My Writer's Cramp Pieces

The Article

A reporter observes a local event for the city newspaper . . .



Writer's Cramp:Write a newspaper article portraying a memorable event in your life, but you can't mention exactly what it is. Instead, you have to use sensory details and comments from witnesses or participants.

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The Article

         Family member and friends were gathered Saturday in our lovely city to watch the big event. Spectators left several quotes: “I’ve been coming to this for nigh on fifteen years and never seen so many folks,” said one of our senior members of the crowd.

         “This is cool,” said a breathless teen in between snaps of Big Red chewing gum gymnastics in which this reporter was amazed. (I never knew bubbles could get that big without popping.)

         The lights dimmed and spectators one and all turned to the center. Mats of red and blue had been placed down on the floor of the gymnasium. The smell reminded me of high school gym class. The excitement was a tight ball in my stomach. I leaned forward to hear the announcer’s voice.

         “Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming to our Saturday . . .”

         The voice continued in its heavily accented Korean-English. I could barely understand the words, but it didn’t matter. The interesting part had come. Twelve participants had entered into the center of the mats. Their white kimono-type uniforms were draped by belts of differing colors. Their feet were bare. My eyes roved the faces.

         “There’s my son. Do you see him?” the woman behind me grabbed my arm and jiggled me. My pencil dropped. I nodded to her and bent to retrieve it.

         Her son was the youngest of the applicants. He looked to be about seven-years-old. He looked scared, but not as scared as several of the older people. A woman in her forties was as pale as her white robe. Her knees were trembling. The teenaged girl beside her looked cocky and self-assured, but was clutching the bottom of the woman’s uniform shirt. I assumed they must be mother and daughter. Both of them were wearing white belts, as were two teen-aged boys. The seven-year-old had a yellow belt. Several others wore reds, two adult men were draped in orange, another already had his brown.

         “That’s Daddy,” said a little toddler, waving. Her father smiled, but did not move. The students in the arena were all frozen in a similar position, arms at their sides, legs apart, looking solid and well-placed on the mat.

         The announcer squawked something, and the participants moved apart. The four white belts came forward.

         “Participants demonstrate your moves.”

         Amazingly, I understood the words. I watched the dance moves, the rhythm of the kicks and jabs of fists and arms. The four students -- mother, daughter, and the teenaged boys performed their steps like a choreographed slow-motion fight scene. I was glad I wasn’t standing close.

         A mean-looking black belt ran onto the mats. The people in the risers stood up and cheered. I wasn’t sure why we were doing so, but I stood up and clapped along with them.

         “Several times champion . . .” The garbled voice continued, but I stopped making the attempt to understand. Instead I watched the black belt as he assembled small planks of wood.

         The white-robed dancers were still showing their moves. The daughter, long blond hair swinging with her physical movements, her body lithe and powerful, had found her rhythm and confidence. Her mother still looked wane and unsure, but was keeping up, although a shade behind the much younger athletes beside her.

         I directed my eyes back to the boards. The black belt had issued a challenge. The first of the teenaged boys came forward and with deep grunts slashed out with his foot. The board broke and a radiant smile burst across his face. He bowed, took the two halves of the board, and walked to the side.

         “You can do it, Josh,” the next boy’s girl friend shouted out. Josh blushed, but strode forward and lifted his leg, kicking in the rapid fire movement. The board remained solidly in one piece. The girl friend wilted into her seat. Josh shook his head and his foot – which looked red as his cheeks. The boy’s eyes darkened with intent. Once more he lashed out. The crack of the board came loud enough to know the results without looking. I scribbled notes in my pad, waiting for the mother and daughter’s performance.

         Daughter strode forward. She, also, took two tries to crack her board in half, but she walked away, the sun shining inside her face.

         Mother looked doubtful about the whole process. Her eyes cast a fleeting glance towards the exit, but she took a long sigh and moved forward. Her eyes stared at the board. She looked up at the black belt as if asking for an excuse to forgo the exercise. The master waved her on.

         The mother's hands clenched and unclenched at the sides of her uniform. A bead of sweat broke out on her forehead. She cleared her voice, and then she stepped forward closer, measuring the board with her eye.

         “Atchoo,” she said, or something similar and her foot rammed the board. Crack. The master displayed for the audience the resulting separation.

         If I’d been that black belt, I would have been watching the woman. She looked like she was about to faint. She stood in shock, paralyzed, her eyes studying the board in disbelief. She glanced down at her foot as if expecting to see blood. Then, she looked up and her smile bloomed even wider than her daughter’s.

         I didn’t stay to see the changing colors of the belts. I knew those four had earned their new yellow belts.

         I rose up and exited. The air outside was clean and fresh. The lingering gym smell of stinking socks dissipated. I cast a wistful look back inside and thought for a moment of signing up for lessons, but the daily workout didn’t thrill me enough to get me into one of those uniforms.

         I lit up a cigarette, inhaled, and tossed my notes into the car. Another story, another day.




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