Thanksgiving Approaches, Happiness Factor Increases November 25, 2008
Posted by midswatch in Writing.Tags: Food, Football, Girlfriend, Happiness Factor, Leave, Thanksgiving, Turkey
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As Thanksgiving approaches, many normal people will look forward to their turkey dinners, a bonus meal amidst other contenders. Most midshipmen, however, simply rejoice over the thought of real, home-cooked food. They could arrive at home to find Tuesday meatloaf, and they’d be happy. Just leave an onion in the oven, Mom. I want to smell home aromas first thing.
Family. Midshipmen love family. Many mids only see their families once every few months, (if they have the ability to fly home,) so any time a mid gets to go home, Happiness increases.
Another great thing about Thanksgiving Leave is the reuniting of old high school friends. While sweating it out at the Naval Academy, the midshipmen have gained weight (mostly muscle,) gotten a little rough around the edges, and learned to perform on little sleep. They don’t seem to fit in with all of their old friends, but some remain as close as ever. Their civilian counterparts have changed, too, while at college and while working. Despite the growing differences between old friends, a midshipman looks forward to catching up *believe it or not* more than eating mashed potatoes.
Don’t forget football. Enough said.
And pumpkin pie, too.
All of these past things are amazing. A midshipman truly cherishes them all—but nothing boosts a midshipman’s Happiness more than flying home to his girlfriend. Sorry family, friends, turkey dinner, football game, and pumpkin pie; a mid’s going to forget everything: people’s names, their phone numbers, and that he told them he’d meet up on Friday. It’s not that he doesn’t care about you. He’s just isn’t aware of much. A smart girlfriend will remind her midshipman that he needs to go see people. Otherwise, he’ll forget.
How do midshipmen equate their Happiness? By simple formula. As explained on page 132 of the 2006-2007 Edition of Reef Points, (click here to learn about this book in the context of plebe summer,) the Happiness Factor is “the number of days of leave divided by the number of days until leave, an equation even the bull majors understand.”
My Happiness Factor now:
5 days of leave (although 2 of those are for travel)
1.5 days until leave
5 / 1.5 = 3.33 Happiness
This factor can be compared to my Happiness a while ago when I remember a plebe reporting that I had 79 days until Thanksgiving Leave:
5 / 79 = .063 Happiness
I have 53 times more Happiness now than I did then!
Spirit Spots November 20, 2008
Posted by midswatch in Sports.Tags: 300, Army Navy, Company Linebacker, Football, Mastercard Priceless, Navy, Office Linebacker, Spirit Spot, Terry Tate
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At our football games, we display “Spirit Spots” on the jumbo-tron. They are meant to be funny, (sometimes, only to midshipmen,) and to boost the cheering in the stands. I have chosen three of my favorites. They display confidence to win, creativity, and insight into aspects of a midshipman’s life.
#3 — Company Linebacker, Antron
This spirit spot parodies off of the Terry Tate, Office Linebacker video. It depicts midshipmen breaking MIDREGS and suffering painfully for it.
#2 — Navy 300
Navy 300 strikes a chord in my heart because it was made by people in my company. It mimics the 300 trailer.
#1 — Midcard, Priceless
There is nothing more priceless than inviting the cadets to watch our bowl game.
Navy Football vs. Notre Dame – We Almost Had It! November 16, 2008
Posted by midswatch in Sports, Writing.Tags: College Football, Navy Football, Navy Sports, Notre Dame
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“It’s about to pour,” Rene told me as he put on his overcoat. I didn’t care. We were losing.
It didn’t look good. For most of the game, Navy held the Irish back. But going into the fourth quarter, Notre Dame’s rushing overpowered, scoring two touchdowns in the third quarter. Notre Dame, 27-7.
I felt unsettled. I had ridden one of the thirty-something buses from the Naval Academy in Annapolis to the Raven’s Stadium in Baltimore at 8 am for a noon game. I didn’t like paying five dollars for a drink, and I couldn’t stand paying nine for a basket of chicken and fries. I know, why didn’t I stick my thumb in my mouth and cry about it? I was a sissy.
I looked around at the midshipmen; many sat. That’s bad. We never sit during play—even when losing. Where had all of the spirit gone? I felt a little drizzle on my ears. I, too, put on my overcoat.
I tried to justify the lack of enthusiasm in the brigade. I wanted to blame it on a lack of liberty, but that wasn’t true. This semester has been a breath of fresh air compared to last year–new policies have led to happier mids. I couldn’t blame our team either. They have played incredible games this year, inciting countless chest bumps, high fives, and lost voices from yelling too much.
I decided to blame it on the buses—and the mids—for being sissies, of course.
As more and more midshipmen sat in their seats, I heard disappointed voices mutter, “It’s too bad it’s over.”
[Now, I’m going to try to recount what happened as accurately as possible; however, an almost lethal mixture of switched emotions and chicken tenders caused my memory to fuse events together.]
Somewhere in the fourth quarter, right at the time I thought I didn’t need my overcoat, it began to rain for real. Then rain led to pouring. Pouring led to jumping in the bathtub with a uniform on. As the thousands of Notre Dame fans fled to covered areas, the midshipmen came alive.
The deluge was a great way to end a long day of riding buses to Baltimore, standing for hours waiting to march into the stadium, and in the end losing to Notre Dame. We began to cheer for the rain. We’re twisted like that.
The sarcastic drench-cheers immediately turned to excitement for the game. You see, midshipmen unite in times like these. As some say, we embrace the suck.
Every single midshipman stood. Most raised their arms to the clouds, asking for more rain. The skies approved the request, and water fell—I remember a moment of insanity where I raised my empty Coke cup to the sky and yelled with a raspy voice “Give me drink! I am thirsty!” While civilian fans shrunk under umbrellas, we asked for more.
Most importantly, we cheered for the team. All of the sudden, the midshipmen sang old songs such as “Go Navy Blue and Gold,” and “Go Mighty Navy,” at the top of our lungs. The classic banter after every play resonated throughout the stands. Maybe it was the rain—maybe it was the belief of the mids—or the play just turned out right. For whatever reason, Notre Dame fumbled, and Navy recovered!
With less than two minutes left in regulation, my company mate, Shun White, scored on a 24-yard run, and all I could think to yell was “Just give it to Shun! Just give it to Shun!” Notre Dame still led, 27-14, but I could feel it. I believed. Still running on a questionable sanity, I put my hands on Jason’s face and said “You’ve got to believe!”
Navy set up for the onside kick. After a penalty, Navy set up again. This time, we recovered it! The world crashed down in a pile of elbows, faces, cheers, and excruciatingly painful high fives—a thing of beauty. Every midshipman went nuts. Shortly after, Wide receiver, Tyree Barnes, made an amazing play, barely staying in bounds for a catch on the one-yard line. Sophomore quarterback, Ricky Dobbs (highly acclaimed second-stringer; the play maker,) dove for the touchdown. Navy was back: Notre Dame 27-21, and we were almost out of time.
Could it happen? Could Navy recover two onside kicks in a row?
“You have to believe!” I held Jason’s face with two hands. “I believe!” He yelled back in my face.
The midshipmen believed. The players believed. Navy recovered the onside kick for the second time in a minute. The Irish wet their pants.
Navy put forth an amazing effort to score for the third time in two minutes, but it was not meant to be. Our hearts sank as our fourth down ended with an incomplete pass. Official score: Notre Dame 27-21.
As customary at the end of every game, the team ran to the midshipmen in the stands after shaking the other teams’ hands. We cheered for our team; they almost made a miracle comeback. We sang our alma mater, “Blue and Gold,” with our covers over our hearts and cheered with pride the traditional “Beat Army!”
Despite losing, we cheered for our team. We clapped in recognition for a great try. We clapped as an apology for not cheering earlier in the game.
As it turned out, a rainy-day game wasn’t so bad. It was outstanding.
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***For an official report of the game, please click here***
Midshipman Martin November 12, 2008
Posted by midswatch in Writing.Tags: Heavy Lifter, Midshipman, Pink Panther, Quesadillas, Rene Martin
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*Prompt: observe a roommate. This is posted with the permission of the man himself, Rene Martin**
He hums “The Pink Panther” out of tune. He sings the wrong words for “When the Saints Go Marching In.” And he still hasn’t realized that the two Ls in quesadilla produce a “Y” sound. But I don’t tell him these things—they remind me of my grandpa.
However, don’t mistake his quirky innocence for weakness. Martin just returned from a rigorous workout. Believe me, it was tough—I used to go with him. I used to sleep a lot better at night too. His lifting attracts a few second glances every time. You might see other lifters taking long rest periods. Not Martin; his fast pace gives the impression that he performs one continuous lift for 40 minutes.
Martin grabs the protein shake on his desk, takes a sip that looks and sounds amazingly delicious, and starts humming—but I can’t make out the song this time. The route from desk to shower is a naked trail for Martin. I have learned to face my computer during this time every day.
“Could you let me know when it’s 6:13? Thanks.” He mentions more than requests as he steps in the shower. He asks this question every day. Each time Martin asks me, he does it as if it’s the first time. Every day I forget until 6:15 to tell him. Today is no different.
I look at my clock: it is 6:15.
“It’s 6:13!” I call out. Why make him worry?
I can hear his careful steps out of the shower. I am reminded of Martin Law. Rule number one: no water on the deck. Maybe it’s because he’s a prior. Perhaps he fell in the tub when he was young. Martin just says it’s gross. I think it scares him somehow. His fear of water on the deck reveals a lot about his personality. How do I explain the way he shaves? Well, he shaves the way a man afraid of water on the deck would shave: carefully, never missing a hair. Like a man who fears water on the deck, Martin puts on his uniform and finishes his protein shake.
We have nine minutes until evening meal formation. As I open the door to leave, Martin asks for the “just two more seconds” that he requires every day. I don’t know why I open the door before these requested two seconds. Maybe I do it for the same reason he asks me to tell him it’s 6:13 every day. Martin puts his cell phone on the bookshelf, pushes in his chair, turns off his computer monitor, and walks out of the room. I stay behind to quickly check for water on the deck.
Squad Blunders in the Presence of Captain Klunder November 12, 2008
Posted by midswatch in Writing.Tags: funny story, Naval Academy, Prank, sumo wrestler
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It seemed like a normal lunch. All of the midshipmen stood around their assigned tables, waiting for the command at the anchor, “Seats,” that would allow us to sit down and commence operation Stuff-Yer-Faces. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Of course, some youngsters smashed the Styrofoam cups, and the plebes poked holes in the uncrushed ones to prank the upperclass (their goal was to have a stream of raspberry iced tea spewing on the table.) All of this was normal.
“Brigade, seats!”
The thunder of four thousand chairs sliding under midshipmen echoed throughout King Hall. Noon meal had begun.
As per standard protocol at my table, I asked the plebe “fire-team leader” to announce the topic of conversation for the day. It was his job to provide engaging, thought provoking topics to discuss as a squad. He banged his fist on the table three times, shaking a few forks off and knocking over the mustard. “Squad, attention to announcement! The topic of conversation for noon meal is: if you could be a sumo wrestler, what would your name be?”
The squad mumbled in approval. Each person would get a chance to answer the question. Some of them started smiling at their own ideas.
From usna.edu
At that moment, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, expecting to see just another mid, but it wasn’t. It was none other than the man, Captain Klunder, Commandant of Midshipmen! “Do you think you could spare a seat? Who’s in charge here?”
I am, I thought. “I am,” leaked out of my mouth, hardly confident.
“Can I sit with you? Do you mind?” He sounded so pleasant.
Yes please! Thank you for joining us, sir! Let me stand up and take you to your seat! Would you like anything to drink, sir? How may I help you?
“Uh, yes, sir.” I didn’t take him to his seat.
He sat down at the far end of the table. As he did, the entire squad stood up to show respect. He waved us to sit and start eating. So there we sat, normally harsh, abusive midshipmen, following the table manners we learned at our etiquette and protocol lessons plebe summer. Imagine polite midshipmen asking the Commandant to please pass the Catalina dressing. It’s right there, sir. Yes, under that smashed Styrofoam cup.
I decided to be bold. “Sir, we were just about to start our discussion.”
“A discussion sounds good!”
I explained the sumo wrestler topic, but he didn’t hear me, so those at the far end of the table echoed what I said. He politely nodded and told how he had been stationed in Japan.
As he talked, I nudged Midshipman On-top-of-it and motioned towards Captain Klunder’s cup. It too had been smashed. “Get him a cup!” I exclaimed through clenched teeth. We all searched wildly while remaining inconspicuous for a non-abused cup. Where have all the cups gone!?
At that moment, Midshipman Not-thinking-so-hot-today proudly produced a cup, “Here you go, sir.”
The earth’s rotation slowed to half speed, and time nearly stopped. Not that cup! I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t stop him. The Commandant of Midshipmen, the man who decides who stays or goes, graduation or expulsion, liberty or duty, happiness or sadness, poured raspberry iced tea into his vandalized Styrofoam cup.
A steady stream of liquid spewed onto the table and around his food. “There seems to be a problem with my cup,” He said.
“I’m going to die,” I groaned.
As everyone around the mess began to pad it down with napkins and plug the hole, I tried to change the subject.
“Gilbert [that’s not his real name], why don’t you start us off–what is your sumo wrestler name?”
“Peaceful singing, sir.”
“How interesting.” I wanted to cry. This was a terrible idea. The Commandant was still cleaning up the mess. But I trudged on. “What about you, Franks?”
“My name would be Gilbert’s mom!”
Great. Insult someone’s mom in front of the Commandant.
“Classy,” I fought the tears. I’ll just ask one more. “And you, Johnson?”
“I’d be Gilbert himself!”
The chances don’t get any slimmer. I would have expected to be trampled by a herd of mongooses before watching my squad prank my Commandant and blatantly make fun of someone’s mother in front of him.
The rest of the meal went pretty normal. Not much was worse than the prank and the fat jokes; however, the complaint session about the food made us sound like little whiners. Also, I passed him the entire basket of salad dressing, setting it right next to his plate. When he didn’t touch it, we all yelled with our eyes, “Bring it back! bring it back!” which was all more embarrassing than might appear. I wish I hadn’t been so socially clumsy. I had nothing interesting to say, so it made things feel awkward. The Commandant was great–he kept the conversation moving. Plus, he avoided commenting on how poor of a host I was.
All in all, I am proud to say the Commandant sat at my table. When he left, I shook his hand. He looked me straight in the eye and said “You’ve got a great squad there. They’re real comfortable with each other.”
I nodded, just wishing we had plastic cups that day. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
***artistic license was taken in this reporting***
The Mid's Watch 