Life’s Teeter-Totter

It was game 4 of the Wilson Family Reunion Basketball Showdown. My dad, brothers and I were down 2 points in a “win by four” inspired overtime. Someone on my team had taken a shot, and it was rattling around the rim, clearly on its way out of the basket. We had really needed to score on that possession—one more basket from our opponents and team Stan Wilson had its first loss. I was determined that I was going to snag that all-important rebound and give us a second shot. There was one obstacle however, and that obstacle took the form of Trevor Winn, who was situated between me and my prized Evolution basketball. Trevor has at least 3 inches and 40 pounds on me, and it’s not exactly 40 pounds of fat, if you catch my drift. The game depended on that rebound though, and I was not going to walk away with a loss. I launched myself upwards and across the court, lunging, reaching, desperately trying to get the ball into my hands even if it took sheer willpower alone.

However, this is a physical, not a psychic world, and willpower only gets you so far. Trevor easily wrapped his big hands around the ball and began to bring it down to the safe position of cradled in his arms. As we all know, when you bring your arms in from completely outstretched, you have to bend your elbow. The problem now was that I was still hanging around in Trevor’s airspace, with my face right where that natural bending movement was about to place his elbow. With a resounding wham, I proceeded to plant my face on that elbow. The elbow won the brief physics battle with my neck, and suddenly my body was going from moving forward in a rather vertical position to moving backwards in a rather horizontal position. My arms were tangled up near the ball and thus my ill-advised flight attempt ended with my back slamming straight onto the hardwood, and my skull literally bouncing off the court a millisecond later. For the next two days I would suffer from whiplash and a stiff back, and I now sport a rather nasty bruise on my hindquarters.   

           

            I tell this story not to gain pity, but because story-telling is my classic way to get across a point. I believe there is a moral in this experience, and that moral traces its way back to my over-arching view of life. And as we know, Aaron’s views of life warrants a blog post. The moral in this story is simple. I wanted two things on that basketball court: I wanted to win, and I wanted to be able to walk off the court without injury. However, I ran into a situation where I couldn’t have both. In my mind, the pathway to victory demanded that I leap like a banshee and attempt to get that ball. Meanwhile, such a maneuver was extremely risky as far as keeping my good health intact goes. This is the dilemma of contact sports in a nutshell. It is an impasse—you want to win, but yet you want to keep healthy enough to play again. Sometimes those two goals are in direct opposition. But playing basketball isn’t a fork in the road. Somewhere there is a middle ground—at some level of competition I can win without ruining my body by trying. My goal then, is not to overdo on one side of this decision or the other, but rather to straddle the line and find the balance between these two.

            Once again, this applies well outside the narrow scope that is sports. Everywhere you look in life, you can find these similar problems. It sounds great when I play the piano super softly but by doing so I risk hitting a key so softly that no sound at all comes out. I can drive faster on the freeway to make an event on time, but if I get pulled over I’m certainly going to pay for it both in time and money. This is most obvious when looking at time. I could study my scriptures or I could study my schoolwork. I could go for a run or I could catch up on sleep. In economics, this is called an opportunity cost, and as a survivor of J. Kearl’s Econ 110, I can’t help but see these costs everywhere. If you look deep enough, everything you do cancels out something else. At the most basic level you can never have that last minute back. (This makes me very thankful if you’re still reading this, by the way).

            In some ways, this could be a fear-inspiring idea. You could ask yourself if you just wasted a couple minutes reading this post, for example. You could second-guess everything you do to make sure it was the absolute best thing. Let me tell you from experience; barring a miracle, you’re probably not going to always spend every second of your life, every dollar you make, and every thought you allow in your brain in the absolute best way.

            What are you supposed to take from this concept, then? I can’t answer that question for you, but I can share what this means in my life. When I start recognizing these dilemmas, when I start seeing the teeter-totter I’m standing on, I can do a much better job of finding that center point. Accounting, the field I’m most likely going to go into, is based on the premise that information leads to better decision making. When you know the facts, you can make the choice that is in most harmony with your desires. That applies here. I look for the seemingly impossible decisions in my life, and then I find a way to balance out my choices in a way that I think will do best. It is trial and error, yet I feel by at least knowing what is going on, my balancing act becomes much better, and my quality of life improves.

            Isn’t that what we all want?

Thai Tidbits: Expectations

         

     Though it hasn't been announced yet on this blog, I hope that most of my readers know by now that I have been called to serve a two-year mission in the Thailand, Bangkok Mission. I've been hesitant to post much about it, because to be honest, I have to fill two (and possibly three) talks at church on the subject. That’s no cakewalk for me, so I have been keeping my thoughts on it private until then. However, I since it is such a large part of my mind and my thoughts, it really is a shame not to share some of it. Thus it is that I introduce you to a new series on “Cool Air from A.C.”: Thai Tidbits. I hereby promise to post little facts about Thailand in general or my mission specifically and my thoughts on those facts, just to keep my readers up to speed.

            However, this is the inaugural post of the series, and with “Go Big or Go Home” as the theme for this kick-off, I’m about to tackle the deep issue of the realization of dreams. Strap in, because we are in for a long ride.

             A mission. My mission. As a Latter-day Saint young man, the very word “mission” by itself evokes visions. Visions of white shirts and ties, of doors to be knocked on, of farewells and homecomings, of nametags, of opening letters, of the Missionary Training Center, of exotic lands and exotic peoples. As you may have noticed, I tend to romanticize a lot of things. (And yes I just used the word “Romanticize” because I learned what it meant just this last semester and have been dying to use it.) When I talk about my favorite athlete, I don’t mention rippling muscles or primeval war cries, I wax poetically about his awe-inspiring control. When I talk about my favorite sport, I don’t mention the sweat and grime that comes from busting around the basketball court for an hour, I discuss the moments of creativity and the beauty I see in them. So if the average LDS boy can’t help but feel ‘caught up’ in the rush of excitement that a mission embodies, imagine what I, with my overactive imagination and over-analytical mind have felt.

            You see, my mission has been the focal point of my life since… Well, since I was born. Although it’s cliché to say, I literally grew up singing “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission”. Nearly every church lesson I ever had pointed in some way or another to the point of my life when I would don a little card with the name “Elder Wilson” on it—and if you think about it for a second, that is a ton of lessons, most likely in the thousands. Whenever I made “life goals”, serving a mission was at the top of the list. When someone asked me what it was that I was going to do with my life, “serve a mission for my church” was in some way part of my reply. This is all just to show you that my mission has been a part of me as long as I can remember.

That’s a lie though, because in fact, it has been more than just a part of me. It has defined me. I can distinctly recall a moment in my life when I made a life-altering decision to become more social, to break out of my comfort zone as a young teenager and become—not the introvert that I naturally felt inclined to be—but “a people person”. Perhaps such a thing would’ve happened as I grew up, perhaps it was a natural decision that everyone has to make, but I attribute much of what has happened in my life since that time to that decision; because at that time, I made a conscious change to become someone better. What inspired that move by me? Why, the realization that I would make a terrible missionary as the introvert that I was, of course.  

So what happens when an event which you have spent your entire life preparing for suddenly stops becoming a dream and starts being a reality? Is it even possible for such high expectations to be fulfilled? I for one believe that the two years I spend in Thailand will be everything I want, (in part because I am committed to putting in the effort to make it that way), but of course such an answer is exactly what you would expect from someone who hasn’t gotten to the reality yet. Perhaps this theme of the realization of expectations might be a subject for this blog as my mission looms closer and more dreams are realized. However, in one matter, I can definitively say that my expectations have been fulfilled, even exceeded.

For me, one aspect that has always been part of my ‘dream of a mission’ has been the mission president. I have a clear mental picture of wise spiritual giant who is stern yet loving, and passionate yet realistic—a leader who I will be eager to follow. Yesterday evening, I had a dream-to-reality moment, because I was privileged to walk into the MTC with my parents and meet President and Sister Senior, who on Thursday are leaving the States, flying to Thailand, to taking over the mission.

The experience was absolutely wonderful—and I walked away very uplifted. The Seniors were everything I’d hoped for and them some. They were funny, quickly breaking in the ice and getting to know us and each other. There wasn’t an awkward moment in the half hour we got to spend with them. President Senior especially took the lead role in the conversation, and I honestly don’t know how I could have been more impressed with the man. His manners were gracious—he said everything right—but I could sense that he wasn’t one to idle words; sincerity was beneath every compliment he bestowed, and even in something as simple as “it’s a pleasure to meet you”, you could tell that he actually meant it. Yet he contrasted this kindness with an abounding enthusiastic about his role, and seemed ready to take the missionary work in Thailand to a new level. From passing comments I could see that he was going to demand my all for the work—there was a steely fire inside of him that promised seriousness about our task to preach the gospel. But that was and is fine with me; that’s the reason we will both be there. Why not give our all? Spirituality abounded as well, and it was obvious that this man was an inspired servant of the Lord. Honestly, I feel that if President Senior told me I needed to open up a new area in the depths of heck, I would do it in a heartbeat.

A day later, I’m still in a little bit of a daze—could I have gotten so lucky? I cannot wait to get over there. Despite the wonderful plans I have for this summer, I would be fine leaving tomorrow. Any apprehensions I had about Thailand are quickly disappearing. I have a great leader to guide me along, and together with him and the other elders in Thailand, we can do a great work. I’m ready to go get to it! 

The Great Wall

I have a saying that tends to get me into trouble with a lot of people. The saying was my infamous phrase “Cold is mental.” (which, although I didn’t mean it to, carried the implied insult that anyone complaining of the cold was simply a mental midget.) As one might imagine, I usually got a deadpan “has-anyone-checked-this-guy-for-some-serious-mental-problems?” stare after I unleashed that comment, followed by the statement “Uh, no it’s not.” Fortunately for my readers, this post is not about whether or not cold is mental. That position is awfully extreme, and I although I still hold sway that mental fortitude does matter in how one deals with colder temperatures, I have retreated from such extreme logic. No, this post is about something that I believe in much more passionately than approaches to dealing with foul weather: my underlying belief in the near-infinite powers of the human mind.

As is usual, my journey of thought started with a rather simple experience. My freshman year of high school, I succumbed to peer-pressure and signed up for the cross-country team with a couple of my friends. Our coach, who was also a math teacher at the school, still remains one of the most singularly unique men I have ever met. Mr. Barkley was known for odd sayings dubbed “Barkley-isms”, his obsession with gnomes, and his love for all things relating to Star Wars, but above all, his ability to turn any subject into a fiery philosophical lecture. (I will probably forever remember him famously going off about the danger of nuclear weapons in a post-apocalyptic society for nigh unto half an hour, during a math lecture that supposedly focused on logarithmic functions.) But despite his unique mannerisms, the man was wholeheartedly dedicated to running, and he knew what he was talking about when it came to cross-country. Thus it was one day that a Barkley lecture sprung out of someone complaining that they had, and I quote, “hit the wall” during a race. That is to say, they didn’t believe that they could have gone any faster without their body rebelling and shutting down. They had reached the limit of their physicality. Barkley’s response has forever echoed in my brain. His short answer was simply:

“No you didn’t. There is no wall.” 

He was wrong, of course. I obviously couldn’t run a 4-minute mile, nor could I now. If my body was somehow forced into doing so, it would shut down, and I would collapse, no doubt about it. It could very well kill me. So while Barkley’s thought was noble, and carried with it a promise of ultimate human potential, I came to the conclusion that in this matter, he was simply mistaken, caught too deeply in the unique depths his mind probed to see the real life truth.

But was that idea as wrong at seemed?

            This has been something I have stewed over again and again, and the more I think about it, the more wrong I feel in my beliefs, rather than in his. (His explanation later in the lecture helped as well—I have to give credit where credit is due). You see, there is a second, less obvious message in the four words “There is no wall”. On the first level, that’s wrong, and will always be. I can’t lift a house with my bare hands, in the same manner that I can’t run a 4 minute mile, or just sign up for and win an Iron Man Triathlon tomorrow. It is not going to happen. But look where this road takes you, in the running example.

You are halfway through a race, wheezing for air, desperate to get to the finish line. You’ve set a grueling pace so far, and in the back of your mind there is that little voice saying: Give it up, you can’t do this. Give up. You have to slow down. Give up. Two roads split here in our theoretical example: those that believe that the wall exists will say back: You’re right. I’m going to collapse at this pace. I have to slow down.

The other path is for those who, like Barkley, don’t believe in a wall, but believe in their invincibility instead. That mind will say: Ha, you say I can’t run this fast? I can do anything—including speed up! Watch this!”

Can you see what happens? Runner number one slows down—he’s afraid of the wall and he shies away from it. He might very well end the race with a good time, but the runner who heads straight at that wall at full speed will always beat him. Do you know why? Because the actual chances of hitting that wall incredibly remote. (To remind you, the wall is a simile for the physical threshold where you are completely incapable of doing more). Our brains are triggered with hundreds of “walls” that exist only in our mind, designed to stop us from ever coming up against the real wall of our physical limitations. Runner 1 ran up against one of those glass walls and stopped. Runner 2 ran right through.

Think about that for a second. When is the last time you saw any athlete just collapse from sheer exhaustion, completely incapable of moving? Lebron James plays nearly every minute of the highest level basketball games in the world, against some of the most athletic men the world can offer, yet he still walks off the court at the end of game. John Isner lugs his 6 foot, 9-inch, 245 pound frame around the grass courts at Wimbledon—with all the pressure that comes from playing those storied courts—for eleven hours, yet still finds the strength to get his feet in the right spot so he can fire away the match-clinching groundstroke. The cream of these examples is Scott Jurek, an ultramarathoner, who collapsed halfway through Death Valley’s 135 mile, summer-scorching “Badwater Ultramarthon”. Scott was competing just two weeks after winning a 100-mile race across the country. He was literally facedown on scorching hot asphalt, when he made perhaps mankind’s most epic breakthrough of a wall: he got up and ran the remaining 85 uphill miles in a time to not only win the race against some of the fastest runners in the United States, but he also blasted through the races record en route.

The fact of the matter is that the true wall of our physical limitations is so far removed from us that we can essentially pretend it doesn’t exist. The moment we admit it is there, within reach, our potential shrinks to wherever we have placed that wall. We can no longer do better than the glass wall in our minds. I choose to reject that limitation. Who says I can’t go out and run 10 miles tomorrow if I wanted to? If I do, there is no way I will be able to. Who says that after 2 hours of non-stop, high-speed basketball, I can’t manage to pull away from a defender on a fast break? If I do, I will never get the lay-up off. Who says that after several sets in the scorching sun, I can’t muster up the strength and willpower to chase down a drop shot on the tennis court? If I do, I certainly won’t get to that ball. Yet if instead of saying “I can’t” and more fully live Adidas’ motto that “Impossible is Nothing”, suddenly the possibility opens up of me doing all of those things. That is why in my mind, there is no wall.

Now so far I have used examples of sports, of athletic contests. I have done so with a couple purposes: first off, they are what I love, what I think of, how I came upon this philosophy of life; secondly, they are easy to understand in this context; and lastly, because I firmly believe that sports are simply organized contests where life lessons can be drawn. Yet the same concept, I believe, applies into so many facets of life. If I walk into BYU’s testing center fearing Professor Kearl’s infamous Econ 110 test, certain that I cannot get an A, will I get an A? If I decide that a new position at work will take more leadership skills, more knowledge, more courage than I have, how much higher have my chances at failing just gone up? If I decide that I can only have so many friends, affect only so many people’s lives in a positive manner, how can I possibly do any good to someone outside that number?

No, for me I try to live as if there were no walls, no limitations on everything I do. I walk into every test with the mindset that I can walk out with 100%. I throw myself into my new work with a strong belief that I can and will succeed. I will never back down from a chance to reach out to one more person, to make whatever little difference I can.

            This is all well and good, but surely there must be a line, and I must be headed on a path to utter collapse—to overstretch, snap, crash, and burn down, right? Get through as many glass walls as you want, Aaron, but there is still a solid steel one waiting at the end, you might say. Perhaps you would be right. We’re now entering the realm of complete theory. I have one possible answer to submit to you, however. For in the realm of complete theory, I anchor myself to my one guiding star: my belief in Jesus Christ, and my testimony of Him as a real, living Being, risen from the dead, and as alive today as you and I. For Him, walls did not exist. All humanity and hell did their worst to Him, yet He still was in complete control of Himself, able to do that which He needed to do. What gives me so much hope is that He and I were created in the image of the same God. We share the same Heavenly Father, my Savior and I. For I, like you and everyone on this wonderful earth, was created by an all-knowing, all-powerful Being, one with whom absolutely no limitations exist. It is my belief that as I do the things that lead me to become more like my Heavenly Father, I too will find that within me is that same divine spark, and a destiny not confined to bounds, but one in which steel walls are the only ones that don’t exist.

Perhaps cold isn’t mental.

But my belief that it is only in my mind helps me to cope with it better.

Perhaps my body does have a breaking point on the basketball court.

But my belief that it doesn’t pushes me to play better.

Perhaps there is some limit to what I can accomplish in my life.

                        But my belief that there isn’t a limit drives me to live more fully, and more richly.

I choose to live a life without walls, without limitations.

The Skill in Putting One Foot in Front of the Other

            This week I made a discovery that I’d like to share. You see, it was a bit of a stressful week for me, time wise. I was switching to a new position at work, while taking on a new calling at church, (I was called as a ward missionary last week) and surviving finals week. But at the same time, I was still trying to make sure that I meet my normal goals at the same time: getting in better shape and studying to prepare for my mission. And then there were things which I just wanted to do, such as watching the NBA Finals. Time was crunched.

            At this point, I made what in hindsight was a great decision. You see, when I get home from a long day at work or school, I like to take about an hour to just rest. Normally that involves the two great time-killers of my life, Facebook and ESPN, but it also could involve reading, sitting down on the piano and pounding out a favorite tune from “Pirates of the Caribbean”, or even on more rare occasions, playing an hour of video games with Levi. None of those things by themselves are inherently bad, but put together they can suck away a lot of my life if I’m not careful. Anyways, this week my desire to unwind was no different, and I ended up reading one of my favorite books, Born to Run.

            This is a shameless plug, but Born to Run is one of the best books that I have ever read, purely because of the way that it makes you stop and think. The writer, Christopher McDougall, has a passion for running, and he infuses it into every single sentence of the book. He hammers again and again the benefits of running throughout his highly entertaining story. The point he makes—and I’ll try not to go into too many specifics because I think everyone should read the book and hear it in his own words—is that it is in our nature as humans to run. To like to run, even. For according to the researchers he cites, once we can break through our brain’s natural instinct to save energy, we would find that running felt natural to us. Indeed, as the title suggests, McDougall believes we were actually born to run.  

The first time I read the book, I was fascinated, and yet my own experience had told me this wasn’t the case. Determined, I set out on a running rampage—chocking up miles unheard of for a child of Stan Wilson, (which is probably not a ton for any serious cross-country types out there. I’ve done that route once before and I know I have nothing to brag about in comparison to what those people do). Yet while I felt refreshed after a brutal 8 or so mile run in the balmy Oregon weather, I was missing the love of running that McDougall had. I hated the thought of running, and it took a lot of willpower to actually get on my shoes, throw in my headphones, step outside, and leap forward. Somehow I hadn’t found myself in that “natural state”.  Yet the thesis still made sense in my mind, and so the next summer, I was at it again, re-reading the book for inspiration, determined to find what I had missed. Again, I managed to put in some pretty serious miles and get in better shape. Again, I hated every second of it—my body just screamed “Stop!” the second my feet burst out the door.

            Before you get any visions of incredible willpower from me however, let me explain on a quick tangent. It wasn’t that I wasn’t getting any benefit from these runs—I believe my motivation levels are high, but they are still in Earth’s atmosphere. There were some perks, to be sure. I enjoyed the feeling of success after the runs, and I absolutely love conquering my body with my mind. (This philosophy will, at some point, probably merit its own post). Besides, I was fascinated with those few times where I’ve actually hit “runners high”, where my legs just seemed to go without my feeling them, where suddenly things got easy. But all of those things didn’t seem to fit the “natural” description to me, and once I got my fix of them, my desire was done, and my running habits faded away. I was missing the intrinsic joy of running the McDougall harps on—every benefit I was getting was the same benefit that came after any old exercise, be it an intense couple of hours playing basketball, or a long three-set tennis match, both of which were much, much more enjoyable in the moment. Surely I was missing something still, or else one of my favorite books was a book full of baloney.

            Last week, I finally had my breakthrough. It came as I was reading the book in my relaxation time. I was struck by one of McDougall’s many pitches for running. Said he “If you don’t come with solutions to your problems after a couple hours on the trail, you’re just not getting them.” This got me thinking. When had I had a “light bulb” moment on a run? The answer: never. I was too caught up in pushing my body to its limits, in playing music and just generally numbing my mind to block out the discomfort of my legs. The problem with that approach is that it is like taking a fire-hose to get a dishrag damp—it is an extreme overreaction. I can’t discriminately choose to block out the pain of one thing without shutting down most of my mental faculties; and that’s what the music is for—to lose my thoughts and just let the music flow through my brain.

            I decided to switch up my approach then. Rather than just blocking out everything, I left my iPod at home and let my mind run free. Alone, this would only make the run miserable, so instead of pushing to make a certain route by a certain time, I simply hit the roads with no watch and no map in my head. I ran wherever my feet took me, and as far as my legs would allow, at a pace that I felt I could keep up for miles and miles. Lo and behold, the secret switch was finally unlocked. I wasn’t in pain, it wasn’t torture. It was just a great time to be able to take a break from life for some inner contemplation while simultaneously getting the exercise I craved. I’ll admit that it wasn’t magical, but running became much more enjoyable to me. I was just on a laid-back ride through the hills of Provo, deep in thought, without serious pain, not yearning to turn back every step. For once, I actually liked it. It was pleasant experience! I liked it so much that I did it the next day as well. Again, it was fine. Now I’m even looking forward to heading out on another run tomorrow—who would’ve thought I would ever see that day?

            I found that the key to making a run enjoyable to me isn’t to shy away from the pain, but to actually listen to my body; instead of killing myself, just simply being content with pushing myself. Instead of shutting my brain down, I am utilizing the free time to escape from the grind of daily living. By doing so, I’ve found a great new way to relax, to unwind, and to get in my exercise. Try it!           

Kicking It Into Second Gear

            A couple weekends ago, I was with a couple of friends playing ping-pong in my basement. It was a very low-key affair; we were just playing friendly games of around-the-world while talking. As such, nobody was really trying too hard, and we just dinked the ball to each other. At one point though, I was up to hit when the perfect lob came to my forehand side. At that moment, my mind left the situation in the basement and I found myself in a tight match against one of my brothers, desperately needing a back-breaking point to gain some momentum. I whaled on the ball with a vicious topspin forehand that sent the ball blasting off my paddle and across the room. Without having warmed up that shot, my muscle memory was unprepared to hit the ball accurately, and it ended a good foot or so past the back edge of the table, well out of bounds. At that point, my daydream ended I realized that I had just hit a super aggressive shot that had nearly drilled the shot right into one of my wholly unprepared and undeserving friends. To make matters worse, she was a girl. Oops. As everyone gave me a startled look, one of my buddies dryly commented that he had always had had this feeling that I had some hidden rage inside of me. That remark got me thinking, even as I tried in vain to downplay the incident.

Believe it or not, that is not the first time that I’ve been told something along those lines. I was once informed that an AP Psych class, including the teacher, had decided that I was the most likely person in our school to snap and become a serial killer. (Admittedly, my source was not the most reliable, and I laughed that one off). In a way, I can almost understand what inspired people to say that. Let me be perfectly clear though, that uncontrollable rage and murderous instincts are not something I have hidden inside. What you see is what you get with the writer of this blog. And so in the typical manner of this blog, here comes a little rant about what I would like to dub “second gear”, and why it is perfectly okay to have one.

One of the reasons that the title of this blog is “Cool Air From A.C.” (besides the  ring of it) is that you’re really not like to find a lot of hot air on here. Generally speaking, I am a mellow person, at ease to roll along with whatever life sends my way. I think that a large part of this has to do with a general attitude of contentment that I have. Rare are the things that I absolutely have to have done my way. With that attitude, I’m very happy to do something to please another, and so both of us are happy. In life, I try to follow Magic Johnson’s surprisingly sage observation: “Scoring a basket makes one person happy, while getting an assist makes two people happy.” 

To continue this parallel though, there are some times when one just has to score. This morning was a great example of that. I work at BYU Food To Go, which provides takeout catering (i.e. people come in and we give them catering-style food). This morning, our supply of food came in late, there were lots of orders going out early, and we had several deliveries, while understaffed. Somehow I ended up in charge as my two superiors were either gone or busy. It was stressful, to say the least. In the mass of food that flooded our kitchen, we were missing several foods that were supposed to go out in the early orders. Not a good situation at all.

            I try to be “the nice kid” at work, always offering compliments, and throwing myself at every single project that comes around, especially the unpleasant or hard ones, so that my co-workers can just take it easy. I hold myself to a high standard so that they don't have to, or at least that is my goal. This morning though, the ax hit the grind. We were understaffed, we were swamped, and there was little margin for any kind of error. I shifted into second gear. Did I suddenly turn into a rage monster? No. I don’t think I even obnoxiously bossed anybody around. But I was all work, all the time. The playfulness of my nature was gone, because I had, to use the overused cliché, “gotten down to business”.

            Here’s my point, short and simply. I’m all for being nice, easygoing, relaxed, content, polite, gracious, considerate, what have you. I strive to be those things. But sometimes, when something is important, you have to hit that second gear—you have to get going. And when you do get going, some niceties fall by the wayside.

            To cite a much better thinker than myself, I’d like to bring up one of the points in Malcolm Gladwell’s masterful book, Outliers. He reveals some statistics that show that when the co-pilot of a commercial airline is Korean, the plane has a much higher chance of crashing. He then goes to show that the main reason for this is the fact that in the Korean culture, one is supposed to use all sorts of flowery language when talking to a social superior. (Socially superiority is also very clearly defined in almost every human interaction as well) Bluntness is heavily frowned upon. Well, when these Korean co-pilots recognize that something is going wrong, they tend to stick to their cultural norms when informing the pilot. Rather than straight up telling the pilot (their superior) that he missed something and is making a mistake, they circularly talk around the issue at hand. Sometimes it works, and other times, tragedy results.

           

            That’s exactly the kind of issue I’m talking about it. In that situation, the lives of all of the people aboard that plane NEED to be more important than niceties, more important than any kind of politeness. If the co-pilot needs to be ‘rude’ in order to save their lives, wouldn’t you as a passenger want him to be rude? There is a level where the importance of something takes priority over politeness, over consideration for other’s feelings--the point in our basketball analogy where your team needs that basket, and you just gotta get to the rim.

            The key is setting that magic moment when something takes priority over politeness, which of course is not an easy task. With human lives on the line, yeah the choice is pretty obvious. Smaller things like defending pride over a teasing comment from a friend are other side of the spectrum--there's no use in getting worked up over that. It's the middle ground where things get tough: making sure an order goes out on time, getting the right grade on a group project, or winning the game. I’m certainly not perfect—perhaps I set my value on something that doesn't merit the importance level I give to it, yet second gear comes out regardless. (I'm trying to work the I-gotta-be-the-hero attitude in my basketball analogy in the last paragraph out of my "second gear" importance list, for example). In my younger years, it came out every time I stepped on to a tennis court for a competitive match, which was a terrible and miserable way to play tennis. Hopefully since then I’ve gotten better at picking my spots, but this is my fair warning and my justification: I do have a second gear, and I am okay with it. 

I don't think that makes me a psychopath.

Summer Creativity

I am a sports-lover. I love the thrill of a good athletic contest, whether that contest be a meaningless game of kickball for FHE, an intramural ultimate Frisbee game, a district tournament tennis match, or that all-important basement basketball game that decides the alpha male in the Wilson household. (Let it be known that I still reign on that court after two sweeping blowouts this week!). Basically, I am perfectly content anytime that I am playing any sport, no matter who is playing with me, as long as at least someone else is as serious about winning as I am. I love giving my all in any competition. Yet there is one stage that I love more than any other. Despite the fact that I first and foremost consider myself a tennis player, it is not the hard courts that I consider the best athletic arena to play on; it is the hardwood. That’s right, church basketball holds the spot closest to my heart right now.

If you’ll indulge me for a couple of moments, I would like to attempt to explain why that is. I hope you realize what a monumental task that is. Pick-up basketball is absolute chaos. No plays, no coaches, no referees, just a bunch of people flying around a gym as fast as they can. I love all of it—the energy, the sweat, the thrill of victory, the pressure of a big moment, the vengeful feeling of defeat, the high of throwing the perfect pass, the motivating low of turning the ball over, the calculating while trying to come up with a winning play, a winning strategy. All of this happens nearly simultaneously across each individual player, all the while the game flows on at a rapid pace, and thus it isn’t hard to see where the chaos of the sport comes from. All of those contributing factors play into my love for basketball, and yet there is something more than the chaos that appeals to me. As I mentioned in this article about Roger Federer, I tend to see the beauty and the artistry in sports. My premise in that post was that Federer was fun to watch and root for because his skill level allowed him to turn tennis into more of high-level art than a competition.

Comparing Churchball with tennis’ gentlemanly vibe is about the equivalent of comparing the prim and proper characters of Downton Abbey with the harsh and uneducated cast of iCarly. Churchball is pig wrestling to tennis’ equestrian shows. Yet they both do have a certain beauty to them, at least to me. The aesthetic beauty basketball loses in its rough-and-tumble play is substantial, but I feel it more than overcompensates in another important area: creativity.

You see, in some sports you only have a very limited set of actions you can perform while playing. In tennis, no matter what kind of brilliance you show, it all starts on a basic level with a ball hitting a racquet. Baseball is similar, except with bats (which make those who can appreciate the subtleties of baseball very impressive. I personally think watching it is exceptionally boring, but I can understand how baseball fans might feel the same about tennis.) Basketball is in a whole different category. Yes, the rules of dribbling and the ban on kicking the ball might lessen the amount of possible actions available on the court, but dribbling, once mastered, feels natural, and in truth basketball frees up the two most easily controlled limbs (your arms) to do pretty much whatever you can think of, only limited by the limits of your mind.

That is one of the main reasons that basketball is so fun for me. In every post-up situation, every time a ball-handler and a defender face off, every fast break run, in truth, just about anytime a defender tries to stop an offensive player, creativity goes on. To the creative player goes the victory, in most cases. Sure, things like speed, energy, strength, length, and weight definitely matter, but a smart player can overcome deficiencies in any of these areas simply by being creative.

I discovered this fact, the hidden trump card of creativity, in high school. Up until about my sophomore year, I had always played a pretty standard version of basketball, doing everything by the books, according to the fundamentals. Then I started playing my friends more and more often, and my basketball experiences with a coach present declined sharply. I think it was completely by accident one day that I discovered what was to become my bread-and-butter move. The theory behind it is simple and bases on two facts. The first, that since I am on offense and thus know where I am going, whereas the defender has to wait for my move and then counter it, I will have a split-second advantage at the start of a move. Along with this, the shorter the total duration of the move, the less time a defender has to make up for that difference. Thus I could beat a quicker player simply by virtue of being on offense, as long as my move was concise. The second fact is that a defender can only prevent me from going one way—it’s impossible for one guy to be on both my right and left sides at the same time. If they stop me from going right, the left side is open, and vice versa.

Thus, the patented Aaron Wilson “baby hook” was born. In a nutshell, it goes like this: I work my way into a post-up situation (where I am close to the basket with my back to it and the defender on my back, for the non-basketball-lingo-talking readers out there). My preferred location is as near to the middle of the court as I can get, about three or four feet away from the rim. Once I get the ball, I figure out which side my defender has chosen to prevent me from going, and I spin 180 degrees as fast as I can the other way, and take as large of a step as I can, so that I have moved laterally as much as possible. This spin is usually prefaced with a fake of some kind. While spinning, I throw out my arm as wide as it can go, completely utilizing my wingspan and the length of my legs. Then, from that position, I launch a one-handed shot at the corner of the backboard with a flick of my wrist.

It’s a fairly simple concept, but one that is hardly ever used, since the shot at the end is one of the ugliest ways to finish. Plus the baby hook somewhat difficult to master, but I spent a couple of hours working on it in my driveway, and that’s really all it took. Simply put, although it was odd, it was creative, and that creativity made it devastating. My baby hook alone propelled me from a very sub-par basketball player to being a fairly effective scorer, because no stranger that I ever played against saw it coming, or knew right off how to counter it. It was so…odd of a play that people just weren’t sure what to do. I could go against taller, more skilled players and still have a pretty good chance at getting the ball in the hoop.

Then of course, adaptation sets in. My friends in Wilsonville whom I would usually play with started to figure out the secrets to contesting the shot, and it stopped falling. At BYU, I rapidly discovered that quicker players in more crowded gyms meant that second and third defenders came too fast for my baby hook to work as an effective option, and I had to relegate it as a second or third-choice move instead of my primary weapon on offense. Yet even as one option went away, I started finding other ways to put the ball down the cylinder. The creativity cycle started all over again, as I sought to try to find ways to minimize my weaknesses and exploit my strengths.

In the chaos of basketball, ugly things like a baby hook might pass off as just being that—ugly. But when I look and see innovation on a basketball court, innovation that may appear on the surface as less than aesthetically appealing, I see beauty. Things like Stan the Man’s quick-release jumper, Ian’s deep turnaround jumper, Tallmadge’s lateral jump-shot, Dylan’s turnaround, Dillon’s floater, Allen’s backdoor cuts, and so many other countless examples show the true creative nature of basketball. It is that individualistic stamp that every player puts on the game that makes basketball so much more than the crazy stampede it can seem at times. It makes the game more alive.

And Waiting...

And maybe not so patiently...

Optimism and Easter

           Writing helps me think, helps me clarify my ideas and my views, and helps me re-affirm those ideas and views and opinions that I have. Quite frankly, I write at a much higher level when I’m writing to an audience, and so I write the following not so much for reader entertainment, as some of my posts are, but for more personal purposes. It is my hope that perhaps you might gain some benefit from reading, but that is not my goal. This is all just a fair warning to say that what follows is going to be deep and heartfelt, not light and entertaining as I envision my other posts are (and please don’t correct me if I’m wrong on that).

            As is usual, the ideas behind this post started with a rather simple discussion. I was talking to some friends who told me they were baking a dessert for one of their friends who was having a bad week. At some point in the discussion, the following exchange took place:

“Aaron, if you tell us the next time you have a bad week, we’ll make you something too.”

I cheekily responded, “I don’t have bad weeks”.

            That was not a true statement. In the past year, my life has gone through a lot of dramatic changes—finishing high school and thus ending the pattern that has dominated my life for the past 12 years, moving hundreds of miles to a new state, and starting life away from home, to name a few—and I for one am of the belief that no major change happens without a cost. Adaptation to something new means letting go of a lot of things, and for me, that often includes things that I like. With that change comes bad days, and sometimes bad weeks.

            These dramatic changes haven’t finished yet. For those of you who don’t know, today is the last day of classes for BYU. That means that I have about one week left before my life takes another dramatic turn. Many of my current friends will travel back to their hometowns. I’ll be moving back in with my parents—and while I’ll be taking classes still for BYU’s spring term, my lifestyle will be considerably different at my new home as compared to the dorms.

            This could be a depressing post. After all, I’ve just said that change brings pain, and then told what changes are on the nearest horizon. However, sadness is not what I feel, because there is a little bit of truth to that statement I made to my friend: although I do have bad days, they are never really THAT bad. The question that I have been mulling over in the past couple of weeks is “why?”

            With the same egotism that inspired me to quip that bad days simply don’t happen to me, I could reason that I am so good at life that nothing fazes me. That fact is that that statement is a straight-up lie, however much I wish that it was true. I’m not special, and I make just as many mistakes as the next guy. Perfect success in every endeavor does not describe my way of doing things, and so cannot possibly be the reason that I am happy.

            One of my all-time favorite phrases is that most noble French idiom my Dad used to repeat to me often. I will spare you my poor attempt at spelling a language I’ve never spoken—seeing as I have a hard enough time spelling my own language—just know that it has a poetic ring to it. The translation is “attitude determines altitude”. Perhaps then, as I feel that I am blessed to be flying at a good altitude, that my attitude is a cause of this? To that question I feel more comfortable in saying yes, but at the same time, that answer must have a qualification, because again I feel no more special than anyone else. The mind of Aaron doesn’t magically think positively all the time, which would make weathering the storms of life so much easier. There has to be some reason behind this. The next question then, is “why do I have a good attitude most of the time?”

            On that question of attitude I have pondered, and in the past little while it has been definitively answered in my mind. I have gotten several incredible opportunities to learn at the feet of some wonderful men and women these last few weeks. I have sat through amazing lessons in my Mission Preparation class, and in my Book of Mormon class, in which I walked away uplifted and inspired. I had the privilege to watch general conference, and for once see it through the eyes of a speaker, as my father’s brother spoke in that meeting. I was able to learn of the application of the gospel to every part of life through a guest speaker in my accounting class (because if the gospel applies to something as random as accounting, it has to apply to everything).

The most powerful of these experiences occurred just a few days ago when I attended a powerful fireside about the concept of grace that was given by my bishop, and that experience seemed to perfectly cap off what I now understand about my attitude. My answer is simple: the reason I can have a positive attitude is because I can see a larger picture. That picture is the grand purpose of my life—the reason that I’m living, the reason that I’m in school, the reason for everything that I do. When I can see the bigger concepts behind my life, suddenly smaller things fade away. What does it matter if I have to spend hours upon hours in the library? If my grand purpose is to draw nearer to my Savior, I’m going to have to learn to work hard, and doing math problems or reading textbooks is a good way to accomplish that.

Yes, it is my religion that gives me my attitude. My hope and my joy springs from my knowledge of God’s Plan of Happiness, my understanding of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and above all, my finite yet growing comprehension of the incomprehensible and infinite Atonement of Jesus the Christ. What clouds of life can take away my sunshine when I know of my purpose in life, when I understand how to get there, and when I have a heavenly friend walking beside me every step of the way? Nothing can or ever will compare to the wonderful feelings that result when I learn of eternal truths—truths that provide comfort, direction, and hope to my life.

          Let the changes come, bring the storms on. This Easter season, I can stand and say “I know that my Redeemer lives!” It is that belief that spurs me onwards and upwards, as I hear the call “Come back. Comeup. Come in. Come home. Come unto me.”

The Battle for Kitchen 177

       In Econ 110 this year, I learned a new concept called the “public good problem”. In essence, the concept is that when nobody has direct responsibility for some object, and yet everyone can get a benefit out of it, than it won’t get done. For example, everyone can enjoy a clean public park—it’s a public good. Just because I can enjoy the park doesn’t mean that you can’t. Yet neither of us would be willing to spend long hours every Saturday trimming the lawn and picking up trash. The idea is that it is for these kinds of things that governments are good for, because they will pay for people to maintain them, and then charge everyone equally (through taxes) for that service.

                Anyways, this isn’t an econ lesson, but that is important background because of another public good that we used as an example in class: a clean kitchen. Our teacher claimed that dishes in a shared college apartment never get done because nobody wants to take responsibility for them. I for one thought he was a little arrogant, and so I determined to prove him wrong. I started doing the dishes non-stop.

                Then I realized that I liked a clean kitchen.

                Then I realized that doing the dishes wasn’t quite as bad as everyone claims.

                And then I had a habit.

Now, I clean the kitchen for almost an hour every day (minus the weekends, when I usually delay them until Sunday morning.) On cleaning check days, I can whip up the kitchen into a pristine state, all by my lonesome, in just under two hours.

                All of this is background leading up to the story from the past two days. A couple days ago, Dylan cooked up some bratwursts for us while Sam made some of his famous “bacon turtles”. It was delicious, and was truly appreciated by everyone except my arteries, which are still trying to recover. Unfortunately, not all of the brats got eaten, and they were left on the table for two days, creating quite an exotic aroma. Yesterday I finally decided that nobody was going to eat them, and chucked them in the trash. I left a note on our whiteboard, and apparently that was enough to start the Battle for Kitchen 177:

My original note:

This is my fair warning. I reserve the right to throw away anything left on the table overnight.

Dylan:

Vetoed! You have no right to reserve any rights.

Aaron:

Good point. If stuff mysteriously gets into the trash, it wasn’t me.

Dylan:

Yeah but now we will just assume that it was you and we will declare war on a galactic scale.

Aaron:

Fine. If you wanted to take it to this level, we will take it to this level. I hereby declare myself Lord of the Cleanliness of the Kitchen. I will challenge anyone to a week-long competition to see who can do more dishes. Oppose me, I dare you!

Sam:

Loud Noises!

Aaron:

Back that up. The bacon pans are still open!

(and beneath)

Hours Aaron has put into maintaining the kitchen since Tuesday morning: .33

Usurper: 0

Jared:

You guys are WEIRD!

   

Ahh the joys of living away from home!

Viva Las Vegas!

Everyone has their own reasons for blogging. Whether that reason is marketing, online journaling, or a class, they all lead to the blog sphere. I personally do not have mine to show off the things of my life, but rather a blog is a chance for me to think, and to write creatively about things that I want to, topics that are not dictated by a teacher. I figure as far as ways to unwind at the end of a day go, blogging is fairly productive.

The reason that I mention this now is that last weekend I went to Las Vegas with some friends, and the norm for a blog post on a trip would be to show off some pictures and maybe share a funny story or two. If any readers were expecting this, I’m sorry. But I’ll try my best to incorporate some of those elements into this post…

            I drove away from this weekend with a distinct impression of downtown Las Vegas. One, that place is a filthy mess. Despite the fact that I did feel physically safe walking the streets at night, which I would not feel in my native Portland, the moral corruptness of Vegas was eye-closing to me. (And yes that is supposed to be a clever spin off of “eye-opening”. I will point that out since I thought it was witty.) The complete lack of morality in that city was astounding. Booze was flowing like a river, and the amazing part was that it wasn’t even any kind of special occasion, other than just a typical weekend on Las Vegas Boulevard. It’s safe to say that I have no current plans, or desire to have plans to go back to that place again. The Strip and I are very content with living in separate worlds, very, very far apart.

            Secondly, I came away realizing that 18 is definitely the age to be. The most fun part of the trip for me was the awesome box seats we had to watch BYU play San Francisco, hands-down. That was just awesome. But in a close second place was the adventure that Lacey, Ian and I embarked on Saturday night. The whole thing from start to finish sounds likes a kid’s tale. We walked into a hotel, saw a huge escalator, and decided to ride it up to see where it went. Then at the top there was another one—needless to say, up we rode. There we found an entirely deserted hallway with signs saying exotic things like “Caesar’s Ballroom”. With the giddiness of a seven-year-old on Christmas we began running in and out of every single door we could find, oohing and ahhing at the size of some of the rooms. Then the next thing you know, we find another escalator, separate from the rest of the Eight Pack (the name of our friend-group), and are exploring all of that hotel. Then the next hotel, then the mall after that, and then the hotel after the mall. And then after all of our exploring, we ended up hopelessly lost in some back alleys, searching for our car in a parking lot a block and a half away from where it actually ones.

            Some pictures from the adventure:

Repping the ol' 5-0-3, only the best area code!

Some contemplative moments

Running through the mall

Obviously we had to stop at the Nike Store

The sweet courtyard in Caesar's Palace

            My point here, is that only in the transition stage between child and adult could this adventure happen: we needed the rights/experience of an adult to be left alone in the middle of a foreign metropolis and be perfectly safe, yet we needed the adventurous spirit of a kid in order to do things like sneak past security or sidestep “Do Not Enter” signs, and enjoy the entire experience. While hopefully I never lose my childish spirit, it’s really only socially acceptable to publicly show that when one is still a young adult, and so 18 is the age for me!! 

The College Life: Living With Engineers

         We’ve all heard the generalization that some people are math/science lovers and some are history/language lovers when it comes to school. While I think that that way of thinking is a stereotype that is more often wrong than right, it really fits me. I am NOT a science person. While I’ve always performed well in my science classes, I don’t take joy in performing chemistry experiments, peering through a microscope at tiny organisms, or learning about the scientific process. This is a confession, but my current “Physical Science” (that’s one of the GE science classes required for all you non-BYU folk) section of my notebook has about an equal number of basketball plays and pictures as notes. (Though in my defense, some of those are decorated chapter titles, which need to get on the page anyways, right?)

            Interestingly enough, I live with a bunch of engineer majors, and one computer science genius. (I figure I can lump him in since the major has "science" in the name). I for one cannot see why on earth they would voluntarily take classes about atoms, although I respect them for doing so. It hardly came as any surprise then, when our blender broke and we decided last night to take it apart and then fix it.

Well, at least that was the original plan. By the time the evening had finished, we had a fairly good-sized crowd of neighbors in our kitchen watching us blow up an old strand of Christmas lights one by one, using the blender’s electrical circuits. It was actually pretty epic. And you know what? I actually learned a lot about electricity and the mechanics of a blender, and I even enjoyed it!       

The Fed

(Disclaimer: For those members of my readership who do not play or watch tennis, I will be straight up and say that this post is entirely on the subject of tennis. That being said, I will attempt to the best of my ability to explain all of the tennis concepts so that you can understand them too.)

World, meet Roger Federer. Roger is considered one of the greatest, if not the greatest, tennis players of all time. In his career, he has broken most of the meaningful records in tennis: (Grand slams won, time spent at #1 in the world, and number of consecutive finals reached in major tournaments, just to name a few).

I love him.

By now, you know what’s coming: this is unusual. That sentence above just made many people respect my opinions less, made a few visibly wince, and might have caused some genuine anger in any die-hard tennis fans in my audience. (By the way, if you are out there, feel free to leave a comment. At this point, I’ll accept hate comments, as long as it’s a comment.)  Here is my concession to these people: I completely understand why one would not like Roger Federer. Society teaches us to love the underdogs, and hate those who win consistently, which group will be hereafter referred to as “over-dogs” for lack of a better word. I condone this is in every case except when one has a personal tie to the team. So Alabama grads can be respected if they support Alabama, but it is perfectly acceptable for everyone else to hope that Nick Saban loses every football game he coaches for the rest of his life. That’s just how it works.

                Roger Federer, up until recently, has been the top dog of tennis for an incredible amount of time. It’s unreal how long he was the dominant force in men’s tennis—it is extremely safe to say that he is the prime case of an over-dog. Yet I make an exception for him from my general rule of “rooting against the favorites”.  Why?

                The reason that I cannot bring myself to do anything but admire and cheer for “The Fed” is that he has done something that no other over-dog that I know of has managed to do: he transformed an athletic competition into something completely different. Federer is more than just a tennis player. When Federer steps onto a tennis court, he doesn’t merely play tennis; he transcends the game, turning an athletic competition into something beautiful. Federer doesn’t compete with his opponent to see who is superior at the sport. His tennis is more art than sport, a showcase instead of a battle. It is for the pure beauty of Roger Federer’s tennis that makes him different than any other over-dog.

                Yet this “artistry over competitor” idea by itself is just a cop-out. It’s an ambiguous idea, and thus is really up to the observer. An explanation is necessary: what is it that makes Federer an artist? The answer is one simple word, which in terms of tennis, Federer has re-defined: control.

Sports in general are by definition, chaos. Throwing athletes into an arena with a ball and some rules, then tell them to figure out who is better is never going to end up with a result that is calm. Yet Federer has brought a peculiar order to the tennis court, due to his complete control of nearly everything on the tennis court. He controls the ball. He controls his own emotions. He controls the flow of the match. Sometimes, from the way events go his way it seems as if he even has control of opponents’ minds.

So you say, “You’re still talking in the abstract Aaron. Show me this in real terms.” I’d be happy to. In the last Australian Open, Federer played the up-and-coming Australian hometown favorite, Bernard Tomic, in the fourth round. Before the match, tennis analysts and experts were saying that it could be a match that marked the changing of an era, as Roger faded from the scene, and Tomic began his rise. The following pictures were taken from a point in that match.

(A little aside: The video for this can be found here, if you can stand the strange Spanish commentary.)

A little background: Up to this point, the two have hit a couple of shots to each other, and Federer has hit a drop shot and advanced up to the net. Even with my idolization of Federer, I can recognize that this was not a good shot at all. (Federer is in the red shirt, Tomic in white)

 

       

Tomic easily reaches it and now has a great opportunity. There is a reason why you don’t often see tennis players standing in the middle of the court where Federer is now: it’s because it gives your opponent a chance to hit a shot that will bounce at your feet. It’s really hard to get control a ball that is hit at your feet. This situation is especially bad for Federer since both players are relatively close to the net, and he will not get a lot of reaction time to whatever Tomic hits his way. Regardless of these mistakes, Federer plays it smart and stays in the middle of the court, closing off the center but surrendering both sidelines for Tomic to take. At this moment, it looks as if Federer is going to try to make Tomic hit close to either sideline, and hope that Tomic overplays the ball and hits it wide.

Tomic plays the ball very well. His shot lands at Roger’s feet, and he has not tried to do too much with the ball, yet he still places it right up next to the left sideline. Traditional tennis doctrine, or at least what I was taught, is to come in behind the ball’s path when one hits an approach shot, as Tomic has just done. In this case however, Tomic correctly realizes that at times, traditional tennis doctrine is a bunch of bologna. The net is lowest in the center, and thus takes the least amount of control to hit over. Given the sticky situation he’s just put Federer in, Tomic moves towards the center of the court to cut off the easiest option of Federer’s. If the ball somehow manages to get back, he’ll be in the prime position to slam it over to the right sideline, way out of Federer’s reach. The only way to improve Tomic’s execution here would be to have hit the ball a couple of inches closer to the left sideline to make the shot absolutely perfect, but otherwise he has just made a flawless play. After all, not every shot in a tennis match hits the perfect corners, and so for all intents and purposes, Tomic has just hit the best shot he could have.

                Now to Federer’s side of the court. It is a testament to his quickness that he even has a shot of hitting this ball at all. I, I’m pretty sure most of the tennis players I’ve seen, wouldn’t have been able to do anything other than hit a big whiff of air in this situation. Of course, Federer is a professional, and I’m not, and so maybe it isn’t that unusual that he gets to this ball. This shot is on Federer’s backhand side, which for most tennis players is the harder side to hit off of, for the simple reason that swinging your arm and rotating your wrist forward is more natural than arm-swinging and wrist-rotating backwards. (Try it right now—see what I mean?). The fact that this ball is right at Federer’s feet, (depth-wise) combined with the fact that it is at the extreme limits of his reach, and to his backhand side, all combine to make this one incredibly difficult shot to hit. Like I said, most tennis players wouldn’t even get to it. A fair number of professional players could get a racket on the ball, but only to hit the ball into the net. Few are the people in this world who could get this ball back into play. Those people would simply pray for Tomic to make a mistake because they would have to hit the ball back to the middle of the court, right where he is patiently waiting for the opportunity to cream the ball back. Federer doesn’t fall into any of these groups.  

Look at this beauty. Federer gets to the ball, hits it, and puts in back in play, not up the middle where the net is lower and the shot is easier, but he lofts it high enough to clear the net by the left sideline. Whether it can still land inbounds after being hit so high is yet to be seen. Tomic scrambles to get to the ball…

                …Only to watch in amazement as Federer’s shot literally lands on the intersection between the baseline and the sideline. The perfect shot. Tomic didn’t even get a chance to swing his racket.

                Let’s take a review of this point for a second: Federer makes a pretty costly mistake. Tomic capitalizes nearly perfectly on that mistake, and it does not make one little bit of difference in the end result. Federer does the near-impossible and hits the perfect winner from a terrible situation. In contrast to the other athletes of this day, who can’t tie their shoes correctly without showing off, Federer doesn’t go crazy after this shot.

I kid you not, this was his reaction. He put his head down! He almost looks depressed in this shot, what with his lowered gaze and slumped shoulders. He just hit an incredible shot that 99% of all tennis players could spend their lives practicing and would never quite replicate. This picture is utter control of emotion. Not even a fist pump escapes Federer’s emotionless on-court persona. He’s long since realized emotion only clouds his game, and so he takes emotion entirely off the court, even after such a dramatic winner.

To me, that is total control. During this point, he has taken a terrible situation and turned it to his advantage by his control of his racket, the ball, and his emotions. This play speaks for itself—it’s simply beautiful. Masterful, even.

That’s artistry. That’s Roger Federer.

Lose Yourself In the Music, the Moment... The Roads?

The other day in our Elder’s Quorum (for the non-Mormons in my audience, that’s the hour of church that we meet as just boys), we had a lesson on marriage. Surprise, surprise: this is BYU. This is completely off-topic from what I’m going to say, but I would like to take some time to point out that with two exceptions, the Church would disapprove if anyone in that room got engaged. I can’t help but feel that the time would have been better spent in instructing us how to be good missionaries, not good husbands… Alas, such are the tribulations of a student at BYU.

            Anyways, back to the topic I was going for. At one point in the lesson, our instructor was trying to demonstrate to us how men and women are good for each other. He used the example of getting lost, asking how many of us would stop to ask for directions. Two or three of my peers raised their hands, at which point he chuckled and told them they were girls. He then asked who would say they “weren’t really lost in the first place”. The rest of the class raised their hands. The lesson continued on.

            I kept my hand down. Neither of those descriptions fit me. When I’m driving and realize that I don’t know where I am, I’ll admit that I’m lost, and then I’ll smile as wide as I can. I love getting lost.

            In fact, I love getting lost that I specifically set up opportunities to do so. As I mentioned in an earlier post, most of my favorite memories with my beloved car involved me driving around, lost and directionless.

            I realize that this is a bit of anomaly. (Then again, is anyone reading this surprised? I’m Aaron Wilson. EVERYTHING I do is an anomaly. Sometimes I wonder if this is too much of a problem.) So once again, I’d like to try to open my mind to the general public about this issue and see if I can truly explain myself. Without further ado, why it is perfectly acceptable to like getting lost while driving:

            First off, you have to take the whole “time crunch” issue out of the equation. I hate being late to something important, and getting lost while you desperately have to be somewhere is a terrible feeling. However, if a job/grade/eternal salvation isn’t at stake in some form, few things beat being lost. I think that one of the primary reasons I feel this way is that I’m a big fan of mazes. I’m pretty sure my subconscious would be partying like it's the end of the world if someone invaded my dreams, Inception-style. Basically, I see a city as being a massive maze, except a little bit easier. I mean, there are signs! The thrill of the hunt, plus that little bit of stress because you know you can’t just walk away, makes a car-sized maze an adventure.  

            Secondly, I love the feeling that comes from being un-lost (and this is my blog so I feel pretty justified in making up my own words). It’s a nice combo of relief and satisfaction of solving the puzzle. Think of the good feeling of solving a difficult math problem, minus the unpleasantness of actually doing math. Not bad, huh?

            Third, it’s a break from routine. One of my friends wrote an excellent paper about the nature of humans to have habits. One of her conclusions—to the best that I can understand it—was that as humans we want the comfort of habit, of continuity, but at the same time we yearn for the unknown, for a new experience. I agree with this, and I think this is especially true as far as places we visit. In my weekly routine I visit certain places, and day in, day out, I go back to those same places. Why? Because I know them. They are comforting to me. Being lost completely breaks that mold. You get to see new sights, experience new things. If you know exactly where you are going—even if it’s somewhere you’ve never been before—that doesn’t necessarily happen. When you’re lost, you are outside of your world, the places you inhabit, and for a second, you are in somebody else’s. When I'm lost, I look at things differently. Someone probably drives on that road every day, and for a minute, I'm in that person's world. That feeling, of breaking out of one’s world and experiencing another's is by far the greatest part of being lost in my book. It don’t think that it’s a coincidence that people enjoying traveling to new places, and yet traveling is the time that one is most likely to get lost. It's new, it's different, it's an adventure, and thus, it's awesome.

            Fourth, well, having a little extra time to belt out the strains of whatever CD is in the player isn’t so bad, is it?