The Kid Likes Baseball Now

I know what you are thinking. You're thinking this should be another Baby Daddy story. Well the jokes on you! This is not about my kid. This is about a kid applying for school. In particular, it is about a kid who was applying to Ivy League. Not only that, the kid sucked Now the student would have done alright, but he just would not listen to the reviewer (me). Not to toot my own horn, but TOOT, TOOT! Yes, I am that goddamn good at editing and reviewing essays. And yes, I ignore much of the editing I would normally use, when I write my blog. Why? Because fuck you. This isn't a goddamn college essay. If it was, I wouldn't be saying "goddamn".

But I digress. Why do I mention this particular situation? Because the kid had one of his Ivy League application deadlines last night. Normally I would not share about this, but the student made a mistake. They panicked over the essay. That alone is not an issue. I reviewed the shit out of it several times. At this point, I need to highlight one issue. The student had multiple essays, and said that "The word limit for each essay is 2,000 characters, and one is 3,000 characters."

Now I took this to mean that all of the essays had a 2,000 character limit, and that the other was a 3,000 character limit. What the student meant to say, however, was that the essays each had a 2,000 character limit and one of his was 1,000 characters above the limit. That makes a significant difference. Of course, by the time anyone knew what was going on, I was at Krav Maga.

I will now take a small aside to state that I love Krav. Evidently people love training with me, because I am short, strong, quick, and try to make it real. I also learned that people are periodically intimidated by me, because I have a look of pure joy when I am fighting. This is proof that being strong and looking crazy can win many fights. For everything else, there's dick-punch. Excuse me, "groin strikes".

Fast-forward to after Krav Maga, I was talking to the kid's college planning adviser about the essays. At this point I would like to interject a selfless plug for my college planning company. Message or comment, if you want to go to college. We help students get into high school (in the US), get into college (anywhere), and earn professional certifications. And we are particularly skilled at helping international students. That's it. That's the plug.

Back to the story, the adviser was telling me about how they had to cut 1,000 characters. When they called the kid to verify some information, however, the adviser learned that the kid was "out with friends". Now let me ask you something. If you have a major deadline for an Ivy League school, and you know that one of your essays is fucked, are you going to go out with friends? The answer should be "no". Because of this, the adviser decided to make all the cuts necessary.

The adviser said that the kid now cared far less about half the shit that was in the essay. Literally. If the kid said they "really liked" something, it was now just that they "liked" it. They also said that the kid was no longer a basketball player, but a baseball player. Why? Because baseball uses fewer characters than basketball. I then imagined what would happen if the kid was accepted, ad given a baseball scholarship. You see him receive the acceptance letter, with a full-ride scholarship, based on a sport that the kid doesn't know shit about. He goes to the first practice in his basketball clothes, and looks confused as to why everyone else is wearing pants.

Of course, I never really played either sport. I tried basketball once, but never learned the rules. I also never got the hang of not getting hit in the face with a basketball. Baseball was easier, though I usually got yelled at by the team. Evidently you don't throw the bat after each swing. My folks can't say much. My father was always invited to play first base. Someone asked if he was a good first-baseman, and he replied that wasn't a first-baseman. He was literally the base. They invited him to play when there wasn't a plate to stand on. My mother said that she is still waiting on that pick-up baseball game that her neighbors were setting up 50 years ago.

Moral of the Story: This kid now likes baseball, not basketball, and my family sucks at baseball.