining about an athlete's availibility to the media, especially when you don't cover that athlete on a regular basis.

I know to people on the Post's payroll who are credible and incredible journalists, so I would like to think the "tabloid" paper is better than this.

I'm not worried, though. The Yankees' Alex Rodriguez is 0-7 this series with 6 strikeouts. It's only a matter of time before the Post turns on him and starts running back-page "A-Hole" headlines again.

On this mild, rainy night, Talbot, Ashley and I decided to take in a club hockey game at the cold damp and decrepit William O. Smith Recreation Center in Olean, as the Bonnies faced off against Oswego.

We sat behind the Oswego bench, in front of some annoying Lakers fans. An older gentleman kept making comments about how bad our goalie looked and murmered whenever one of the Bonnies was tripped up.

A few minutes later, a less subtle, more unnerving  voice joined in. It belonged to someone associated with the team. The kid was benched, suspended or injured. Or maybe he was an equipment manager or water boy. Whatever he was, he wore a green windbreaker track suit and pants with a backwards SUNY Oswego mesh hat tilted sideways.

At first, the goon boasted about how the referees had told him to move from his original position. I'm not sure where he was standing before, maybe behind or above the penalty benches. The voice carried all the trite arrogance that I can't stand.

With time winding down in the first period, the score tied at 0, the kid tauned the home team.

"Get used to losing, Bonnies!" he yelled.

This was the second or third time he shouted something to that effect. Maybe they don't teach basic math at Oswego, but  even non-sports fans understand what a tie score is.

"They're not even losing," I muttered under my breath, only thinking the girls at my side would hear it, if anyone.

But this kid's big mouth accompanied some very sensitive ears.

"Ah, but it's only a matter of time, my friend. Only a matter of time"

And then, for some reason, this kid still wasn't finished with me.

"And the Yankees will win, too, so don't worry," he said, probably looking at my 2008 World Series Champions hat. I felt like contesting that with the fact that the Yankees had not yet clinched the American League, or that they play a very different sport at very different level from the one we were watching.

But I let it go.

For the second period, this kid came back carrying a jumper cable. His mouth ran fine, though. The Lakers took the lead, only fueling the cocky tone.

Bonnies fans a few yards over began taunting some of the Oswego players, and this only drew more from the kid sitting behind me. The exchange included Oswego track suit kid telling our fans to "step on the ice and talk," ironic coming from someone who is also off the ice.

After a couple "I'll see you in the parking lot"s, the verbal sparring died down. The second period ended, and most fans went to the lobby or the parking lot.

Little did I know, two Bonnies fans did meet the Oswego heckler in the parking lot.

But not in the anticipate manner.

"I jumped his car," said the one Bonnies fan, soaked from the rain pouring down in the parking lot. "I pulled the van up, and we put the cable on and jumped it."

Oswego built a 4-1 lead late in the third, bringing about more taunting from this Oswego jamoke. A Bonnies comeback fell short, and an empty-net goal late from the Lakers gave them a 5-3 edge.

The kid in the green track suit and mesh hat was happy about his team's victory. I was just as impressed, though, with Bonaventure's performance off the ice.

As a whole, our fans are rowdy and intimidating, hardly reflecting the Franciscan values instilled in the university.

But two of our vocal fans jumping an annoying opponent's car in the pouring rain showed sportsmanship that made me proud to be a Bonnies backer.

Tonight, two journalism professors practiced their own "show, don't tell advice," instilling some much-needed confidence and hope into this tired student.

After two-plus years in journalism school, I've found the best lessons can be learned and absorbed through watching others' experiences. Those experiences take on an even stronger influence coming from the professionals teaching me the trade.

In the first case today, my live broadcast professor reviewed plans for our first sports broadcasting events. An accomplished director, Paul talked about the chance to direct us as we learn how to cover live sporting events. His face lit up. He smiled, sat back and told us the best thing he ever did in his storied career was directing live sporting events. In my sleep-deprived state, I can't recall the specific words he used to describe the rush of directing, but I can remember the change in his demeanor as he discussed it. He looked proud, content and excited for it, for us and for him.

Later, I attended a public reading my Mass Media and Comp&Crit professor held for a new book he co-authored about Stonewall Jackson. I've met many people who claim the Civil War as a hobby of sorts, but Chris took that to a level I hadn't seen before. He mentions the Civil War on a regular basis, but this was the first time I saw him give an in-depth talk about it. He displayed a true passion for the subject and a lot of pride in what he knew and the work he produced. And he deserved to, as he mixed all the reading and research he did with a powerful ability to tell stories, enough to hold the attention and excitement in the room in his hands, along with a copy of his book, a tangible representation of his hard work.

Again, lacking the ability to hit the mark with an accurate description, I don't know if this makes any sense to anyone out there, but it's clear to me. I'm not sure why I do some of the things I do, but I know for sure what I want out of my life. I want to find that passion out there. I want to find something that matters to me, something that won't only help me make a living, but will also offer me something I can enjoy and take pride in on a daily basis.

That sounds pretty obvious, but sometimes it takes someone showing it to you to help you fully appreciate it.

The Phillies are the 2009 National League Champions. I don't know how many time on average a team makes it to the World Series. But I do know I'm going to make the most of watching my team go for another world championship.

October baseball, captured with perfection in this photo.

The faces show it. They show the magic of the moment, a moment punctuating the Phillies siezing a 3-1 series lead over the Dodgers in the National League Championship Series on a two-out game-winning double from Jimmy Rollins, the longest-tenured player on the roster.

As "Chooch," Carlos Ruiz, crosses the plate as the winning run, a pack of Phillies bubbles with emotion. Even Chase Utley (far left), the team's stoic, nonchalant throwback leader, can't help but leap in the air with excitement.

Moments like this exemplify the overwhelming emotional appeal of sports. While Sunday's 11-0 beat down in Game Four gave Phillies fans  just as much satisfaction, nothing compares to the thrill of a walk-off victory. In some sports and situations, it's called "sudden death." But there couldn't have been more life in the boys wearing white pinstripes or the 47,000-plus towel-waving fanatics surrounding them.

( More of the good stuff with a click. )

I can't imagine what this lady would've thought of the excitement over Cliff Lee stealing (gasp!) a base in Game One...

http://www.examiner.com/x-22944-Philadelphia-Christian-Perspectives-Examiner~y2009m10d10-Its-acceptable-to-be-a-Phillies-Phanatic-but-a-fanatic-about-Jesus--Not-so-much

I wish I would remember the smiles and giggles shared in a 1999 Mercury Grand Marquis, even before the journey began, with plans to prank call radio stations and comparisons among wardrobe selection.

"The jeans." It was funny because of the matter-of-fact way she said it. You know, because the word "jeans" never has an article in front of it.

After all, what else do four college newspaper editors and a photgrapher have to joke about to begin an estimated seven-hour trek from Olean to Washington, D.C.?

That is, before they realize they can't find their way out of Olean. Route numbers? Street names? General direction and orientation?

Nope, a 20-minute odyssey in what should be familiar territory by now.

I wish I would remember the opening piano riffs to "Only the Good Die Young," a Billy Joel classic and the first act of an epic sing-along that descended into Disney tunes just after the point of no return.

Shouting the lyrics to "Reflection of Love" --made famous in Beauty and the Beast and rendered tolerable with the perfect amount of intolerable shouting between Pennsylvania Route 153 and I-80 East.

It drowned out the awkward rubbing of wipers against a windshield veiled with rain but too dry to wipe clean without cacaphony.

I wish I could remember dinner at McDonald's, as the five of us sat down, the four of us to for to one table and one to a separate one.

At dinner, the giggles bubbled up again, this time over prank headlines and inappropriate nomenclature.

I wish I could remember Mt. Zion, and the creepy veining dirt roads leading to undeniable terror and cheesy slasher movie settings. Mt. Zion gave us our first chance at redemption after missing an exit, the first of a few, but to our surprise, far fewer than expected, especially after the start.

I wish I could remember me, more alive and awake than I've ever been, on the road to D.C. with five college-age females keeping me company. The days and weeks leading up to the trip gave plenty to thing and worry about:

What if we get lost?

What if we're in an accident?

But that wasn't going to happen, not tonight. Not on this journey. For the first time in a while, things all lined up to work out. The drive was smooth, the company was thrilled and I was making my way down to D.C. and up to the confidence level I could only dream of on most nights.

I wish I could remember what my smile must've looked like the minute we rolled into the city, as lights from bridges reflected in the water brightened our whole perpective and enriched the whole experience.

I wish I could remember the satisfaction I felt, reaching point B from point A without any problem. I pumped the gas, remained alert and made sure my friends enjoyed a smooth, comfortable and safe ride. All by myself. I was as proud of that as I was of anything else I may have accomplished this semester.

I wish I could remember the laughs we shared and the bonds we experienced. I wish I could remember the excitement we had and the plans we made for the weekend. Our weekend. Our two-day retreat to enjoy ourselves, celebrating our friendships with each other and our pride for the school.

But I know I won't remember it. Not after the night I had. Not after being reminded that I fucked up time and time again. Not after being asked if I (of all people) was intoxicated serveral times. Not after a policewoman handed me a citation and a tow-truck driver dlivered my broken car to a local garage while a taxi took my company to the hotel.

Outside of the valiant attempts to make me feel better, I wish I was alone.

When I look back on tonight, I won't remember what I shared in the first 18 grafs.

That's why I shared it.

"The MLB playoffs start on TBS tomorrow at 2 p.m."

This message ran across the crawl during tonight's tie-breaking game between the Minnesota Twins and the Detroit Tigers for the American League Central Division crown (and the right to play the Yankees whenever the Yankees decided they wanted to play the winner. But that's a rant for a different day).

( TBS missed something in reminding us not to miss something. )

I turned on the TV after a 24-minute class to watch Nicolas Cage, in a bear suit, punching out a woman and running away with a youg girl, yelling, "Don't be frightened!"

The scene came from the 2006 remake of The Wicker Man, and it made me smile.

( A lot has today, actually. )

I woke up this morning, surprisingly refreshed, without the assist fom the small, boxy alarm clock sitting across the room on my computer desk.

Cloud-faded light from the cool gray morning seeped through the blinds on my window, telling me that, yes, another Monday morning had begun.

I had my Monday morning all planned out. Finishing my five-page nonviolence paper around 1:30 a.m. (not too shabby in my relative world of  late nights spawned from BV business) and decided to set the alarm to jolt me awake just before 7:30.

Since I've been fighting my printer all semester, I figured to give myself time to email the paper to myself and print at the library before class and even work in a nice breakfast. But when i rolled out of bed to check the time on my self-sufficient wake-up, my eyes almost popped out of my head.

It was 8:22.

My class started -- and my paper was due -- in eight minutes.

This semester, I've noticed just how much I'm able to avoid disaster on a daily basis. That's not to say I don't encounter disaster, but I recognize and appreciate my ability to "luck out" on instances like this. I could have risen, s.o.l., at 8:42, spelling out a more messy situation.So I recognize things like this could be worse.

But they're still wicked interesting.

Somehow, I managed to divide time between throwing an ensemble together on my body and investigating my alarm's sudden silence. Just before my head hit the pillow last night (or this morning), I jumped out of bed to make sure I had the alarm on and at the right time.

It wasn't my fault.

In the rush, I brushed my teeth, meaning I squirted some toothpaste on a toothbrush and swiped it across my mouth once (but don't worry. I brushed better since then). I slipped on a t-shirt and a hoodie to mask any kind of funky smell I may have accumulated since showering last (again, I've showered since then). And I emailed myself the document at 8:24, instantly regretting my decision to not do so before going to sleep.

I thought I would've had the time to do so in the morning.

Sprinting to the library, I printed myself a copy, unedited, witout a chance to check facts or formatting or to make sure all the sources and citations lined up. But turning in a raw paper beats turning in no paper at all. On my way out of the library, I hit a girl while opening the door, since the library doors have two small windows seven feet in the air, preventing anyone my height from checking to see if any one is on the other side (I am definitely writing an editorial about this, because I don't know how many times I've either hit or have been hit while using the library doors).

I checked the clock on my phone. It was 8:31.

The professor opens every class period with three minutes of silence, so I entered without missing anything. Thetwo minutes of silence I missed were compensated by the hour-plus of silence my stupid alarm decided to partake in this morning.

I handed the paper in, and now here I sit, brushed, showered and shaved, with my bedsheets all crumpled up and my pajamas lying in a pile on the floor where I left them five minutes before class.

Somehow, I managed to avoid disaster.

Sometimes, I set my alarm so that I'll have just enough time to shower and get to class on time. Or maybe just a minute late. But today I made it a point to wake up early, to read through a paper, correct its mistakes, print out a copy and hand it in on time. I'm also learning about things beyond control. Things that, no matter how much I do to prepare, will always go wrong in some way. And I accept that.

I'm ready for this week. I'm ready for the three midterms and four sports pages. I'm ready for the trip to D.C. on Thursday - I'm the only guy going with almost the full female contingent from the BV. And I'm ready to go home, to see the family and to sleep in my own bed.

Without any papers to hand in at 8:30 in the morning.

One rule Columbus (Jesse Eisenberg) adopts in his quest for questing's sake in a zombie-laden world, rule 32, is "Enjoy the little things."

Audiences certainly have a chance to appreciate that rule in "Zombieland," Ruben Fleischer's gruesome, yet entertaining zombie flick.

Fleischer takes all the blood, guts and gore of the zombie genre, turning it down and cranking it up at the appropriate times. While the ability to go all-out with the gross factor certainly remained a possibility (the zombies and the gross stuff both looked spectacular when implemented), "Zombieland" developed characters and created backstories that gave the audience connection to what was happening.

Yet the movie told more by telling less.

Instead of getting caught up in Zombie mania, "Zombieland" disclosed just enough of the story to keep the audience up-to-speed and interested. The whole normal world -> Zombieland transformation took only a line or two to cover in full.

And, while the scenes gave the opportunity for gratuitous zombie attacks, the zombies showed up in fewer of them than one would expect from a movie titled "Zombieland."

However, the opening scene demonstrating Columbus' rules and the opening credits gave zombies their drecrepit face time. Perhaps the lull in zombie action through most of the movie gave the audience a chance to recover from the awesome that was the opening credits. Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" makes any action scene better, especially if that action scene includes a flame-engulfed zombie running after a fireman, a zombified bride gnawing at her husband and, of course, the obligatory decaying zombie boobs...all in slow motion. In fact, Fleischer utilizes slow motion as well, if not better, than anyone else, especially when it comes to zombie-related violence.

While the characters in Zombieland seem simple and predictable, one feels connected to them almost because of it.

Certainly anyone who's ever indulged in a Twinkie can feel for Tallahassee, the rough-cut zombie-killing specialist. As out-there as Tallahassee, or even the two sisters can seem in their journey with Columbus, there's an emotional tether that finds a way to make such a ridiculous premise feel real to an audience.

If nothing else, "Zombieland" teaches to enjoy the little things. Maybe zombies slurping intestines like spaghetti on the interstate may not be right up everyone's alley, but beyond the flesh-peeling faces and creative zombie-killing methods, the movie still has plenty of entertainment to offer.

I don't like to thrust my accomplishments on display (nor do I like to whine in a blog), but I thought this was a nice answer to yesterday's post.  After the sports section received some "constructive criticism" in comments yesterday, someone tonight commented on a past story, a sports history feature. She's a relative of a deceased man I wrote about in a history feature, and she complimented not only the piece's execution, but the effort I put into it.

That made me smile a little bit.