Heraldry :: essays research papers

Heraldry is a system of signs and symbols, which originated in the Middle Ages as means of recognizing warriors on the battlefield. Since armor or coat of mail was worn, it was not difficult to distinguish friend from enemies even at some distance, for each man wore a uniquely designed shield. Medieval Heraldry originated early in the 12th century in Europe. Back in the earlier centuries when they battled, the knights could not distinguish between the opponents or their own kind, because the armors were very similar. So the knights began to decorate their shields with different colors and shapes so they can know who to kill and who is on their side. Also it helped see them from a distance. The design wasn?t the only thing. The knights wore a simple coat to protect them from the sun. By doing this it became known as heraldry. As a result of their success, families of the winners displayed the arms as a sign of accomplishment. Heraldry began as an art and has developed into a complex science with its own rules. The coat of arms consists of the shield, the mantle, the helmet, the wreath, and the crest. Kings and queens first used them. The shield shapes vary according to time period. The colors on the shields meant different things. For example, yellow and gold meant generosity, blue meant loyalty, and white and silver meant peace and sincerity. The shield also has fur, and that suggest a mark of dignity. The mantle represented the cloth that hang from the wreath, and it was also used to protect the head, back, and neck. The helmet varies with the bearer's rank and the century represented. The wreath is usually a primary color and is metal. The crest is whatever appears above the helmet, and there is always a crest on a coat of arms. Blazon is a formal description of, most often, a coat of arms or flag, which enables a person to construct or reconstruct the appropriate image. The officers of arms developed the system of blazoning arms that is used today since the dawn of the art. This includes a description of the shield, the crest, and, mottoes. An understanding of these rules is one of the keys to sound practice of heraldry. The rules do differ from country to country, but there are some aspects that carry over in each jurisdiction.

Informative Speech For Gun Ownership :: essays research papers

Certainly one of the chief guarantees of freedom under any government, no matter how popular and respected, is the right of the citizen to keep and bear arms. This is not to say that firearms should not be very carefully used and that definite rules of precaution should not be taught and enforced. But the right of the citizen to bear arms is just one more safeguard against a tyranny which now appears remote in America, but which historically has proved to be always possible. -Hubert Humphrey, 1960 My background is probably atypical for a somewhat high-profile supporter of the right to keep and bear arms. I am black and grew up in Manhattan’s East Harlem, far removed from the great American gun culture of rural, white America. Although my voting patterns have become somewhat more conservative in recent years, I remain in my heart of hearts a 1960s Humphrey Democrat concerned with the plight of those most vulnerable in American society-minorities, the poor, the elderly, and single women-groups whose day-to-day realities are often overlooked in our public policy debates, people whose lives too often go unnoticed by our intellectually timid chattering classes. This is happening in the public debate over the right to bear arms. For the nation’s elites, the Second Amendment has become the Rodney Dangerfield of the Bill of Rights, constantly attacked by editorial writers, police chiefs seeking scapegoats, demagoging politicians, and most recently even by Rosie O’Donnell, no less. It is threatened by opportunistic legislative efforts, even when sponsors acknowledge their proposed legislation would have little impact on crime and violence. Professional champions of civil rights and civil liberties have been unwilling to defend the underlying principle of the right to arms. Even the conservative defense has been timid and often inept, tied less, one suspects, to abiding principle and more to the dynamics of contemporary Republican politics. Thus a right older than the Republic, one that the drafters of two constitutional amendments the Second and the Fourteenth intended to protect, and a right whose critical importance has been painfully revealed by twentieth-century history, is left undefended by the lawyers, writers, and scholars we routinely expect to defend other constitutional rights. Instead, the Second Amendment’s intellectual as well as political defense has been left in the unlikely hands of the National Rifle Association (NRA). And although the NRA deserves considerably better than the demonized reputation it has acquired, it should not be the sole or even principal voice in defense of a major constitut ional provision.

The Silver Linings Playbook Chapter 18

A Hive Full of Green Bees â€Å"Ahhhhhhhhh!† I sit up, my heart pounding. When my eyes focus, I see my dad standing at my bedside with his hands above his head; he's wearing his number 5 McNabb jersey. â€Å"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!† he continues to scream, until I get out of bed, raise my hands, and say â€Å"Ahhhhhhhhhh!† We do the chant, spelling the letters with our arms and legs. â€Å"E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!† When we finish, instead of saying good morning or anything else, my father simply jogs out of my room. I look at the clock, and it reads 5:59 a.m. The game starts at one o'clock. I promised to join Jake's tailgate party by ten, which gives me two hours to lift and an hour to run – so I lift, and Tiffany is outside at 8:00 a.m. just like she said she would be. We do a short run – maybe only six or seven miles. After a shower, I put on my Baskett jersey and ask my mom for a ride to the PATCO station, but she says, â€Å"Your driver is waiting for you outside.† Mom kisses me on the cheek and hands me some money. â€Å"Have fun, and don't let your brother drink too much.† Outside, I see Dad in his sedan; the engine is running. I get into the car and say, â€Å"Dad, are you going to the game?† â€Å"I wish I could,† he says, and then we back out of the driveway. The truth is that my father is still serving a self-imposed ban and is therefore not allowed to attend Eagles games. In the early eighties, Dad got into a fight with a Dallas Cowboys fan who dared to sit in the 700 Level, which were the cheap seats at the Vet, where the die-hard Eagles fans sat. The story I heard from my since-deceased uncle was this: When the Cowboys scored a touchdown, this Dallas fan jumped up and began cheering real loudly, so people started throwing beers and hot dogs at him. The only problem was that my dad was sitting in the row in front of this Dallas fan, so the beer and mustard and food rained down on Dad too. Apparently, Dad lost it, attacked the Dallas fan, and beat him within an inch of his life. My father was actually arrested, convicted of aggravated assault, and incarcerated for three months. If my uncle hadn't made the mortgage payments, we would have lost the house. Dad did lose his season ticket and has not been to an Eagles game since. Jake says we could get Dad in, since no one actually checks IDs at the gate, but Dad won't go back, saying, â€Å"As long as they let the opposing fans in our house, I can't trust myself.† This is sort of funny, because twenty-five years after Dad beat the hell out of that Dallas fan, he is just a fat old man who is not likely to beat up another fat old man, let alone a rowdy Dallas fan with the guts to wear a Cowboys jersey to an Eagles game. Although my father did hit me pretty hard in the attic just a few weeks ago – so maybe he is wise to stay away from the games. We drive over the hospital-green Walt Whitman Bridge, and he talks about how this just might be an important day in Eagles history, especially since the Giants won both games last year. â€Å"Revenge!† he keeps yelling indiscriminately. He also tells me I have to cheer real loudly so Eli Manning – who I know (from reading the sports pages) is the Giants' QB – will not be able to talk or hear during the huddles. â€Å"Scream your goddamn lungs out, because you're the twelfth man!† Dad says. The way he talks at me – never really pausing long enough for me to say any-thing – makes him sound crazy, I know, even though most people think I am the crazy person in the family. When we are stopped, waiting in line to pay the bridge toll, Dad quits his Eagles rant long enough to say, â€Å"It's good that you are going to the games with Jake again. Your brother's missed you a lot. You do realize that, right? You need to make time for family no matter what happens in your life, because Jake and your mother need you.† This is a pretty ironic thing for him to say, especially since he has hardly said anything to me since I have been home and never really spends any time with me or my mother or Jake at all, but I am glad my father is finally talking to me. All the time I have ever spent with Jake or him has always revolved around sports – mostly Eagles – and I know this is all he can really afford emotionally, so I take it, and say, â€Å"I wish you were going to the game, Dad.† â€Å"Me too,† he says, and then hands the toll collector a five. After taking the first off-ramp, he deposits me about ten blocks away from the new stadium so he can turn around and avoid traffic. â€Å"You're on your own coming home,† he says as I get out. â€Å"I'm not driving back into this zoo.† I thank him for the ride, and just before I shut the door, he raises his hands in the car and yells â€Å"Ahhhhhhhhh!† so I raise my hands and yell â€Å"Ahhhhhhhh!† A group of men drinking beers out of a nearby car trunk hear us, so they raise their hands and yell â€Å"Ahhhhhhhhhh!† Men united by a team, we all do the Eagles chant together. My chest feels so warm, and I remember how much fun it is to be in South Philly on game day. As I walk toward the west Lincoln Financial Field parking lot – following the directions my brother gave me on the phone the night before – so many people are wearing Eagles jerseys. Everywhere green. People are grilling, drinking beer from plastic cups, throwing footballs, listening to the WIP 610 pregame show on AM radio, and as I walk past, they all high-five me, throw me footballs, and yell, â€Å"Go Birds!† just because I am wearing an Eagles jersey. I see young boys with their fathers. Old guys with their grown sons. Men yelling and singing and smiling as if they were boys again. And I realize I have missed this a lot. Even though I do not want to, I look for the Vet and only find a parking lot. There's a new Phillies ballpark too, called Citizens Bank Park. By the entrance ripples a huge banner of some new player named Ryan Howard. All of this seems to suggest that Jake and Dad weren't lying when they said the Vet was demolished. I try not to think about the dates they mentioned, and I focus on enjoying the game and spending time with my brother. I find the right parking lot and begin to look for the green tent with the black Eagles flag flying from the top. The parking lot is full – tents and grills and parties everywhere – but after ten minutes or so, I spot my brother. Jake's in his number 99 Jerome Brown memorial jersey. (Jerome Brown was the two-time Pro Bowler defensive tackle who was killed in a car crash back in 1992.) My brother is drinking beer from a green cup, standing next to our friend Scott, who is manning the grill. Jake looks happy, and for a second I simply enjoy watching him smile as he throws an arm around Scott, whom I haven't seen since the last time I was in South Philly. Jake's face is red, and he looks a little drunk already, but he has always been a happy drunk, so I do not worry. Like my father, nothing makes Jake happier than Eagles game day. When Jake sees me, he yells, â€Å"Hank Baskett's tailgating with us!† and then runs over to give me a high five and a chest bump. â€Å"What's up, dude?† Scott says to me as we too exchange high fives. The big smile on his face suggests that he is happy to see me. â€Å"Man, you really are huge. What have you been lifting – cars?† I smile proudly as he punches my arm, like guys do when they are buddies. â€Å"It's been years – I mean, um – how many months has it been?† He and my brother exchange a glance that I do not miss, but before I can say anything, Scott yells, â€Å"Hey, all you fat-asses in the tent! I wanna introduce you to my boy – Jake's brother, Pat.† The tent is the size of a small house. I walk through the slit on one side, and a huge flat-screen television is set up on milk crates stacked two by four. Five really fat guys are seated in folding chairs, watching the pregame show – all of them in Eagles jerseys. Scott rattles off the names. After he says mine, the men nod and wave and then go back to watching the pregame show. All of them have handheld personal organizers, and their eyes are rapidly moving back and forth between the small screens in their hands and the large screen at the far side of the tent. Almost all have earpieces in, which I guess are connected to cellular phones. As we exit the tent, Scott says, â€Å"Don't mind them. They're all trying to get last-minute info. They'll be a little more friendly after they've placed their bets.† â€Å"Who are they?† I ask. â€Å"Guys from my work. I'm a computer tech now for Digital Cross Health. We do websites for family doctors.† â€Å"How are they watching television out here in the parking lot?† I ask. My brother waves me around to the back of the tent, points to a small engine in a square of metal, and says, â€Å"Gas-powered generator.† He points to the top of the tent, where a small gray plate is perched, and says, â€Å"Satellite dish.† â€Å"What do they do with all this gear when they go into the game?† I ask. â€Å"Oh,† Scott says with a laugh. â€Å"They don't have tickets.† Jake pours a Yuengling Lager into a plastic cup and hands it to me, and I notice three coolers loaded with beer cans and bottles, probably four or five cases. I know the plastic cup is to keep away the police, who can arrest you for having an open beer can in your hand but not for holding a plastic cup. The bag of empties just outside the tent suggests that Jake and Scott are way ahead of me. As Scott finishes grilling breakfast – thick sausages and eggs scrambled in a pan he has placed over the gas flames – he does not ask me many questions about what I have been up to, which I appreciate. I'm sure my brother has already told Scott all about my time in the bad place and my separation from Nikki, but I still appreciate Scott's allowing me to reenter the world of Eagles football without an interrogation. Scott tells me about his life, and it turns out that while I was in the bad place, he married someone named Willow, and they actually now have three-year-old twins named Tami and Jeri-Lyn. Scott shows me the picture he keeps in his wallet, and the girls are dressed alike in little pink ballerina outfits – tutus, tights – their hands stretched up over silver tiaras, pointing toward heaven. â€Å"My tiny dancers. We live on the Pennsylvania side now. Havertown,† Scott says as he loads a half dozen sausages onto the top rack of the barbecue, where they will keep warm while the next batch cooks. I think about Emily and me floating over the waves only the day before, and again I promise myself I'll get busy making my own daughter just as soon as apart time is over. I try not to do the math in my head, but I can't help it. If he has twins who are three years old and he was married sometime after I last saw him – but before his wife got pregnant – it must mean that I have not seen Scott for at least four years. Now maybe he knocked up his girlfriend and then married her, but of course, I can't ask that. Since his daughters are three, the math indicates he and I have not talked for at least three or four years. My last memory of Scott is at the Vet. I had sold my season ticket to Scott's brother Chris a season or two before, but Chris often went away on business conferences and allowed me to buy my seat back for the few home games played when he was out of town. I came up from Baltimore to see the Eagles play Dallas; I don't remember who won or what the score was. But I remember sitting in between Scott and Jake – up in the 700 Level – when Dallas scored a rushing touchdown. Some clown behind us stood up and began cheering as he unzipped his jacket, revealing a throwback Tony Dorsett jersey. Everyone in our section started booing and throwing food at this Dallas fan, who smiled and smiled. Jake was so drunk he could hardly stand, but he charged after this guy, climbing up over three rows of people. The sober Dallas fan shoved Jake away easily, but when Jake fell back into the arms of drunken Eagles fans, a cry went up, and the Tony Dorsett jersey was forcibly removed from the visiting fan's back and ripped into many pieces before security arrived and threw out a dozen people. Jake was not thrown out of the game. Scott and I were able to get Jake up and away from the mayhem, and when security arrived, we were in the men's room splashing water onto Jake's face, trying to sober him up. In my mind, this happened last year, maybe eleven months ago. But I know if I bring up this incident now as we are grilling in front of the Linc, I will be told that the memory occurred more than three or even four years ago, so I do not bring it up, even though I want to, because I know Jake's and Scott's responses will help me figure out what the rest of the world believes about time. And also, not knowing what the rest of the world believes happened between then and now is terrifying. It's better not to think too much about this. â€Å"Drink some beers,† Jake says to me. â€Å"Smile. It's game day!† So I start drinking, even though the little orange bottles that my pills come in have stickers forbidding me to drink alcohol. After the fat guys in the tent are fed, we eat off paper plates, and then Scott, Jake, and I begin throwing the football around. In the parking lot people are everywhere, not just tailgating, but roaming. Guys selling stolen or homemade T-shirts, moms parading around little girls in cheerleading outfits who will do a cheer if you donate a dollar to their local cheerleading booster club, crazy bums willing to tell you off-color jokes for free food and beer, strippers in short pants and satin jackets handing out free passes to the local gentlemen's clubs, packs of little kids in pads and helmets collecting money for their peewee football teams, college kids handing out free samples of new sodas or sports drinks or candy or junk food, and of course the seventy thousand other drunken Eagles fans just like us. Basically, it's a green football carnival. By the time we decide to have a catch, I've had two or three beers, and I'd be willing to bet Jake and Scott have each had at least ten, so our passes are not all that accurate. We hit parked cars, knock over a few tables of food, beam one or two guys in the back, but no one cares, because we are Eagles fans in Eagles jerseys who are ready and willing to cheer on the Birds. Every so often, other men will jump in front of one of us and intercept a pass or two, but they always give back the ball with a laugh and a smile. I like throwing the football with Jake and Scott because it makes me feel like a boy, and when I was a boy, I was the person Nikki fell in love with. But then something bad happens. Jake sees him first, points, and says, â€Å"Hey, look at the asshole.† I turn my head and see a big man in a Giants jersey, maybe forty yards away from our tent. He is wearing a red, white, and blue hard hat, and the worst part is that he has a little boy with him who is also wearing a Giants jersey. The guy walks over to a group of Eagles fans who give him a hard time at first but eventually hand him a beer. Suddenly my brother is walking toward this Giants fan, so Scott and I follow. My brother starts chanting as he walks, â€Å"Ass – hole! Ass – hole! Ass – hole!† With every syllable, he throws his index finger at the hard hat. Scott is doing the same thing, and before I know it, we are surrounded by twenty or so men in Eagles jerseys who are also chanting and pointing. I have to admit it feels sort of thrilling to be part of this mob – united in our hatred of the opposing team's fans. When we reach the Giants fan, his friends – all Eagles fans – laugh, and their faces seem to say, â€Å"We told you this would happen.† But instead of acting remorseful, the Giants fan puts his hands up in the air, as if he has just performed a magic trick or something; he smiles widely and nods his head like he is enjoying being called an asshole. He even puts his hand to his ear, as if to say, â€Å"I can't hear you.† The kid with him, who has the same pale skin coloring and flat nose – probably his son – looks terrified. The little guy's jersey hangs down to his knees, and as the â€Å"ass – hole† chant intensifies, the kid holds on to his father's leg and tries to hide behind the big man's thigh. My brother transitions the crowd into a â€Å"Giants suck† chant, and more Eagles fans come to join in. We now are at least fifty strong. And this is when the little kid breaks into tears, sobbing. When we Eagles fans see that the kid is really upset, the mob chuckles and respectfully disperses. Jake and Scott are laughing as we walk back to our tent, but I don't feel so great. I wish we did not make that little kid cry. I know the Giants fan was stupid to wear a Giants jersey to an Eagles game, and it is really his own fault that his son was made to cry, but I also know that what we did was unkind, and this is the sort of behavior Nikki hates, what I am trying – I feel his hands explode through my back, and I stumble forward and almost fall down. When I turn around, I see the big Giants fan. He is no longer wearing his hard hat; his son is not with him. â€Å"You like making little kids cry?† he says to me. I'm too shocked to speak. There were at least fifty men chanting, but he has singled out me. Why? I wasn't even chanting. I wasn't even pointing. I want to tell him this, but my mouth won't work, so I just stand there shaking my head. â€Å"If you don't want a problem, don't wear a Giants jersey to an Eagles game,† Scott says. â€Å"It's just bad parenting to bring your son down here dressed like that,† Jake adds. The mob quickly forms again. A circle of green uniforms surrounds us now, and I think this Giants fan must be crazy. One of his friends has come to talk him down. The friend's a small man with long hair and a mustache – and he's wearing an Eagles shirt. â€Å"Come on, Steve. Let's go. They didn't mean anything. It was just a joke.† â€Å"What the fuck is your problem?† Steve says, and then shoves me again, his hands exploding through my chest. At this point the Eagles fans begin chanting, â€Å"Ass – hole! Ass – hole! Ass – hole!† Steve is staring into my eyes, gritting his teeth so the tendons in his neck bulge like ropes. He also lifts weights. His arms look even bigger than mine, and he is taller than me by an inch or two. I look to Jake for help, and I can see that he looks a little worried himself. Jake steps in front of me, puts his hands up to suggest that he means no harm, but before he can say anything, the Giants fan grabs my brother's Jerome Brown memorial jersey and throws Jake to the ground. I see him hit the concrete – my brother's hands skidding along the blacktop – and then blood is dripping from his fingers and Jake's eyes look dazed and scared. My brother is hurt. My brother is hurt. MY BROTHER IS HURT. I explode. The bad feeling in my stomach rockets up through my chest and into my hands – and before I can stop myself, I'm moving forward like a Mack truck. I catch Steve's cheek with a left, and then my right connects with the south side of his chin, lifting him off the ground. I watch him float through the air as if he were allowing his body to fall backward into a pool. His back hits the concrete, his feet and hands twitch once, and then he's not moving, the crowd is silent, and I begin to feel so awful – so guilty. Someone yells, â€Å"Call an ambulance!† Another yells, â€Å"Tell 'em to bring a blue-and-red body bag!† â€Å"I'm sorry,† I whisper, because I find it hard to speak. â€Å"I'm so sorry.† And then I am running again. I weave through the crowds of people, across streets, around cars, and through horns blaring and cursing drivers screaming at me. I feel a bubbly feeling in my midsection, and then I am puking my guts out onto the sidewalk – eggs, sausage, beer – and so many people are yelling at me, calling me a drunk, saying that I'm an asshole; and then I'm running again as fast as I can, down the street away from the stadiums. When I feel as though I am going to throw up again, I stop and realize I'm alone – no more Eagles fans anywhere. A chain-link fence, beyond it a warehouse that looks abandoned. I vomit again. On the sidewalk, outside of the puddle I am making, pieces of broken glass glint and sparkle in the sun. I cry. I feel awful. I realize that I have once again failed to be kind; that I lost control in a big way; that I seriously injured another person, and therefore I'm never going to get Nikki back now. Apart time is going to last forever because my wife is a pacifist who would never want me to hit anyone under any circumstance, and both God and Jesus were obviously rooting for me to turn the other cheek, so I know I really shouldn't have hit that Giants fan, and now I'm crying again because I'm such a fucking waste – such a fucking non-person. I walk another half block, my chest heaving wildly, and then I stop. â€Å"Dear God,† I pray. â€Å"Please don't send me back to the bad place. Please!† I look up at the sky. I see a cloud passing just under the sun. The top is all electric white. I remind myself. Don't give up, I think. Not just yet. â€Å"Pat! Pat! Wait up!† I look back toward the stadiums, and my brother is running toward me. Over the next minute or so, Jake gets bigger and bigger, and then he is right in front of me, bent over, huffing and puffing. â€Å"I'm sorry,† I say. I'm so, so sorry.† â€Å"For what?† Jake laughs, pulls out his cell phone, dials a number, and holds the small phone up to his ear. â€Å"I found him,† Jake says into the phone. â€Å"Yeah, tell him.† Jake hands me the phone. I put it up to my ear. â€Å"Is this Rocky Balboa?† I recognize the voice as Scott's. â€Å"Listen, the asshole you knocked out – well, he woke up and is super pissed. Better not come back to the tent.† â€Å"Is he okay?† I ask. â€Å"You should be more worried about yourself.† â€Å"Why?† â€Å"We played dumb when the cops showed up, and no one was able to identify you or your brother – but ever since five-o left, the big guy's been searching the parking lot, looking for you. Whatever you do, don't come back here, because this Giants fan's hellbent on revenge.† I hand the phone back to Jake, feeling somewhat relieved to know I did not seriously hurt Steve, but also feeling numb – because I lost control again. Plus, I'm a little afraid of the Giants fan. â€Å"So, are we going home now?† I ask Jake when he finishes talking to Scott. â€Å"Home? Are you kiddin' me?† he says, and we start walking back toward the Linc. When I don't say anything for a long time, my brother asks if I'm okay. I'm not okay, but I don't say so. â€Å"Listen, that asshole attacked you and threw me to the ground. You only defended your family,† Jake says. â€Å"You should be proud. You were the hero.† Even though I was defending my brother, even though I did not seriously hurt the Giants fan, I don't feel proud at all. I feel guilty. I should be locked up again in the bad place. I feel as though Dr. Timbers was right about me – that I don't belong in the real world, because I am uncontrollable and dangerous. But of course I do not say this to Jake, mostly because he has never been locked up and doesn't understand what it feels like to lose control, and he only wants to watch the football game now, and none of this means anything to him, because he has never been married and he has never lost someone like Nikki and he is not trying to improve his life at all, because he doesn't ever feel the war that goes on in my chest every single fucking day – the chemical explosions that light up my skull like the Fourth of July and the awful needs and impulses and †¦ Outside the Linc, masses form thick lines, and with hundreds of other fans, we wait to be frisked. I don't remember being frisked at the Vet. I wonder when it became necessary to frisk people at NFL games, but I do not ask Jake, because he is now singing â€Å"Fly, Eagles, Fly† with hundreds of other drunken Eagles fans. After we are frisked, we climb the steps and have our tickets scanned, and then we are inside of Lincoln Financial Field. People everywhere – it's like a hive full of green bees, and the buzz is deafening. We often have to turn sideways just to squeeze between people as we walk the concourse to get to our section. I follow Jake, worrying about getting separated, because I would be lost for sure. We hit the men's room, and Jake gets everyone inside to sing the Eagles fight song again. The lines for the urinals are long, and I am amazed that no one pees in the sinks, because at the Vet – at least up in the 700 Level – all sinks were used as extra urinals. When we finally get to our seats, we are in the end zone, only twenty or so rows up from the field. â€Å"How did you get such good tickets?† I ask Jake. â€Å"I know a guy,† he replies, and smiles proudly. Scott is already seated, and he congratulates me on my fight, saying, â€Å"You knocked that fucking Giants fan out cold!† which makes me feel awful again. Jake and Scott high-five just about everyone in the section, and as the other fans call Scott and my brother by name, it becomes obvious that they are quite popular here. When the beer man comes around, Scott buys us a round, and I am amazed to find a cup holder in the seat in front of me. You would never see such a luxury item at the Vet. Just before the Eagles' players are announced, clips from the Rocky movies are shown on the huge screens at each end of the field – Rocky running by the old Navy Yard, Rocky punching sides of beef in the meat locker, Rocky running up the steps of the art museum – and Jake and Scott keep saying, â€Å"That's you. That's you,† until I worry that someone will hear them, understand that I just fought the Giants fan in the parking lot, and tell the police to take me back to the bad place. When the Eagles' starting lineup is announced, fireworks explode and cheerleaders kick and everyone is standing and Jake keeps on pounding my back with his hand and strangers are high-fiving me, and suddenly I stop thinking about my fight in the parking lot. I begin to think about my dad watching the game in our family room – my mother serving him buffalo wings and pizza and beers, hoping the Eagles win just so her husband will be in a good mood for a week. I again wonder if my dad will start talking to me at night if the Eagles pull out a victory today, and suddenly it's kickoff and I am cheering as if my life depends on the outcome of the game. The Giants score first, but the Eagles answer with a touchdown of their own, after which the whole stadium sings the fight song – punctuated by the Eagles chant – with deafening pride. Late in the first quarter, Hank Baskett gets his first catch of his NFL career – a twenty-five-yarder. Everyone in our section high-fives me and pats me on the back because I am wearing my official Hank Baskett jersey, and I smile at my brother because he gave me such a great present. The game is all Eagles after that, and at the start of the fourth quarter the Eagles are up 24 – 7. Jake and Scott are so happy, and I am beginning to imagine the conversation I am going to have with my father when I get home – how proud he will be of my yelling whenever Eli Manning was trying to call a play. But then the Giants score seventeen unanswered points in the fourth quarter, and the Philadelphia fans are shocked. In overtime, Plaxico Burress goes up and over Sheldon Brown in the end zone, and the Giants leave Philadelphia with a win. It is awful to watch. Outside of the Linc, Scott says, â€Å"Better not come back to the tent. That asshole will be there waiting, for sure.† So we say goodbye to Scott and follow the masses to the subway entrance. Jake has tokens. We go through the turnstiles, descend underground, and push our way onto an already packed subway car. People yell, â€Å"No room!† but Jake mashes his body in between the other bodies and then pulls me in too. My brother's chest is against my back; strangers are smashed against my arms. The doors finally close, and my nose is almost touching the glass window. The smell of beer resurfacing through everyone's sweat glands is pungent. I don't like being this close to so many strangers, but I don't say anything, and soon we are at City Hall. After we exit the train, we spin another turnstile, climb up into center city, and begin walking down Market Street, past the old department stores and the new hotels and The Gallery. â€Å"You wanna see my apartment?† Jake asks when we get to the Eighth and Market PATCO stop, which is where I can hop a train over the Ben Franklin Bridge to Collingswood. I do want to see Jake's apartment, but I am tired and anxious to get home so I can do a little lifting before bed. I ask if I might see it some other time. â€Å"Sure,† he says. â€Å"It's good to have you back, brother. You were a true Eagles fan today.† I nod. â€Å"Tell Dad the Birds will bounce back next week against San Fran.† I nod again. My brother surprises me by giving me a two-armed hug and saying, â€Å"I love you, bro. Thanks for getting my back in the parking lot.† I tell him that I love him too, and then he is walking down Market Street singing â€Å"Fly, Eagles, Fly† at the top of his lungs. I descend underground, insert the five my mother gave me into the change machine, buy a ticket, stick it into the turnstile, descend more stairs, hit the waiting platform, and begin to think about that little kid in the Giants jersey. How hard did he cry when he realized his father had been knocked out? Did the kid even get to see the game? A few other men in Eagles jerseys are sitting on the chrome benches. Each nods sympathetically at me when they see my Hank Baskett jersey. One man at the far end of the platform yells, â€Å"Goddamn fucking Birds!† and then kicks a metal trash can. Another man standing next to me shakes his head and whispers, â€Å"Goddamn fucking Birds.† When the train comes, I choose to stand just inside the doors, and as the train slides across the dusk sky, over the Delaware River, across the Ben Franklin Bridge, I look at the city skyline, and – again – I start to think about that kid crying. I feel so awful when I think about that little kid. I get off the train at Collingswood, walk across the open-air platform and down the steps, stick my card into the turnstile machine, and then jog home. My mother is sitting in the family room, sipping tea. â€Å"How's Dad?† I ask. She shakes her head and points at the TV. The screen is cracked so that it looks like a spiderweb. â€Å"What happened?† â€Å"Your father smashed the screen with the reading lamp.† â€Å"Because the Eagles lost?† â€Å"No, actually. He did it when the Giants tied the game at the end of the fourth quarter. Your father had to watch the Eagles blow the game on the bedroom television,† Mom says. â€Å"How's your brother?† â€Å"Fine,† I say. â€Å"Where's Dad?† â€Å"In his office.† â€Å"Oh.† â€Å"I'm sorry your team lost,† Mom says, just to be nice, I know. â€Å"It's okay,† I answer, and then go down into the basement, where I lift weights for hours and try to forget about that little Giants fan crying, but I still can't get the kid out of my mind. For whatever reason I fall asleep on the rug that covers part of the basement floor. In my dreams the fight happens again and again, only instead of the Giants fan bringing a kid to the game, the Giants fan brings Nikki, and she too is wearing a Giants jersey. Every time I knock the big guy out, Nikki pushes through the crowd, cradles Steve's head in her hands, kisses his forehead, and then looks up at me. Just before I run away, she says, â€Å"You're an animal, Pat. And I will never love you again.† I cry through my dreams and try not to hit the Giants fan every time the memory flashes through my mind, but I can't control my dream self any more than I could control my awake self after seeing the blood on Jake's hands. I wake up to the sound of the basement door being closed, and I see the light streaming in through the small windows over the washer and dryer. I walk up the steps, and I cannot believe the sports pages are there. I am very upset about the dream I had, but I realize it was only a dream, and despite everything that has happened, my father is still leaving me the sports pages after one of the worst Eagles losses in history. So I take a deep breath. I allow myself to feel hopeful again and start my exercise routine.

IBM Dell Companies Overview

IBM Dell Companies Overview IBM endeavors to prepare a common size financial statement with the common size being on the total of each side of the accounting equation. On the income statement, each item is expressed as a percentage of net sales. This helps evaluate internal make up of financial statements (Forbes, 2011). The purpose of this type of accounting is to evaluate financial statement accounts across companies.Advertising We will write a custom report sample on IBM Dell Companies’ Overview specifically for you for only $16.05 $11/page Learn More Over the years, IBM has witnessed an increase in its major revenue, indicating an increment in comparison to Dell. This could be attributed to the fact that IBM focuses mostly on major companies. Additionally, the company invests in IBM’s five major business services, namely: Global Technology Services, Global Business Services, Software, Systems and Technology, and Global Financing. Global Technology services are the ma in income generators, most notably in 2010, and attracted a total of 39% of the company’s total revenue (Forbes, 2011). Software on the other hand accounts for the pre-tax income. The most notable IBM’s software products are Tivoli, Lotus and Rational. Its research and development team has continually endeavored to provide the company with the best information as regards the markets of its products (Forbes, 2011). This is arguably true as IBM’s mainframes have over the years been in the market and still present a profitable products line for the business, in addition to other personal computers and servers. In the information technology firms, IBM is still ranked high and is listed in Fortune magazine as among the world’s most admired companies. One of its most identifying characteristic has been the zeal to invest in low-margin business; for instance the personal computer division that was later sold to Lenovo group and later focusing on more high-value products and services. Its most valuable expense in 2010 was the purchase of Netezza at $1.7 billion (Forbes, 2011). Dell has not been doing badly either, although its revenue is far behind IBM’s. Its philosophy of actively managing demand in real time and selling what is has in its stores has ensured that the company soar to greater heights. If it relied on what it wants to sell, the company would have witnessed low profit margins than recorded (Dell, 2011).Advertising Looking for report on business economics? Let's see if we can help you! Get your first paper with 15% OFF Learn More Its success is further promoted by the fact that Dell’s customers are mostly the high-end buyers who adopt new technology, often making the market adopt new product life-cycle transitions (Dell, 2011). Its profit margins have risen steadily and more funds have been directed into research and development for the innovation of more features. Additionally, its operat ing expenses have been on the rise perhaps an attribute of the global crisis that initially affected the market of all products. The company’s manufacturing system has concentrated on the building products place orders, working closely with its major suppliers while concentrating more on consumer research to realize a flexible system. Most if its funds have thus been directed into research and development. The earnings from the shares cannot really account for much of the company’s income. Thus it is agreed that the forecast accuracy in Dell could be around 70-75%, attributable to its careful accounts selection (Dell, 2011). The company’s management has over the years focused on the high-end products with a more prolonged shelf-life. This, however, is mostly applied when the consumer market is highly unpredictable. Of the two companies, IBM is more successful and somewhat unpredictable in its development of new technologies. References Dell (2011). Financial rep orts. Retrieved from https://www.dell.com/en-us Forbes (2011). International Business Machines, Income Statement (NYSE:IBM). Retrieved from https://www.forbes.com/companies/ibm/#25deaead39c4Advertising We will write a custom report sample on IBM Dell Companies’ Overview specifically for you for only $16.05 $11/page Learn More

Italian Idioms and Sayings Using the Verb Fare

Italian Idioms and Sayings Using the Verb Fare If essere is the Swiss army knife of verbs, then fare is the all-in-one, handy-dandy kitchen appliance. The verb fare expresses the basic idea of doing or making, as in fare gli esercizi (to do the exercises) and fare il letto (to make the bed), but it is also used in many idioms. Note that the infinitive fare is frequently abbreviated to far before a consonant. For example, you may say far colazione, far male, far torto. Fare is also used in many expressions relating to the weather (note that in the following translations, it is an impersonal subject and does not have an equivalent in Italian): Che tempo fa? (How is the weather?)Fa bel tempo. (The weather is nice.)Fa cattivo tempo. (The weather is bad.)Ha fatto caldo. (It has been warm.)Qui fa sempre freddo. (Its always cold here.)In primavera fa sempre fresco. (In spring its always cool.) Besides idiomatic expressions, and expressions relating to the weather, the verb fare is used in a number of proverbs: Fare e disfare à ¨ tuttun lavorare. (Its all go, its a hard life.)Chi la fa laspetti. (You will get as good as you gave.)Chi fa da sà © fa per tre. (If you want something done, do it yourself.)Non fare agli altri cià ² che non vorresti fosse fatto a te. (Do as you would be done by.)Tutto fa brodo. (Every little bit helps.)Chi non sa fare, non sa comandare. (A bad worker is a bad master.) Idiomatic Expressions with Fare   fare i compiti to do ones homework fare il biglietto to purchase a ticket fare la fila / la coda stand on line / wait on line fare la spesa to go grocery shopping fare le spese to go shopping fare forca to play hooky fare vedere to show someone something fare una domanda to ask a question fare una fotografia to take a picture fare una passeggiata to take a walk fare colazione to have breakfast fare un viaggio to take a trip fare un capello in quattro to split hairs farsi la barba to shave farsi coraggio to take heart fare castelli in aria to daydream fare fingere to pretend, make believe fare male to be painful, to ache farsi in la to step to one side fare di tutto to do everything possible fare del proprio meglio to do ones best farsi degli amici to make friends fare alla romana to split the check fare il pieno to fill up the gas tank fare passare to let through

Problem Formulation and Identification Essays - Decision Theory

Problem Formulation and Identification Essays - Decision Theory Problem Formulation and Identification Problem Formulation and Identification There are several types of decision-style models, and finding the correct model for an organization is important. Not all organizations. or people within the organization think the same, and in turn not all decision-style models will work in all organizations. An organization can go under if they are unable to solve problems effectively. In this paper a couple different types of decision-style models are discussed. This will help to explain how the models work and show an organization what model might work best for the organization. The collective decision-making style combines multiple perspectives. The logic and rationally of different individuals collectively analyze and formulate decisions together. The collective style of making decisions has both similarities and differences when other styles. T he collective model of decision-making both lack the stability of a rigid or complex bureaucracy. The collective style is usually embraced willingly in the hope that it best suits a particular organization?s needs. The collective decision making relies on small steps or pieces ?to move in piecemeal fashion toward a bigger solution? (Bateman and Snell, 2009). The collective style individual pieces are isolated from each other. Pieces or individuals within the collective style influence each other more often as they exchange information while working collectively. The collective style of decision-making has unique strengths and weaknesses. Collective knowledge increases the amount of intellectual capital and brainpower. This style of decision-making draws upon the advantage of diversity by capitalizing on the strengths and expertise of different people. Multiple perspectives on any issue increase creativity, innovation, and flexibility. Weaknesses of making decisions collectively may include lower levels of cohesion and increased exposure during times of crisis. The collective decision-making style can be more negatively affected than others by internal conflicts and disagreements. With no one clearly in charge some people may ?try to influence organizational decisions so that their own interest will be served reducing decision-effectiveness? (Bateman and Snell, 2009). This style of decision-making can make a firm particularly vulnerable during time of crisis, when responsibility should be consolidated within a strong leader. The collective style of decision-making is effective at indentifying problems and describing them to stakeholders in a manner sensitive to their perspectives. Collectives focus many minds on particular problems or hotspots at any given time. Members, who most closely resemble or relate to stakeholders perspectives, can be used to increase communication. For example, if an incorporated collective decides to release additional shares additional shares it can have particular members inform other members whom they personally know. The delegation decision making style allows the manager or a person in control to disperse tasks to his or her staff. This is a smart method of decision making because although the manager/leader has to consider the goal setting he or she can consult the staff with different experiences to achieve those goals. Delegation is often most useful when a leader is working with highly skilled or experienced workers. This decision making style allows the leader to capitalize on their employees? individual talents and strengths, while also benefiting from the power of the whole. Delegation is an effective step in recognizing the importance of company?s human capital and or what weaknesses there are. Delegating does not mean giving up control it?s simply means trusting your subordinates and building a strong multitasking team to achieve goals and objectives. Delegation ultimately reduces the workload and stress on the leader because the work is dispersed among the staff members. A manager who uses delegation allows his subordinates to be empowered and motivated resulting in greater trust. This also encourages employee feedback and allows them to have a voice. Although as is with any decision making style there are some disadvantages of delegation. Some of the disadvantages are delegating a task not matched to the individual?s skills or level of experience. Another mistake a manager/leader can make when delegating is not to explain clearly and concisely how a task should be accomplished. This will result in an ultimate waste of everyone?s time and disastrous consequences to the project at hand. Ultimately the power and accountability rests with the delegator leader or manager in charge. If applied correctly delegation can be very beneficial in

Spirituality In Sport Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 2500 words

Spirituality In Sport - Essay Example We take for granted our present identity, the one that our surroundings (parents, family) have given us. But the quest for spirituality helps us discover our true identity and instills hope and faith in us (Russel, 2006). The Divine path unites us with our true identity after we decide to delve in the realm of spirituality. All religions are based on spirituality and no matter how modern we may get, we always want to know our religion’s teachings for matters of our interest, though we might not abide by the religious teachings. These matters can be our passions like music and sports. It is interesting to find out what religion has to say about sports and if there is any linkage between spirituality and sports. Something which is spiritual, touches us deeply from within, gives us peace and motivation to go on. All the successful athletes went for their passion because they found contentment and peace in the sport of their choice. It is difficult to perceive a relationship betwe en sports and spirituality (though it exists for sure), because violence, aggression and anger is seen in sportsmen while they are battling to win the game. As per a renowned psychologist, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (who happens to be a chess player as well), sports let us be in a state of ‘flow’. This is an active state where a sportsman is just focused on the game and does not heed his surroundings. This flow state is an active state because both our mental and physical energies are devoted to just one thing: the game. Also, we are so engrossed in sports that during playing, all our worldly worries seem to drift away and we find an escape from daily tensions and stress. Other activities such as watching television are passive because they do not require one to be directly involved and concentrate solely on one thing (Taylor, 2002, Spring). Athletes drift into a passionate trance, where they relax and find serenity as sports soothe the nerves, no matter how strenuous they might be. Flow is very much similar to the dharana state of yoga which literally means concentration. The similarity is justified; because sports require 100% concentration otherwise one slipping can make you lose. Once in a state of flow, there are chances that it might deepen and the sportsman moves into a state very much similar to dhiyana (meditation state of yoga) and all of a sudden, the player’s performance improves so much that he can turn the game around. But in dhyana (referred to as the Zone by sportsmen), everything slows down so that the player is better able to think and then charge at the opponents. The zone is a transient phase and only the most professional and expert sportsmen are able to fall in it and give their best shot (Taylor, 2002, Spring). Sometimes, extraordinary and phenomenal things tend to happen that leave a mark in the minds of the spectators who are totally awed after experiencing a great feat, when players are in the state of dhyana; for ins tance runners feel as if they are airborne, light and highly energized during ‘tipping’ (dhyana-like state). Some sportsmen also claim that during such a phase, they can see through their bodies. These are psychic experiences and the players manage to give commendable performance during them; but there are chances that a lot of people will question the validity of these experiences. But only a genuine sportsman can verify whether these experiences are really spiritual or make-believe. After dhyana, sportsmen sometimes enter into samadhi (state of union with the divine), where they feel extremely elated: hence we can conclude that sports are a spiritual practice as it corresponds to the three states of yoga dharana, dhyana and samadhi (Taylor, 2002,