Life's manual

Every human who has graced this Earth has probably, at one time or another, wished life came with a manual. A document in which we could turn to for answers, directions, guidance. It would be there on page 97 exactly what you are supposed to do with your life.

But the unfortunate joy of life is that there is no manual. We are our own tour guides and the path is strictly up to us. Installed in all of us is the power and talent to achieve even the loftiest of dreams.

For me, this is where a life manual could come in use. If only I knew what my dreams were, then I would surely do everything in my power to see that they were achieved. I just need the ending point and I will take care of the hard work to get there.

My life goals seem to change with the season. One day I want to be a reporter who travels the country telling the greatest stories ever told. The next day, I want to travel the world doing whatever I can to save it. Tomorrow, I might want to use my love for writing and designing to help a non-profit somewhere raise the money it needs to function. Next week, I am struck by the idea of returning to school and getting a master’s in counseling. The week after, well, I will want to be a reporter who travels the country telling the greatest stories ever told.

When I settle on a dream to achieve, I usually change my mind or something occurs that forces me to change my mind. Months ago, I planned on the Peace Corps as my next move, but a phone call from my recruiter the other day shattered that plan. Now, I staring at a blank canvas labeled “Heather’s Future.”

This back and forth debate about my future drives me to tears. In fact, it’s having a physical effect. Lately, I can’t sleep through the night and am awaken by nightmares of mine or someone in my family’s death. My stomach usually aches and my mind rests in a seemingly permanent fog. I worry that if I don’t figure something out my health will continue to slip.

So I’ve derived a plan to have no plans at all. My whole life I’ve schemed and planned what I thought my life should look like without any consideration that those plans would fall through. But they usually do. No matter how many times I cried myself to sleep while living in Idaho I never imagined that I would be back in South Dakota eight months later. I didn’t plan to be happily single at 23. And I certainly didn’t plan to have so much uncertainty in my life.

It’s time to surrender any and all plans and just live in the now. I find that when I do have plans, I invest everything in them. Whenever I find a snag in life, I assure that myself that all will be calm once I am in the new life I planned. I assumed peace would come once I moved to Idaho. It didn’t. I figured I would find it in Brookings when I moved back. I didn’t. It’s probably a good thing the Peace Corps route fell through. I was already beginning to put too much hope into that life.

The best thing for me now is to find happiness in the life I currently live. It won’t be easy, and I imagine shedding a few tears along with creating a few laughs. But I might just find what I am looking for.

If life came with a manual, I would have to burn it. What my life needs now is no script, no direction, no ending point. That’s equally scaring and exciting, and probably the reason God didn’t draft a manual when he created life. This is more fun.

Dreamers love other Dreamers

I've followed Michael Phelps' career since we were both 15. Many people time and again ask me why. It's not because of his tremendous accomplishments or his fame. Instead, I saw something in him that other athletes don't possess. This is why I will always be a Phelps Phan.

The Olympics

My father and brother swear by baseball. Each year, they eagerly await the day that pitchers and catchers report to spring training. Their enthusiasm doesn’t wane much through the long summer days and the ups and downs each team endures. But once October hits, the post-season month, their love for baseball hits its peak, especially if their team is a World Series contender. If you love baseball, you love October.

Men around the country practically put their entire lives on hold every Sunday from August through January. The NFL captures Americans unlike anything else in this country. Grown men cry when the Jets beat the Giants and wear plastic hats in the shape of cheese when the Vikings host the Packers. Sports bars around the country are packed each Sunday with several televisions featuring a different game. For some, football is life.

I enjoy a good football game every now and then and the Minnesota Twins have my attention during the MLB season, but only one athletic competition has captured me into a true sports fanatic.

During the summer of 1996, I was eleven years old, an age where dreams have no limits and still seemed accomplishable. At that time, it was my dream to be an Olympian. I was spending close to three hours in the pool, with motivation fueled by my Olympic dream. I began to idolize Jenny Thompson and Janet Evans, despite the fact that my times couldn’t even earn me a berth to the South Dakota State Swim Meet.

The Olympic dream was inspired by the anticipation of that summer’s games in Atlanta, Geo. It was beginning of my love for the Olympic games.

Each day, after my noon practice, I would race home, greet the television and spend the afternoon watching the world’s top athletes compete for a piece of gold. At the time, I stuck with more popular sports swimming, track and field and gymnastics, but athletes from various sports motivated me to be something more than I actually could be. I teared up when the yellow-cubed clocked flashed a 19.32 and sprinter Michael Johnson set a new 200-meter world record in his gold Nikes. I swam my breast stroke sets without goggles, because that is what Olympian Amanda Beard did. And I held my breath with the rest of the world when gymnast Kerry Strug landed the vault on one foot and won U.S.’s first women’s gymnastics team gold.

In school that year, I covered my desk in pictures of Janet Evans, Michael Johnson and Dominique Moceanu.

From that games on, I have been addicted. The summer games hold a bigger piece of my heart, but Shaun White and downhill skiing give me reason to watch the winter games. During each summer games, I’ve tried to take in more of the Olympics as my dream to be an Olympian faded.

In 2000 in Sydney, a fifteen-year-old swimmer struck a particular cord with me. He was my age in my sport, and I was intrigued. He didn’t take home a medal, but I knew there was something special about him. As my swim teammates gushed over Aussi Ian Thorpe, I told them to watch out. “Michael Phelps is going to be amazing someday,” I proclaimed. And, well, I was right.

In 2004, I cheered as Phelps won eight medals, six gold and started on his quest to be the best swimmer of all time. Last year, at the World Championships, Phelps won seven gold medals. I protested the significance to my editor and was able to give Phelps a small spot on our front page. It was on the rail, but I happy to see a color photo of my teenage-idol in my newspaper.

This year, the entire world is watching Phelps try accomplish to hefty goals – become the most decorated Olympian of all time and win a record eight golds in one Olympics. Leading up to the games, I have devoured every TV spot, article and commercial featuring Phelps. Not am I only attracted to him, I am captivated with his work ethic, his focus, his determination.

Many claim that Phelps can’t do it and that he is overrated, but each race I am cheering for him. One article claimed Phelps to be the true definition of Olympian and I want that to reign through as he tries to complete his goals. Watching him chase his dreams has made me think about mine.

I look back and laugh at my dreams to be an Olympian. I never had a chance. But after watching two days of Beijing Olympic coverage, I realized there are other dreams I can accomplish. It’s time to put check marks next to those goals. I can’t explain where I will begin and what I will cross off first, but it’s time to accomplish dreams.

I will never compete in the Olympics, but it is my dream to attend the games. So, I have decided to start saving so I can be in London in 2012. I want to take it all in and feel all the passion around me just for instant. It will be a dream that I will cross off. Another one I hope to cross off is Michael Phelps. I’ll probably never marry him like I proclaim, but it’s my goal just to see him swim. Just once.

Fairytales

We all meet couples that we can’t help but envy. They seem so happy together, so in love that it mocks the single folks. They are so well matched that the greatest of cynics can’t help but feel a bit of jealousy.

They started dating in the early years of high school. He graduated a year ahead of her and went on to play college ball. She followed him. Their high school romance endured the awkward college transition years, and in their final year, he proposed. A few months after graduation, they were married and started a new life close to both their families.

I only know them by face and name, but lately I find myself imagining what their relationship was like. They probably were giddy teenagers in love and the object of jealousy for other high school girls. He probably took her to dances and she probably cheered his name proudly at games. Even in high school, their friends probably guessed they would eventually get married. They probably did too.

Then they took their relationship into a different world during college. Maybe at times it wasn’t easy. Maybe he was enticed by the buffet of college girls and wonder what life would be like as a single man.

She may have let her eye wander a time or two as new people came into her life. Or maybe she was ready to settle down with him and frustrated that he may never want to take their relationship to the next level.

Maybe they fought and sometimes doubted if their love would actually work. Maybe they weren’t sure if they could persevere through all the changes and self discovery that comes with college. They’ve may even took a break at one point during their relationship.

Or maybe, they never doubted. Maybe they always knew that they would spend the rest of eternity together. They may have never thought anyone else could compare.

Whatever bumps and bruises their relationship endured, it wasn’t enough to break it. One summer night, they stood before God, family and friends and planned to be together as long as they both shall live. I’ve seen pictures of this event, and he wore that look in his eyes – the look that told the world he was the happiest man on the planet.

They might have been made for each other, but they were not destined to spend forever together. Just about two weeks before their one-year anniversary, the man was tragically killed in an accident. This perfect couple didn’t even have a year at marriage.

This was two great people who wanted nothing more than to be with each other, and they didn’t get that. They only had 11 months, and now that poor girl must rebuild her entire life.

At times like this, it’s hard to believe in fairytales. When you see two people ripped at the seams like that, even a stranger can’t help but shed a few tears. It breaks the heart.

Although nothing that heartbreaking has ever happened to me, the only thing I can conclude is that everything does happen for a reason. We may not know answers, but we know the lessons. We can’t change life’s unfairness, we just have to accept it.

When tragedy does strike, all we can remember is the blessings we had. Maybe fairytales are real. They might not last forever, but they have shining moments, even if those moments only last 11 months.

Mission Statements

Companies and organizations use mission statements to promote their purpose. It's their identification, their reason for existence.

At work, I am part of a committee that is dedicated to finding a mission statement for our organization. I have poured of several mission statements, depicting each word and phrase. I have broken down what our organization actually does and why we are an important entity.

Yesterday, I took a walk around campus to truly understand my our organization. I stopped at different buildings, hoping their presence would shed light some light on my task. I examined people that I passed, hoping to find meaning in their faces. At the end of my walk, it hit me. I realized what we were about and why we do what we do. I headed back to the office and presented my realizations to the group. We hammered out a mission statement and sent an email to our CEO, explaining each word.

Mission statements are an everlasting guiding light. They remind us of our purpose when we have lost of sight of it. They keep us moving forward when it seems so much is keeping us still. Companies and organizations are almost chaotic without one.

So why shouldn't our lives have mission statements, a reminder of why we are really here on this earth? I have decided to write a mission statement for my life. It will be my guide when I come to a cross roads and maybe it will help figure out what the heck I want to do with my life.

I think I am gonna play around with this for a few weeks and let you know how it goes. I need to really look at what's important to me and how I want to live my life. So much is coming to me right now that I am not sure I can verbalize it all. With that, I am gonna start thinking about this and, hopefully soon, I will have a mission for my-so-called life

Election Madness

With a black man and white woman facing off each day for the Democratic Party nod, the 2008 presidential election will be an exciting chapter in future U.S. history classes. Not only has the race for America’s top job expanded its usual race and gender, more Americans than ever are deeply interested in the outcome. And rightfully so with two on-going wars, an economy that gets worse by the day, an environment that is stretched to its limit, several foreign enemies and eight previous years of awfulness.

This election will also have a specific imprint on South Dakota’s history, because for once, our voice matters. South Dakota is one of the last state’s to host both its Republican and Democratic primaries. Usually, both parties have selected their go-to-guy (or in this case, woman) and have turned their attention towards November. But not this year.

Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton are still waging daily wars for the Democratic nomination. Although Obama leads in delegates and the popular vote, he hasn’t clinched the nomination and Clinton refuses to give up. Most people are fed up with this race and a ready to move on, but South Dakotans are enjoying their moment in the spotlight.

Leading up to tomorrow’s primary, at least one of the Clintons – Hillary, Bill, Chelsea – have been campaigning in South Dakota. Obama has also made several stops throughout the major regions of the state. It’s not very often that our little state receives so much attention from a presidential candidate, or the national media, and frankly, it’s pretty cool.

Until the last few weeks, I have paid some but not much attention to the election. I had an extremely general idea of where each candidate stood, but for the most part, I was out of the loop. I tried to change that when the focus to turned to South Dakota. I was unable to make Clinton’s or Obama’s first stops to South Dakota. I did watch both speeches online and was more intrigued by Clinton’s policies and promises.

I had the opportunity to see Hillary in Brookings a few weeks ago, but because PR is often more important than true public service, I didn’t actually get to see her. They hosted her in an aluminum shed, about 400 yards from my sophomore on-campus apartment. Roughly 200 people were able to squeeze into this shed, while another 150 tried to get a glimpse of her from the outside. Lee and I didn’t plan accordingly so we were in the back and unable to see or hear anything.

I also made plans to see Bill and Chelsea in Flandrea, about 20 minutes south of Brookings this week, but those fell through when my brother came to visit.

On Sunday, I had one last opportunity to see Obama in Mitchell but wasn’t sure I was going to make the two-hour drive, until my father called. “This might be your only opportunity to see the next president of the United States,” he said. I took his advice and invited a friend along. The trip was an absolute success. I sat five feet away from him, shook his hand, received a hearty “Thank you” and smile from him and even got his autograph. I met some great Obama supporters and got a good close up of the unbelievably cute secret service men. Most importantly his speech was so incredibly inspiring that I got goosebumps. I truly believe that he is the man with plan. There is something so magnetic about him that you just believe he can change the nation.

Unfortunately, tomorrow is the primary and I cannot vote. South Dakota has closed primaries, and independent, that leaves me out. Some have asked me why I didn’t just change my party, but that would go against my morals. I refuse to belong to either party and would rather sit this primary out then associate myself to an elephant or a donkey.

Instead, I will encourage my fellow South Dakotas who can vote to make the choice they feel is right. No matter who wins tomorrow, Obama or Clinton, I will support him or her into November.

Around the 5th minute, you can see me


The Man with the Plan



Beck and I getting ready to see the future President of the United States of America

Ha ha

I think one of my most notable personality traits is that I like to laugh, a lot. I laugh when I am scared, tired, angry, hurt, stressed, anxious, happy and any other time in between. Some people might think that is annoying, I think it's a good way to look at life. And it's also healthy. Long live the good joke.

We all want to change the world

I just finished watching Part 1 of a Bob Dylan documentary, "No Direction Home." I will not pretend that I know anything about Bob Dylan or am even a big fan of the man they call "the best song writer of all time." Yet, I was utterly fascinated about the first part of his life. He was the 20-year-old who wrote simple ballads that changed people's lives.

Part 1 was dedicated to Dylan's beginning, his adventure from a small Minnesotan town to the big stage with the big recording deal. Dylan discussed his musical influences and how he wrote what he was feeling at that time. Nothing more, nothing less.

At first I couldn't understand what it was about him that captivated me. As I drove home from my friend's house, I flipped through the radio. In the few minutes it took to get back to my apartment, I stopped on an advice radio show, a class rock station, a pop station and a country station. Then different scents, the lilacs in their prim sprouting and the smoke from a nearby backyard fire, caught my attention and drifted it else where. Then a glance to the star-speckled sky brought on a whole other set of emotions and feelings.

Then it hit me. Bob Dylan knew music was his life, and that is all he ever knew. Me, I can't tell you what I want to do tomorrow, let alone what will be the meaning of my life. But Dylan did what made him happy, even though the odds where against him at times.

Each day, I am learning to do only the things that make me happy. I will never leave the legacy Bob Dylan did, but I hope to one say I lived for my passion the way he did.

A year later

This post has been marinating my head for weeks, but I needed the right set of emotions and enough time to give it justice. I guess Saturday mornings are my prime blogging time. This post will probably be all over the place because I am writing what my heart and mind say. I am working through these issues as I write them, so be warned.

The other day I realized that it’s my friend’s birthday tomorrow. He will be 22. Usually, I would make a mental note to wish him happy birthday, but this little reminder stopped me. His 21st birthday happened to fall on my last night in Brookings, my going away party. The next day, I said goodbye to Scott with the intentions to try the long-distance thing and drove to Pierre. A day later I was west bound to a new life.

The last few weeks have been filled with similar “oh, how life has changed” moments, and each one stings like a punch in the mouth. But what bothers me the most is that I am not sure why it’s so painful.

I don’t have any regrets about moving back to Brookings. I honestly love my job and actually feel good at it, feelings I didn’t have at the Journal. I enjoy my coworkers and am proud to be involved in such a significant moment in SDSU’s history.

I’ve come to realize that reporting isn’t for me, and I highly doubt that I’ll ever go back. I am having this mini-career crisis (I will post more about that when I feel comfortable to talk about it) and have started to look at the next step in my life and thereafter. Although I see writing intertwined in my future, I don’t see reporting.

I’ve written a few stories for work, and it painfully reminds that me I am not cut out to be a reporter. I am not happy doing it anymore, and the thought of covering the big story for the big paper is no longer a turn on.

At times, living in Brookings really isn’t easy, especially for a 23-year-old professional. I am not a student, but I also don’t feel like a member of the community. I just fall through the cracks and can’t seem to my footing. Still, there is something about this community that is calming.

In Idaho, I had troubles finding a route to work. There were plenty of options, but each one depressed me about going to work. I would drive by worn down buildings or get stuck in after-school traffic. I hated the different stoplights, and the over pass. I hated the houses and I hated the other drivers. I thought that if I could find the right route, going to work wouldn’t be so bad. I never did find that route.

In Brookings, I have a straight shot from my apartment to work. In the mornings, it takes about seven minutes with the two stop lights and two four-way stops. Lately, I have started riding my bike and it takes the same amount of time. This route includes some nice houses, lots of trees and the Campanile. I don’t get depressed about going to work.

What I am trying to say in this commuting example is that I don’t think I miss Idaho. Don’t get me wrong, I miss parts of Idaho. I miss my friends there so very much. There isn’t a weekend that goes by that I don’t long to have a game night with them or have a beer at Hooligans. Sometimes, when I had too many to drink, I get emotional about my Idaho friends like a girl would over an ex-boyfriend she is still in love with. I often daydream about them coming to Brookings and what would I show them and what we would do. They are the number one reason this move has been hard.

I also really miss being in the mountains. I had made plans to learn how to rock climb this summer, and I miss being able to go for a hike any day that I want. I still find stuff to do around here, but I do miss having that outdoor playground. And the mountain scenery, that is one thing that could calm me on my way to work.

But when I think about little things about my life in Idaho, like driving down Arthur or grocery shopping, I really don’t miss it. When you put my Idaho life and my Brookings life side by side, Brookings wins. I like my job better. I like my apartment better. I can run into my brother at any give moment and it doesn’t cost $400 to see my parents. I run more. I read more. I sleep better. I write more. I socialize more. I pray more.

So, then why can’t I get past these feelings that I am a failure? I’ve blogged before that in college I valued success with how far I could move away, and that theory is so deep that’s been really hard for me to change my way of thinking.

When I left for Idaho last year, I was so excited. I was finally doing something I’ve always wanted to do, leave South Dakota. I never thought about what life would be like once I actually got there. I didn’t bother to think that it might not be the place for me. I just expected Idaho to change everything. I put Idaho on this pedestal, never doubting if it should be there.

What I still have to remind people, and myself, is that I didn’t leave Idaho because I hated it. I left because I was given an opportunity to pursue another dream. If I never had lunch with Sherry or she didn’t make the offer, I would still be in Idaho working at the Journal. I would be enjoying time with my friends and living a pretty good life.

But God had a different plan. I know I am supposed to be here, even if I don’t understand why. I was meant to go to Idaho and work at the Journal, and then I was meant to move back and work here. And next year, I will follow another road intended for me.

Maybe these feelings are coming from the fact that I am staying still while everyone else is moving around me. One of my friends is moving to Montana and another to Iowa. Two of my close friends have possible job opportunities in North Dakota and many are talking about moving, weddings and babies. I’ve had so many life changing decisions the last year, and now that everyone else is getting the chance to change their life, I am a bit jealous. I just need to sit this round out and realize that I have a job most people would be glad to take.

When it comes down to it, I need to learn how to be happy in the now. I miss my friends in Idaho but I love being with my friends and family here and I love my job. I just need to stop being a baby and realize I have been dealt some pretty good cards in life.

No matter what I have just posted here, life is actually really good. Who knows, maybe in a year I will look back on this moment and long for these days. Knowing me, probably.

Coach

My career as a journalist was short lived, my stint in sports was even shorter, but some stories and subjects will always be with me. A few people struck me in a way that I can’t forget, even if they do, and I will forever feel privileged to tell a piece of their story.

I knew there was something unique about John Stieglemeier the first time I interviewed him. Although I can’t remember the story assignment, I remember meeting him for the first time. As a meek freshman journalism major, I called Stig and asked for a interview. He agreed and I arrived at his office promptly. My nerves got the best of me and my stomach tumbled as I waited for him in his dark office. This was a big deal, I mean, he was the head football coach.

As ten minutes passed, he still hadn’t arrived. I tried to imagine what he would be like. Stereotypically, I figured he would be a gruff man with a short temper and an arrogant tone.

I glanced at the clock, 20 minutes passed our scheduled meeting time. I would have
waited another 20 minutes and another 20 minutes based on how important this interview was, but something more important was happening 50 miles away in Sioux Falls: my then-boyfriend was going back to Iraq after a two-week leave.

Hurriedly, I wrote a note explaining that I had to leave and left my phone number to set up another appointment. I was barely out of the parking lot when Stig called me. He apologized profusely, saying he was meeting with another coach. I explained my situation, also apologizing, hoping he would grant me another chance to ask my questions.

“Go. That’s where you need to be,” he reassured me.

At that moment, I realized that Stig wasn’t your typical football coach. Four years later, after heart-wrenching losses and unexpected wins, Stig hasn’t convinced me otherwise.

Before my senior year, I was a sporadic Jackrabbit football fan. I enjoyed the occasional game for social reason mostly, and when I was introduced to tailgating glory, I rarely missed a game. Still, I couldn’t tell you the quarterback’s name.

Then, during my senior year, I wrote a few pre-season stories and met up with Stig again. He had a gleam in his eyes as he talked to me about playing as a family. For the same stories, his players told me they believed, better yet, they knew they were going to take the conference and beat rival North Dakota State.

Fat chance, I thought. There was no way in hell that would happen. It was, after all, SDSU’s third year in Division I and the Jacks finished fourth in the five-team conference the previous season. I guess it’s good to dream big, but that just makes the fall to reality that much harder, I thought.

After a roaring 0-3 start to the season, I chuckled to myself as I thought about Stig and his bright-eyed, bushy-tailed players who believed the conference championship wasn’t only in reach, but winnable. Again, no way in hell.

Then something remarkable happened that changed the entire season. The Jacks were 1-3 when they made the trek to Louisiana to face 16th-ranked McKneese. With five minutes remaining, McKneese had a solid 17-6 lead over SDSU. Still, Stig reminded his team he believed it could win. After a 46-yard Parker Douglas field goal and a 40-yard-touchdown pass to JaRon Harris that put the game 17-15, quarterback Andy Kardos told his coach he knew he could get the two-point conversion. Since Stig practices what he preaches, he believed him and gave the qb the chance. Kardos didn’t disappoint as the game tied. Another Douglas field goal and the win belonged to the Jacks.

Stories the next few days talked about belief and never backing down and, as a sucker for feel-good stories, I was more intrigued with Jackrabbit football than ever. After another win, the Jacks found themselves in a similar position against Cal Poly, the conference champs the season before. But belief struck again and the players started chanting “McKneese” as the Jacks fought from a deficit in the fourth quarter for a 29-28 win.

But it didn’t stop there. The next week, Hobo Day, fans started drifting out of Coughlin-Alumni Stadium as UC Davis grabbed a 21-7 lead before halftime. The Jacks pushed back, ending the third quarter 17-10, but it wasn’t enough for fans to continue enduring the cold and prolong the usual Hobo Day festivities. My friends left, but I stayed knowing, believing, it was about to get good, despite the score. As we watched, Brian Kimmes said to me: “That team believes they can win. They know this game is still theirs.”

Of course they won 22-21, and I was addicted to their belief. To have players who constantly believe they can win when numbers say otherwise is the product of fantastic coaching. With each comeback win, I became more fond of the Jacks and Stig. If he could convince these rowdy college football players they are capable of winning even though most believe they couldn’t, well, he had my support.

In those weeks, I read anything I could about the Jacks. The Argus had just hired a delightfully talented sports writer to cover the Jacks and I devoured anything that mentioned the team. When I first saw an article, I would skim it just to read Stig’s quotes, then going back to read the entire article. I was empowered by his optimism and faith, hoping they would predict the next Saturday’s game.

But the Jack’s belief trick didn’t uphold with every opponent. SDSU did make it to the conference championship game as did NDSU, and the state rivals squared off for each school’s first shot at a Division-I conference championship in the Fargodome, nonetheless. This time, once the Jacks got behind there was no returning and SDSU allowed the Bison to take the Dakota Marker and the conference championship.

The next day, I was a bit shocked at Stig’s remarks from the game. Instead of saying what everyone else was saying – a well fought match against tough opponents – he ripped his team saying they shouldn’t be happy at all of how the game ender. This surprised me because Stig was never one to come down on his players but he publicly shamed them after the season's biggest loss. I didn’t get that.

This past season, the Jacks had another rough start followed by a series of comeback wins. And this time, they did win the conference champion and the Dakota Marker, beat NDSU 29-24. Naturally, I read the next day’s story and Stig was proud, but not prideful. He was as graceful as a winner could be, crediting God and hardwork as key components. I wouldn’t have expected anything different from him.

This week, Stig was invited to speak at my office’s monthly meeting. He talked about approaching every situation as a team and always working as team. He talked about the belief he instills in his players, the same belief I imagine that ignited those comeback wins. He talked about giving a champion effort and always putting family first.

In his talk, he tried to relate his coaching techniques to the challenges we face at our office. He said that you have to ignore the skeptics and you must believe with every ounce you have that you can accomplish your goal.

He told us that average is not good enough, and that you can always do better. Right then, I remember his remarks after the NDSU game two years before and how hard he was on the team. Then it clicked. If he would have just said, “You know, that was good effort, guys,” the team wouldn’t have been thirsty for revenge, the Dakota Marker or the conference title.

Instead, they didn’t settle for average and kept believing they could beat NDSU and win the conference title, even when they were 0-4 on the season. They never stopped believing, and now the Dakota Marker and the Great West Conference Championship awards proudly sit in the SDSU trophy case.

After Stig’s speech, I went over to him and reintroduced myself as a former Collegian reporter. He remembered my face but not my name. I told him how much I’ve always enjoyed his message and thanked him for coming that day. He said it’s part of his job, but I’ve talked to enough football coaches to know that there aren’t very many John Stiegelmeiers in the world.

One of my coworkers, a former football player, later told me that Stig requires each player to participate in at least two community activities in order to letter. To me, that’s more impressive than even a national championship.

It’s a blessing and an honor to say that my favorite team is coached by a man who knows the game and knows there are more important things in life than the game and can combine those values and the field to produce a remarkable team.

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For the record, I believed the Jacks could beat the undefeated NDSU this past fall too. My coworkers mocked me when I said SDSU will win. I told them that to be a true Jackrabbit fan you must believe, and when you believe, they will win. It was sure nice to walk into work that evening and proclaim the score.

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Another note about our monthly meeting, I was chosen as May’s Act of Excellence awardee, meaning I was recognized for all of my hard work and dedication the last month. It’s a pretty neat thing, and I get a day off which I will be using when I visit Idaho this summer :)

A cry for help

I am currently at home on my lunch break and am browsing national news Web sites to see today’s headlines when I noticed something blogworthy.

The top story around the world is the 7.9 earthquake that struck China today, susceptibly killing thousands. Several counties are nearly destroyed in Sichuan Province and the death toll is expected to keep climbing as more bodies are found underneath rubble.

Another lead story on MSNBC is beginning of U.S. relief in Mynamar the site of a deadly cyclone. A week ago Saturday, another deadly storm ripped through the Asia Pacific, victimizing 2 million people. Currently, 100,000 people are reported dead or missing after the storm.

Below that story is a headline of another deadly storm. Tornadoes ripped through the plains and the south taking the lives of 23 people and leaving more communities in shambles.

Judging by these stories and the sound of roaring wind outside my apartment, Mother Nature is pissed about something.

I am a full believer that global warming is a serious issue facing our world and that something needs to be done NOW to stop it, but today’s headlines alone prove really what were up against in the fight against global warming.

I am not a scientist and can’t explain what role global warming played in recent storms, but the fact that so many deadly storms have it our planet so close together suggests that it is a factor. I just don’t have any other explanation for it.

Two years ago, we saw one of the most vibrant cities in America, New Orleans, become the poster child for disastor relief. That city was ripped apart at the seems and life still isn’t the same, and it may never be. Last summer, I watched thousands of acres burn down to the ground because of forest fires in the northwest. And each year, more and more tornadoes seem to leave an imprint than they did the summer before.

These major storms might not be affecting us here in South Dakota, but they affect our planent and they should be a scary wake up call that something is wrong. We might be on the oppositeside of the world and think it won’t happen here. But there is no telling when some system is going to rip through a region, killing several South Dakotans and wiping away our communities.

We can’t keep living like this. We can’t keep watching people die from weather. When storms become this bad, we can’t control them, but we can prevent them.

These storms are another lesson for me that I need to continually do my part to ensure my children and grandchildren have a healthy place to live.

To my mother

Happy Mother's Day, momma.

You are my friend, my inspiration, my head cheerleader, my counselor, my backbone. Thank you for everything you have done for me in the last year and always being there whenever I needed you, day or night. Thank you for understanding and supporting my choices and decisions this past year. I know I can always count on you for strength when I need it. I have learned so much from you and I hope to one day be half the mother you are. You are a wonderful woman, human being and mother and I am glad to be your daughter.

Love you.

Happy Birthday Jason!

To my little brother,

I hope you had a wonderful 20th birthday! You'll always be 5 years old in my eyes.

Love,
Your sister

Dynamite & Dreams

A few months ago, I met a guy from New York in Idaho who asked me about the oddity that is Mt. Rushmore. I told him what I knew and continued on about the other mountain sculpture, Crazy Horse. He was taken back by these South Dakota monuments and I didn’t have any other response for him other than, “Yeah, it’s weird.”

I’ve been to Mt. Rushmore a few times, but not Crazy Horse. All I knew about the monument up till yesterday is that it was a half-finished sculpture of the great Indian hero, Crazy Horse. I am embarrassed about how little I know about this fascinating piece of rock as a native South Dakota.

Yesterday, Viga and Monique Ziolkowski came to our office after speaking at the annual Women & Giving event. The sisters are daughters of Korczak Ziolkowski, the founder and creator Crazy Horse. Their mother, Ruth, is currently the head of the Crazy Horse Foundation. They told their story of their family’s dedication to the dream of their father. This is one of the best stories I have ever heard, and it really made me think of my life’s purpose.

Korczak came from Boston in 1948 to carve the memorial in the South Dakota Badlands. He was in his 40s and left his entire life behind to chase this crazy dream that no one thought was possible.

As a prominent sculptor, Korczak was contacted by Lakota Chief Henry Standing Bear to create a memorial that would honor the pay tribute to the North American Indians. He lived in a tent, eventually building a log home, and spent day after day on that mountain working on the sculpture.

Most people thought he was insane. They didn’t think he could finish it and he was just wasting his life. There was no way he was ever going to give up or let the criticisms stomp his dream. Korczak believed in the Indians and was deeply troubled by how they have suffered. Not only did he want to give them an eternal memorial, he made plans for a hospital and a university. He wanted to give back what was taken from them.

Korczak believed in dreaming big, but knew he wouldn’t see his dream become a reality. Yet he never gave up. In fact, the passion he had for that memorial became the passion of his wife and his children. Today, Ruth and seven of her ten children have dedicated their life to Crazy Horse. They also know that the memorial probably won’t be finished in their lifetime, but everyday they are still on that mountain, just like their father.

Ruth works seven days a week. She goes to work every morning at 5 a.m. and works until 12 a.m. She spends her day working toward the next step. Every night, she writes thank yous to every single Crazy Horse Foundation donor.

Although the memorial has made much progress in 60 years and they are now holding classes at the American Indian University, there is still a lot of work to be done. There are still naysayers who believe the project will never be complete, but that doesn’t stop the Ziolkowskis. They don’t believe in giving up because they were raised not to give up. They are chasing a big dream, but they know it will make a credible difference. That alone is worth continuing.

After Viga and Monique’s presentation, I began to think about what I am doing to leave an imprint in this world, not very much. Their story made me hungry to help people more than ever and to live a life worthwhile.

Last May, I left my friends, family and the life I know behind to chase a dream. I found a new dream in Idaho and decided to chase it back to Brookings. It wasn’t easy or cheap, and sometimes I can feel people are judging me for those decisions, but this is my dream.

I went into journalism because I thought I was doing the Lord’s work through my story telling. I left newspapers for a lot of reasons, but one of them was because I didn’t think I was making a difference anymore.

Now, I am working for an organization that’s sole purpose is to offer quality education. Although not directly, I help raise money for scholarships, programs and buildings. Each day, it is our duty to help create the best possible South Dakota State University we can.

Viga and Monique mentioned the campaign my organization is about to enter and the money we setting to raise. They said that we might not see the end result of the changes we are trying to make in our lifetime, but the work we do will make a difference for generations to come.

I really do feel like the work I do makes a difference, and although it may not be very significant, I am proud of that.

The Ziolkowski’s story really inspired me that you should never give up on dreams and that you should always dream big. I am some big dreams for my future and I plan to never give up on them. A life without dreams is pointless and meaningless.

I think we all could be reminded of the Ziolkowskis and their inability to even consider giving up as a possibility. Not matter what or how big your dream is, never let anyone tell you that it is impossible. As Korczak used to say, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

I am currently sitting in Cottonwood doing some long overdue writing. It’s currently pouring outside as I sit in the dim lit coffee house on Main Street. As I contemplate what I want to write next, iTunes is playing my favorite raining day song, “Songs about Rain.”

I love this song when it’s raining, snowing or sunny. Every time I hear it, it takes me back to my sophomore year when I played it over and over as I dealt with my first heartbreak. Yet, it doesn’t really make me think of the guy. It makes me think of the person I have become since that time.

Right as the song goes into the chorus, the rain outside picks up as if to match the beat. Gary Allen’s soothing voice always brings a smile to face and makes me wish time would just stop for a minute. The piano and guitar notes mix so sweetly together and I decided to listen to it one more time. One more time just to sit and stare at the splashes on the dark gray cement. One more time to enjoy the song at the best possible time – when it’s raining.

I might be a runner afterall

The soreness in my stomach muscles taunted me while my mouth, full of snotty cobwebs, reminded me that maybe I wasn’t actually ready for this. I kept my eyes on the pink tank top ahead of me, while visioning the stretches and turns still to come. The beats coming out of the earphones connected to my iPod kept my pace. I was still surprised I was doing this.

In sixth grade, Mr. Halling made an announcement about cross country sign up for seventh grade. Not really sure what cross country was, I signed up thinking this would be the greatest thing I ever did. When I told my mom about my plans to tryout for the team, she looked at me like I had told her I was running away from home. I didn’t care; I was going to run cross country.

The day that I walked into that dark junior high gym was start of a passionate relationship between a sport and a girl who had no business being in it. I ran cross country until my senior year of high school, despite the fact that I got slower each year. I made the varsity team my sophomore year, but busted my butt my senior year just to earn the number seven spot to run at ESD and state. But love is blind and I was in love.

Every summer day, I ran the streets of Pierre, dreaming about the upcoming fall season. My teammates would see me out running and make a small comment about my hard work, but they would usually out run me during the season. One year, I recorded the second most miles that summer. The only person who ran more than me was Brad Lowery, who is one of the top runners to come out of Pierre. He went on to be a star runner for South Dakota State University and is currently training for the Olympics.

Running was drug. When practice started for the season, I could occasionally run later in the day. If I didn’t run, I would have a panic attack. Running fed my eating disorder and it was my friend when I thought no one else was.

I cried at the state meet my senior year, knowing it was my last race, but I knew I would never stop running. I continued on to college and found a running partner in my hall. Our routine fell apart after the first semester when we both became busy with class and other activities. I still tried to find time to run, but it wasn’t an everyday thing.

Through the next three years, my runs were sporadic, used mostly when I wanted to shed a few pounds.

My love for running was suppressed, but it wasn’t deleted. It was my medicine when school became too much, when The Collegian nearly destroyed me, when I was healing a broken heart or when I just needed something stable in my life. It was my punching bag when life dealt me some pretty tough cards. From choosing SDSU to accepting the job in Idaho, running was my counselor during big decisions.

Once I left South Dakota for Idaho, running never felt right. I did enjoy runs on the ISU cross country course and at City Creek, but runs were forced. It didn’t help that the long and unexpected hours of my job made it a bit hard to run on a consistent basis.

I missed running, though. In Idaho, I became the cross country expert in the area, giving the sport more attention than it’s ever received. I eagerly signed up for assignments during the Pocatello Marathon, while my fellow sports writers moaned at the thought of actually attending the painfully-long event. Most races, I teared up at the stories of these incredible people. I wanted to love running like they did. And I really wanted running to love me back.

Then I moved back to Brookings, and I made a commitment to running. I was going to give it my all, and I was going to fall in love with it again. I decided to take our relationship to a new level and race again. I really wanted to run a marathon, but that was a commitment running and I weren’t ready for. So I settled on a 5K instead.

I signed up for the race without much concern. I knew the course well, since it was on campus. I have been running that route for four and half years and can literally point out places with significant meaning. There is the stretch on 22nd avenue that I would sprint in hopes that a particular guy might be leaving his apartment at the same time. The little pass by Coughlin-Alumni Stadium that I would run during fall football camp. The spot by Animal Science that I broke down when I thought I was going to fail macro-economics. The spot where I flew kites with my then-boyfriend, thinking I could spend the rest of my life with him. Yeah, this route and I know each other well.

Since I had no real plans of winning, I shouldn’t have been nervous. But I was. I hadn’t raced since high school, and I wasn’t sure I knew how to do it anymore. I watched what I ate that day and said a little prayer, just like I used to when I wore the kelly green uniform.

My stomach was in knots when I arrived at the start line; I wasn’t sure why. I had nothing to prove or to lose, I just wanted to run. The race started with an unexpectedly casual “go” and we were off. To my surprise, not many people were in front of me. The woman in the purple tank top jetted past me less than 200 yards from the start, and then the older woman in the pink tank top made her move. I kept behind the pink tank top for a bit, and managed to move past her around the mile mark, but she made a play for me and was able to keep an edge on me the rest of the way.

Trying not to let my mental game win, which it does so many times, I focused on the purple and pink. I kept my arms low and just plowed through every turn and straightaway, trying to make sure no one else crept past me. A woman with an Obama ’08 shirt made her way past me with 400 meters left, but I really wasn’t bothered. I was already exceeding my expectations.

As I made the last turn by Brown Hall, I smiled at the volunteer and pushed hard to the flags. Then flashbacks of finish lines in Huron, Mitchell, Rapid City, Aberdeen and Brookings flooded my mind. I pictured my former teammates and their families yelling my name and high school girls in red, orange, black and blue uniforms as I pounded my legs into the finish line. It was almost like I went back in time five years.

I ran the 5K in 26-something minutes and I finished fourth in a pretty well-attended race. My time was so-so and I could have probably ran a bit harder to secure third, but I am incredibly proud of myself. I never thought I would do that well or feel the way I did when finished.

Today, I watched a bit of the Brookings Marathon just before mile maker 11. I watched young, old, men, women run past our corner, dripping wet from the rain. I studied their faces, and they were happy. They were tired, drenched and probably in pain, but they were happy. Many people think they are crazy, but I know they are in love. They are in love with something bigger than them and you can’t help but smile at that.

Monday, I am going to begin training for a marathon in Sioux City. I am going to run 26 miles that I am sure will be painful and exhausting and people will think I am crazy, but I don’t care. Love is blind, and I am in love.

The day I almost died

This is the infamous wave. Val took this right as I went over the rocks. You can see Brandon off to the left. He yelled my name right as she snapped this shot.


A few posts ago, I mentioned that someday I would tell the story of how I almost died. For your enjoyment, here is that story.

This past February a few friends and I traveled to the Virgin Islands to visit my good friend Brandon, who moved to St. Croix in October. Before he even had an apartment, my friend Niki had a ticket booked. Andrew and Val booked theirs about a month later, then convincing me to go too. Elissa bought her ticket after Christmas and, not much later, Niki's boyfriend Jim bought one too.

For me, this trip came at pretty poor financial time. When I bought my ticket, I was planning another year or two in Poky, but plans don't always work out that way. So I spent most of my savings moving back to Brookings and my bank account was wiped out.

Mentally, this trip came a pretty great time. Between deciding to moving back, leaving my Idaho friends, a strenuous drive back to SD, moving, starting a new job and learning to live in Brookings again, I was wiped out.

When we told Brandon we were visiting, he said you have to be open to new things. I believe in that as a life motto, so I was game. On the third day of our visit, we decided to visit go on adventure to see a tide pools near an 18th century harbor.

There are two ways to get to the tide pools -- by hiking and by jeep. Since we didn't have a jeep and didn't want to pay the extra money, we hiked. Hiking in Idaho brought me a lot of peace when I needed it, so, again, I was game.

Niki and I decided to be the official picture takers of the trip so we lagged behind a bit to photograph every leaf and interesting creature along the way. We came to a green-mossy covered rock, and I decided to hop over it. Well, my foot slipped and I fell backwards, busting my camera.

I was devastated. This was a $200 camera and it was the third day of our trip. I tried really hard to remain optimistic. I told myself that I could have seriously gotten hurt on the fall. If the worst thing to happen me on this trip was breaking my camera, then it wasn't so bad. As much as I tried this optimistic approach, it just wasn't working.

The pain of losing my camera was bit minimized when we actually got to the tide pools. The ocean reflected the most captivating blue I had even seen (well other than SDSU blue that is :) The rhythmic crashing of the waves was the best music I had ever heard. I wanted to stay out there for the rest of my life.

To actually get to the tide pools, we had to climb around black, jagged pieces of rock. Because we still had to hike back, we swapped our tennis shoes for flip flops. I don't remember the climb to be too difficult, but I was still in awe of the beauty around me. After a few minutes of climbing, we discovered and pale green pool sheltered by more black rock. We were accompanied by small green fish and the waves crashing against the rocks that blocked the ocean. Again, I wanted stay here for life.

Brandon and Andrew decided to climb up on the rocks to get a better view of the ocean. And if they were going to do it, so I was. All that I could see was blue with ripples of white getting closer and closer to shore. Every problem and doubt that existed in my life was temporarily erased at that moment.

On top of the rocks were smaller pools about the size of a hot tub. I wanted to sit in one so I ventured away from my friends to do so. I heard Brandon tell me to hold on because a big wave was coming, so I just assumed that if I ducked down in the small pool I would be fine.

The wave was stronger than any of us anticipated and it turned me around so that my back was facing the ocean and I was pinned up against the rocks of the smaller pool. I thought that was it, but the waves kept gushing and I did a backwards somersault over the rocks. I managed to grasp on to a rock before I would’ve fallen five to six feet into the ocean. At this point I am hanging off the edge of the rocks and there is nothing that is blocking me from the ocean.

As I flipped over Brandon yelled my name. He later told me that that was the scariest moment of his life. He thought I was gone.

Andrew was startled when Brandon screamed and lost his balance. The wave knocked him around a bit and he ended up with a nice size gash in his foot.

The only thing I was thinking at this moment is that this can't be it. I was bound and determined not to let the ocean take my life. I wasn't done yet and I knew God thought so too.

Once the wave calmed down, I yelled for Brandon's help. He made it over to me and helped me up before the next wave came. When I realized that I was safe and what just happened, I call I could do was laugh. I was hysterical.

Still high on adrenaline, we jumped back into the tide pools. From that point on until we got back to Brandon's car, my entire body was shacking. As we climbed around the rocks again to get back to the trail, Brandon guided my every step because my legs were trembling.

I laughed to myself as we hiked back that losing my camera earlier in the day was nothing compared to losing my life. And then that thought got me thinking.

More than likely, I would have had my camera with me on top of the rock. I would have probably been snapping shots as the wave attacked me. Because I believe that everything happens for a reason, I started to think that God had me purposely break my camera because it would have prevented me from grabbing on to the rock that saved my life.

That seems like a bit of a stretch to compare the two incidents but what happened later that day when I called my mom completely convinced me that this was true. She told me that my dad has the exact same camera I did and he never uses it so I could have his.

In the end, I didn't lose a camera and I didn't lose my life.

Happy Earth Day!

Remember to be nice to our little planet. She is the only one we have.

Right where I belong

The world turns around seven times from a Saturday to Saturday. Many lives are lost, and many just begin in that time period. In the big scheme of life, seven days is nothing. But to this 23-year-old grasping on to any spots of enlightenment, a new Saturday brought very polar feelings than the last Saturday.

Last Saturday I woke up knowing it was going to be a mentally exhausting day. It took me two hours to funnel my thoughts and feelings about being back in South Dakota to one cohesive post, yet I don't think I was very successful. My mind raced the entire day about what I was really doing in Brookings and maybe I was a failure for being here.

Today, though, is a new Saturday with an entirely new set of emotions and feelings. Today, I am happy and confident. The sun is shining and I am feeling pretty unstoppable at the moment.

This might just be a good day or it might be a new way of thinking, but I am happy to be where I am today. I am happy to be living this life in Brookings, South Dakota.

So what happened this week to whip up a new feeling towards life? I am not sure if there is anything I can perfectly frame as the reason I feel this way. Life isn't that neat.

A friend read some of his poetry for me last night. Although I don't know much about poems, I was envious of his capability to expose reality with such beauty and grace. One particular poem, called Snow Flake I think, felt like a page from my life story.

Because of our degrees and the first letter of our last names, we sat next to each other on graduation day. Three weeks later, I headed west to Idaho. A few more, and he went southeast 900 miles. We would spend hours on the phone describing our new lives, dreams and ideas for the next step. But with out a solid job or any potential offers, he moved back to Brookings in October. Months later, I did the same.

But what he did took much more courage than what I did. I came back because I had a job offer. There was no offer for him. He honestly had no idea what he was going to do back here or where he was going to live, he just decided that something was waiting for him. He eventually found a place to live and a job as a full-time pizza deliver at local eatery.

When he wrote Snow Flake, it was December. The poem described the way he realized that he was in the right place. He was a college-educated pizza delivery man in PoDunk, South Dakota and he felt confident that he was doing the right thing with his life.

I think I am reaching that point. I seem to be having more of these "Yup, this is right" moments. I had that feeling today as I stopped just to gaze at the Campanile for a few seconds. Again, when I stepped inside Coughlin-Alumni Stadium for the first time in 12 months.

I feel it when a fiery pink sunset in the western sky captures my attention. I feel it when I am having dinner or enjoying conversation with friends. It comes when I run into my brother randomly around town and when I am driving on Highway 14 toward the Yellow House. And it consumes me every time someone says "It's good to have you back."

I may not know where I am going to be in a year or what I will be doing. I don't know which of my dreams I am going to have to let go for another or what God will put in front of me. But what I do know is that everything has a purpose and I am exactly where I am meant to be.



As for my friend, he started his first full-time professional job about a month ago. We are living the dream.

Bengals vs. Jacks

When I first started covering Idaho State University women's basketball team, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between the Bengals and the Jackrabbits. At first, both teams seemed to be a bit more successful than their male counterparts. They both reached post-season tournaments in 2006 -- ISU, the NCAAs and SDSU, WNIT (the Jacks were still in transition mode and weren't eligible for the Big Dance). Also, they were lead by one dominant player: the Bengals, Natalie Doma and the Jacks, Megan Vogel. Both are very nice, dedicated women with potential in the WNBA. Even after I quit covering the Bengals and moved back to SD, I see another similarity between the two.

Today I was looking through the blog of my friends back at the Idaho State Journal. And topping the blog is posts about Jon Newlee's decision to leave Idaho State University for the University of Idaho. Here comes the Bengals-Jacks connection. About this time last year, Mr. Aaron Johnston announced his plans to leave the Jacks for the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay. Both were lateral moves for two very good coaches.

Johnston's announcement was not a big surprise to SDSU fans. He was the first coach at SDSU to prove that the Division I move was valid. He earned the Jacks' first D-I post-season berth, and although it was to the WNIT, no other women’s transitional team has been able to do that. He brought in the biggest crowds to Frost since the days when SDSU and USD were rivals. He put together a team that proved SDSU could be competitive at Division I. So it was no big surprise that some other school wanted to snatch him up.

But what was a surprise is what happened about 24 hours after Johnston's announcement. On the plane ride to Wisconsin, something struck deep with in him. Between the time it took to fly from Sioux Falls to Minneapolis - about 45 minutes - he realized he couldn't leave SDSU. As he waited in the Minneapolis Airport for his connecting flight, he called SDSU AD Fred Oien and asked if his counter offer still stood. According to Collegian reporter Brian Kimmes (:D), Oien called President David L. Chicoin, who confidently put the fate of Johnston's job in Oien's gut feeling about him as a man and as a coach. And with that, Johnston was back.

This is where the coincidences end. I am pretty darn sure Jon Newlee won't be returning to the Bengals. His heart isn't as tied to the university as Johnston's, and there is nothing wrong with that. He jokingly told me that he would probably cry himself to sleep after this year once his power duo, Doma and Andrea Lightfoot, were gone. Those two the type of players that don't come to Pocatello, Idaho, very often. Plus, the athletic department at ISU is a mess, to put it lightly. There is no money, no crowd support and no credible leadership. I don't blame him for leaving.

I used to make comparisons between Newlee's and Johnston's coaching styles. It was literally fire and ice, with Newlee roaring about every wrong move and Johnston rarely loosing his temper on the court. But they struck my interest in women's basketball and helped me find more appreciation for the sport.

I wish Newlee the best of luck in Idaho and will be rooting for Johnston and the Jacks as they work towards their first trip to the NCAAs.

As for the Doma and Vogel coincidence, Vogel was drafted her senior year to the Washington Mystics. She was later cut from the team only to become an intern. This year, she is one of three trying out for one spot with Minnesota Lynx. Her decision to try out just for the one team is not much a surprise for the St. Peter native. She needs to be close to home. Most here are hoping she'll get the spot so we can hop on over the cities to see the former Jack perform her famous arm pump. She might just be the Joe Mauer of Minnesota women’s basketball.

Doma, on the other hand, wasn't drafted. She, however, was signed to the Seattle Storm. I know she will do OK there. She is one heck of a player and a team leader. Knowing how much this meant to her, I am very happy for her. I just can't wait to see her in that Canadian jersey in the Olympics.