219 Chapters
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Medium 9781574411607

Part Two Day 2

Geraldine Ellis Watson University of North Texas Press PDF

Part Two, Day 1

Part Two

Day 2

SECOND DAY

River Mile 89.5

That second morning simply could not have been surpassed for beauty. Where everything turns a rich, rosy gold at evening, the mornings are silver and pearl. Mist covers the river and the sun, rising into an opalescent sky, strikes the dew drops that cover every leaf, twig, and branch, and turns them to flashing diamonds. It is interesting to know that dew neither “falls” nor “rises.”

During the day, the sun heats the earth. At night, the air cools and the earth radiates heat back into the atmosphere, condensing water in the air one molecule at a time on objects that have a lower temperature than the air. There is no dew underneath objects, as even a leaf can prevent the radiant heat from rising.

There were no fresh animal tracks on the sandbar that morning. After the crows advertised my presence the evening before, all the forest knew that

MAN was on the sandbar and avoided it. This is a good reason for barring camping on sandbars except in designated areas.

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Medium 9781626567719

5 Reframing from Anxiety to Taking Control

Peterson, Rick; Hoekstra, Judd Berrett-Koehler Publishers ePub

You are a professional glove hitter. Hit the glove!

—RICK PETERSON

There are many things about pressure situations which cause our anxiety levels to rise. The reasons include, but aren’t limited to, these:

We focus on goals or factors outside of our control.

We focus on outcomes rather than the process to achieve those outcomes.

We get overwhelmed by the perceived difficulty of the task.

We commit to doing too much.

Our expectations are too high because we use the wrong measuring stick.

We exaggerate the importance of the situation.

In this chapter, we share a number of antidotes to pressure that will lower your anxiety levels and put you back in control.

At the beginning of spring training every year, Rick asks his pitchers, “What’s your goal?” Most of the answers given center around outcomes like winning a certain number of games, or pitching a certain number of innings. Rick takes these answers as an opportunity to teach a lesson in goal setting. While many of us have been taught to set lofty, long-term-outcome goals, the type that show up on the back of a baseball card or a company financial statement, these goals are overrated in comparison to lesser-appreciated, short-term, bite-sized process goals.

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Medium 9780253008589

Indiana AT Purdue, 2-4-12 (78-61)

The Herald-Times Indiana University Press ePub

Purdue Boilermakers forward Robbie Hummel (4) deflects the shot of Indiana Hoosiers guard Victor Oladipo (4) during the Indiana Purdue men’s basketball game in West Lafayette, Ind., Saturday, Feb. 4, 2012.

By Dustin Dopirak

Robbie Hummel didn’t even put his hand up for a close out on Remy Abell until the freshman had already let go of the shot.

The heady Purdue senior forward had read enough of the book on the Indiana guard to know that his first instinct when catching the ball beyond the 3-point arc would be to attack the basket off the dribble.

“The scouting report on him is, probably, let him shoot in that situation because he hasn’t been in there,” Hummel said. “I was kind of playing for the drive.”

Instead of flying out with his hands up on the defensive rotation, Hummel sprinted to a spot a few feet from the arc and broke down his feet to be ready for the drive. But Abell pulled up and drilled a shot that stunned the veteran and took the air out of what had been an ear-piercing Mackey Arena in a 78-61 win.

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Medium 9781574414615

A Different Kind of Bad Job

Ron Tatum University of North Texas Press ePub

A Different Kind
of Bad Job

Once in awhile you run into really unpleasant people and situations in horseshoeing. I remember one in Oregon that still makes my blood boil. A barn manager I knew called me to shoe a horse who belonged to some new lady who had obviously been neglecting that animal. The barn manager was a responsible person and he was not going to tolerate neglect. He didn’t care that the woman had not asked to have the job done; he would add the cost of the shoeing to her barn bill. When I arrived at the barn, I was aghast at the condition of the feet. They hadn’t been touched for probably close to a year and were spread out so badly that it would be almost impossible to keep a shoe on. The foot had the consistency of a cantaloupe. Placing a horseshoe on the foot was like putting a cup down in the center of a big plate, the cup being the shoe and the plate being the foot. The foot should have been the size of the cup, not the size of the plate. In my opinion, that woman had abused her horse.

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Medium 9781574413205

Hinkel Shillings and the Red Ranger

Edited by Kenneth L. Untiedt University of North Texas Press PDF

7978-ch02.pdf

10/6/11

8:15 AM

Page 115

HINKEL SHILLINGS AND THE RED RANGER by Thad Sitton

On April 21, 1941, terrible news passed through the crowd of three thousand at the annual state field trial of the Texas Fox and

Wolf Hunters Association near Crockett. The nocturnal hunters of fox and coyote—“hilltoppers,” “moonlighters,” or just “plain old forks-of-the-creek fox hunters”—had assembled for one of their rare daytime competitions to discover who had the best dog.

Judges watched hounds with big numbers on their sides run foxes in broad daylight to see which ones led the packs. Day or night, such men never rode to hounds like the red-coated horsemen.

Instead, in most of their hunting, they stood by fires and listened in the dark to the voices of a special breed of dog developed to chase foxes entirely on its own. It was a strange hound and a strange bloodless sort of hunting, in which, as folklorist F. E. Abernethy once observed, “The race is the thing, and it is the running of it that is its significance, not the reward at the end. . . .”1 In truth, as outsiders often observed, there seemed no obvious reward to fox hunting. The game was left alive to run another night, and in any case, nobody ate foxes.

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Medium 9780253002952

8 Re-Membering Chelo Silva: The Bolero in Chicana Perspective (Women’s Bodies and Voices in Postrevolutionary Urbanization: The Bohemian, Urban, and Transnational) Yolanda Broyles-González

ARTURO J ALDAMA Indiana University Press ePub

YOLANDA BROYLES-GONZÁLEZ

Chelo Silva, the prominent borderlands singer whose fame extended from the United States to México and all of Latin America and the Caribbean, was born Consuelo Silva on August 22, 1922, in the small border town of Brownsville, Texas, across from the neighboring Mexican town of Matamoros. Silva came from a working-class family, and she showed an early inclination toward song performance. While working as a sales clerk in Brownsville in her early teens, she began to earn local notoriety by virtue of her beautiful singing voice. By the 1950s, she had earned immortality across the Américas as a beloved interpreter of the musical song type known as the “bolero.” In fact, her recordings circulate today more than those of Agustín Lara.

Given the urbanite and internationalist nature of her song repertoire, her millions of fans outside of Texas do not generally associate her with the Texas borderlands that are her homeland. Not surprisingly, music—in its ability to migrate—resembles the flight of birds and the movement of wind and water; it cannot always be tied to physical geographies. Thus we might ask, Did Chelo Silva arise from an existing Tejana musical tradition? And do Chelo Silva and Lydia Mendoza serve as a foundation to other Tejana musicians? In another paper, I refer to Silva and Mendoza as the yin and yang of what can very loosely be called “Tejana music.” They rose to prominence by very different trajectories of borderlands song performance. Lydia Mendoza’s musical repertoire had deep borderlands roots carried by popular oral tradition. Her mother and grandmother introduced her to the old 1880s canción, to música de antaño, and to the corrido trajectory. She evolved those musical vocabularies through her voice and aesthetics. Lo ranchero, in the form of the land base–inspired canción ranchera and also the corrido, ultimately became Mendoza’s chief staples. She performed in brightly sequined dresses that exhibited indigenous Mexican symbols. By contrast, Silva did not draw from those established norteño Tejana musical vocabularies. Her ambiance was the nightclub; her attire was slick, sexy, and markedly internationalist and cosmopolitan. Silva adopted the newly evolved urbanite Mexican bolero music, which reached the Tejano borderlands (and the entire hemisphere) in the 1930s through the recently established mass medium of radio. She can be credited with being in the forefront of promulgating the bolero, and with introducing a new song repertoire into the ever-changing Tejana/o norteño sphere, after establishing herself outside of Texas. Silva performed, for example, in Mexico City’s mega-radio station XEW, the continent’s most powerful broadcaster. Mendoza, by contrast, made a conscious choice to remain with her touring family on the US side of the border. One of Mendoza’s greatest accomplishments arises from the extraordinary length (six decades) of her musical career.1 Mendoza’s musical repertoire, ensemble, instruments, and interpretation of norteño song style from the oral tradition withstood the test of time more than Silva’s musical style and instrumentation. Yet both women carry the great distinction of having inspired and opened the performance world for many other women, in Texas and beyond; they both navigated within a business world controlled primarily by men.

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Medium 9781574413205

Deliverance II: The Tale of a Strange Encounter in the Big Thicket

Edited by Kenneth L. Untiedt University of North Texas Press PDF

7978-ch05.pdf

10/6/11

8:17 AM

Page 289

DELIVERANCE II: THE TALE OF A STRANGE

ENCOUNTER IN THE BIG THICKET by Robert J. (Jack) Duncan

When I met Jim twenty some-odd years ago, he was vice-president of an insurance company. That evening I had dinner with him and another fellow. Over drinks before dinner, he got to telling us about a strange encounter he had experienced in the Big Thicket that was reminiscent of the James Dickey book—and the Burt

Reynolds film—Deliverance.

The encounter had occurred several years earlier. At the time

Jim had lived in Dallas. He wanted to get away from the stress of his job for a few days, to get off by himself in the woods and hunt deer. During deer season, Jim drove to a small town in the Thicket.

It was a cold night. He stopped at a hamburger joint to ask directions. The cook insisted that Jim buy at least a burger or two before he would tell him anything.

As Jim was eating, the cook introduced him to another customer, Frank, who was a local hunter. Frank said that he was camped out with some of his kinfolks and invited Jim to join them.

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Medium 9780253346988

2. Non-Skids

Abraham Aamidor Indiana University Press ePub

Charlie Taylor, at 6-foot-1 and 190 pounds, was becoming a man. His great shock of thick, dark hair was combed provocatively straight back over his head, and his long jaw demanded attention. He was just nineteen when he stepped forward with firm posture and resolute gait onto the floor of the Akron Firestone Clubhouse, “a dinky bandbox” of a gymnasium,1 as one basketball player of the era called it, but an important landmark throughout the Midwest nonetheless. Less than two years out of high school, Taylor had done the unthinkable in pursuing a professional basketball career when such a thing hardly existed in America. By way of analogy, think of heading to Broadway before there was a Broadway. Chuck’s career with the Commercials was short-lived, as the team folded the season following his graduation. He next likely played for two small-time Indianapolis teams, the Habichs and Omar Bakery, but Akron was his first true foray away from home. The most famous picture of Chuck in existence reveals how proud he was to be in this city, and to play for this team—it’s 1921, and he’s standing on the roof of the Firestone Tire and Rubber Company while wearing his heavy cotton duck shorts and a wool-fiber jersey with the antique Firestone “F” lettering on the chest.

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Medium 9780253010285

4 Baptisms

Mike Roos Quarry Books ePub

It was 1939, and Petey Gill and his father stood before a Dayton judge in juvenile court. All the other gang members had already been sentenced to an Ohio reformatory, a youth prison upstate.

“Mr. Gill,” the judge said to Petey’s father. “I must admit I find your son’s case rather shocking.” Petey’s eyes wandered over the details of the courtroom—the judge’s black robe, his high wooden desk, his shiny wooden gavel, the grain of the wood panels behind him, the dual flags of Ohio and the United States, the bailiff’s pearl-handle gun and leather holster. Before their arrival, he had thought he would be afraid, but instead he found himself only fascinated. It was all just like a movie he’d seen, except now he was the star of the show, and he liked that feeling.

“Your son is only ten years old, Mr. Gill.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“At such a tender age, to be a member of one of the worst street gangs in our city. How could you let that happen?”

“I wish I knew, Your Honor.”

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Medium 9781574414615

Photos Section

Ron Tatum University of North Texas Press ePub

On the fence.

Marine Corps Mountain School. 1958. I’m on lower right.

Fresh from active duty in the Corps.

In Tacoma after active duty and before entering Seminary. 1960.

Graduating from Seminary. 1963.

Official picture of smiling Marine Corps major in Reserves. 1967.

Dad, Mom, me, and Nicky, my faithful horseshoeing dog.

Nicky, eagerly waiting in back of my truck.

Working in the sun in California. 1975.

Typical customer’s view of a horseshoer.

Feeding hoof parings to wild turkeys. 1990.

Dog and turkeys eating hoof parings fresh off of horse, who couldn’t care less.

Lady apprentice watching me measure a shoe. 1978.

Rasping a foot. 2011.

Picture by David Beardsley.

Nipping for a field trim. 2011.

Picture by David Beardsley.

Cochise, my favorite customer. 2011.

Picture by David Beardsley.

Thinking about it all. 2011.

Picture by David Beardsley.

Rasping a left hind foot. 2011.

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Medium 9781574414615

More Injuries and Violence

Ron Tatum University of North Texas Press ePub

More Injuries and Violence

(Why Horseshoers Are Always Late)

The horse owner told me she wouldn’t be able to meet me, but that the horse would be tied to the pasture fence. At this point, I should have been suspicious: this was a disasterprone customer. Her horse was well behaved and a delight to shoe, but the owner was dangerous to be around. She invariably knocked over things that scared hell out of every horse in the vicinity, or ran her car into a ditch, or left a gate open for all the horses to escape . . . things like that. One time she only hurt herself. She had forgotten to catch her horse for me, and we had to drive my truck up to the top of a hill where we caught him. She should have ridden him down the hill, but chose instead to pull him beside the truck, while she sat in the cab holding his lead rope in her hand. She hoped the horse would come with us. I recommended against this. All went well until the girl enthusiastically stuck her arm out the window to wave at someone. She waved it right in her horse’s face. The horse, of course, freaked out and pulled back. Instead of letting go of the rope, the girl held on as it sang through her hand. When the pain finally broke through to her disorganized mind, she let go. I stopped the truck and told her to open her hand so I could see the extent of the damage. She wouldn’t open it. Half an hour later, I was able to convince her to open it, both of us expecting a half-inch-deep bloody groove through the middle of her palm. The damage was minimal, however, and I patched it up with my ever-ready first aid kit. Not that it matters in the long run, but all of this cost me an extra hour and caused me to be an hour late to my next appointment where the owner petulantly asked me why it was that horseshoers were always late.

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Medium 9780253008589

Indiana VS. Notre Dame, 12-17-11 (69-58)

The Herald-Times Indiana University Press ePub

Indiana Hoosiers guard Victor Oladipo (4) drives the ball on Notre Dame Fighting Irish guard Jerian Grant (22) during the Indiana Notre Dame men’s basketball game at Conseco Fieldhouse in game two of the Close the Gap Crossroads Classic in Indianapolis, Ind., Saturday, Dec. 17, 2011.

By Dustin Dopirak

Tom Crean doesn’t know what Derek Elston was thinking, and it’s hard to imagine anyone else could come up with a logical explanation either.

With the Hoosiers in a mad dash to get the ball down the floor for one more shot at the end of the first half of Saturday’s game against Notre Dame, Elston pulled up from about half-court for a desperation heave. That would’ve been fine if there weren’t 4.5 seconds still left on the clock.

But on a play that was strangely indicative of Indiana’s entire day, freshman guard Remy Abell bolted under the bucket and put back Elston’s wild miss at the buzzer to give Indiana a 26-20 lead at the half.

“Maybe he saw what Christian (Watford) saw last week with 0.8,” Crean said, referring to Watford’s buzzer-beater that knocked off No. 1 Kentucky. “I don’t know. It looked more to me like it said 4.5 or somewhere in there, and he didn’t see that. But the presence of mind of Remy was just fantastic.”

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Medium 9780253014993

3. Neoliberal Masculinity: The Government of Play and Masculinity in E-Sports

Thomas P Oates Indiana University Press ePub

Gerald Voorhees

We’re at a point where only about forty people in the U.S. can make a living playing video games. I’d like to get it to a hundred. I think we’re a year or two away from that.

SUNDANCE DIGIOVANNI, quoted in Richard Nieva,
“Video Gaming on the Pro Tour for Glory but Little
Gold,” New York Times, November 28, 2012

While scholars have begun to investigate the professionalization of gaming, I take it on only to the extent that it is an exemplary site for thinking about the sportification of digital games, a broader sociocultural phenomenon that emerges at the juncture of neoliberal rationality and distinct – often competing – constructions of masculinity circulating in contemporary Western culture. Indeed, the sportification of digital games has led to the creation of national leagues, international tournaments, and corporate-sponsored teams of professional cyberathletes, but it is not rooted in these institutions or in the professionalization of players; rather, they are both effects of the hegemony of the sportive mentality. The games are objective things defined by protocological affordances and constrains, but their status as sport and the practices constituting the process of sportification are a result of the meaning attributed to them by player and fan communities.1 In this chapter I examine the cultural implications of the figuration of digital games as sports, often called e-sports, focusing on the production of an intelligible subject position at the nexus of neoliberalism and masculinity.

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Medium 9780253010285

2 No Irish in Ireland

Mike Roos Quarry Books ePub

In the heat of this Saturday afternoon, the first of what Betty Roos decided would be a long hot summer in purgatory if not downright hell, she knew the day would be one of those that would drag her to the end of her wits. Wrapped tightly in the crook of her left arm, her nine-month-old baby boy, Scott, wriggled inside a freshly full diaper, while in the desperate grip of her right hand, the chubby paw of Eric, her three-year-old with Down syndrome and a wickedly contrary attitude, struggled to break free. Betty was now in the process of dragging Eric furiously out of the bathroom, where he had just gotten into the storage cabinet beneath the sink and spilled Ajax in powdery streams across the tiled floor. She had found him sitting in it, with both hands caked in gritty white paste, just as he was about to lick them clean. Having narrowly averted disaster, she left the bathroom mess for later. Now, she had to let go of Eric just long enough to yank the bathroom door closed, but it was more than enough time for him to waddle away out of reach toward the living room, with a devilish giggle.

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Medium 9781574414615

The Newspaper Reporter

Ron Tatum University of North Texas Press ePub

The Newspaper Reporter

After I had been shoeing about twelve years, a newspaper reporter in Northern California who had heard about me from someone, called to set up an interview. He was interested in my background prior to taking up horseshoeing, and wanted to write an article about that. That was all right with me, and we set up a time when I could be doing a horse so he could observe the process.

I had already started working on the horse when the reporter showed up in his big blue news truck and walked over to the horse and me in his fancy loafers and his reporter’s hat. He had no notepad or pencil, no tape recorder or any other note-taking device. We shook hands. “Is this the horse?” he asked. I looked at him a moment. “Yes.” “Oh,” he said, and just stood there. I said nothing and continued working. Silence. After awhile he asked, “Do you like your work?” I said yes I did. More silence. After a few more minutes he asked, “Is this a hard job?” Once again I stopped. I put my tools down and looked directly at him. “Yes, it is,” I announced. We looked at each other for a moment, and I went back to work, telling myself that this was the poorest excuse for a reporter I had ever seen, and as far as I was concerned, the interview was over.

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