The Way and the Distance I Created

Fastball’s The Way was one of my brother’s favorite songs in middle school. I’ve known that for decades, but I’ve never known why. And the truth is embarrassingly simple: I never asked. Not because the answer didn’t matter, but because I didn’t think to care.

That’s the part I keep returning to. The song isn’t the mystery. I am.

Growing up, I moved through the world with a kind of self‑contained gravity. Everything orbited me—my interests, my anxieties, my ambitions. I didn’t look outward often, and when I did, it was only far enough to see how someone else’s life intersected with mine. My brother wasn’t a person with depth or contradictions or private curiosities; he was just there. A presence, not a story.

I didn’t ask what he liked or why. I didn’t ask what he feared or hoped. I didn’t ask who he was becoming. I didn’t ask anything.

And because I didn’t ask, I didn’t know.

Since our mother’s death, we’ve tried to close that gap. Grief has a way of forcing conversations that should have happened years earlier. We’ve talked more honestly, more directly, more intentionally. We’ve tried to understand each other in ways we never bothered to when we were younger. It hasn’t been perfect, but it’s been real. And it’s made me aware of just how much I missed.

But The Way is still one of those songs that can come on unexpectedly and send my mind down a track that feels destined to derail. It’s not about the song’s meaning or its tone. It’s about the sudden reminder of how little I knew about the person who loved it. How easily I assumed that his inner world was simple because I never took the time to see its complexity. How thoroughly I let my own self‑absorption define the limits of our relationship.

It’s strange to realize that you grew up beside someone and still carry an incomplete version of who they were. Stranger still to recognize that the incompleteness wasn’t inevitable—it was chosen, even if unconsciously. It was built out of inattention, out of the belief that my perspective was the default and everything else was background noise.

I can’t go back and ask the questions I never asked. I can’t reconstruct the parts of him I never bothered to learn. I can only acknowledge the gap and the role I played in creating it. I can only keep trying, now, to understand him as a full person rather than the outline I once carried.

The Way remains the reminder. A three‑minute song that can still pull me into the uncomfortable truth that the distance between us wasn’t fate—it was me. And the things I didn’t see then are the things I’m trying, slowly, deliberately, to see now.

Minnesota Forge? Worst team name since “Wild”

 The Stillness of a Mascot: On the Minnesota Forge and the Echo of a Beacon

There’s something unsettling about a mascot that doesn’t move.

Not unsettling in a horror‑movie way — more in the way a quiet room unsettles you after you’ve been living in noise. When Minnesota announced their new pro volleyball team name, Forge, I felt that familiar tug in my chest. Not excitement. Not disappointment. Something in between. Something I’ve felt before.

Because I grew up cheering for a Beacon.

A beacon is a symbol. A light. A guide. It doesn’t run downfield or leap for a kill. It doesn’t have claws or wings or a stinger. It doesn’t intimidate anyone. It just… stands there. Glowing. Waiting for someone else to move.

And now here comes Forge, another stationary object — a tool used to make other things, but not something you can imagine sprinting out of a tunnel with smoke machines and pyrotechnics. A forge doesn’t attack. It doesn’t defend. It doesn’t rally. It burns. It shapes. It creates.

It’s powerful, but not in the way sports usually define power.

The emotional conflict of cheering for something that doesn’t cheer back

Sports culture trains us to expect mascots that feel alive. Animals. Forces of nature. Human archetypes. Something with teeth or speed or fury. Something that can be personified.

But a forge?

But a beacon?

You can’t chant for a forge. You can’t imagine a forge “taking the court.” You can’t picture a forge celebrating a point. It’s a piece of infrastructure. A tool. A place where other things happen.

And yet — that’s exactly why the name sticks with me.

There’s a quiet dignity in a mascot that doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. A forge doesn’t need to move to matter. A beacon doesn’t need to roar to be seen. They’re both symbols of creation and guidance, not aggression. They’re about shaping the world rather than conquering it.

But that doesn’t mean they’re easy to cheer for.

There’s a tension there — the desire for something visceral, something that leaps off the court, versus the respect for something foundational, something that represents work, craft, and purpose.

Forge sits right in that tension. 

The industrial heart vs. the emotional instinct

Volleyball, especially at the pro level, leans toward names that feel kinetic: Vibe, Mojo, Thrill, Rise. Even Supernovas — cosmic motion. Everything is about energy, momentum, velocity.

Forge is the opposite.

Forge is stillness.

Forge is heat without motion.

Forge is creation without spectacle.

It’s a name that feels like it belongs in a workshop, not an arena. 

And yet, maybe that’s the point.

Maybe Minnesota wanted something that doesn’t chase the trend. Something that doesn’t try to sound fast or loud or explosive. Something that says: We build. We craft. We shape. We make.

It’s not a cheer‑friendly identity, but it’s a meaningful one

The echo of the Beacon

I didn’t expect a pro volleyball team name to drag me back to high school, but here we are. The Beacon was always a strange mascot — noble, symbolic, but emotionally distant. You couldn’t anthropomorphize it. You couldn’t imagine it doing anything. It was a metaphor wearing a jersey.

Forge feels like that same metaphor, just made of steel instead of light.

Both names ask you to cheer for a concept rather than a creature.

Both names ask you to find pride in symbolism rather than spectacle.

Both names ask you to embrace stillness in a world obsessed with motion.

And maybe that’s why I’m conflicted.

Because I know what it feels like to stand in the bleachers and try to summon enthusiasm for something that doesn’t move. Something that doesn’t fight. Something that doesn’t roar. Something that just is.

But I also know the strange beauty of it — the way a symbol can become a rallying point precisely because it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.

Maybe Forge works because it doesn’t try to be what it isn’t

Forge isn’t a mascot you cheer for.

It’s a mascot you cheer from.

It’s the foundation.

The workshop.

The place where effort becomes outcome.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe Minnesota doesn’t need a creature or a force of nature. Maybe they need a reminder that greatness is built, not conjured. Maybe they need a name that reflects the work behind the win, not the win itself.

I have consistently thought that Minnesota Wild is the worst 90s attempt at being something while also being nothing. It’s 90s marketing at its worst. And then this happened. Roughly 25 years later and with the same underwhelming energy. 

Maybe Forge is a beacon — just made of metal instead of light.

Spider-Man Brand New Day Review

Spider‑Man: Brand New Day is the kind of movie that lures you in with the promise of superhero fun, then casually drops emotional anvils on your head while you’re busy admiring the action sequences. 

I walked in expecting a good time. I walked out having cried twice — and not even at the parts you’d expect. No, my emotional collapse was triggered by a memory of Aunt May and a fake‑out ending. I’m doing great.

Male loneliness, portrayed with uncomfortable accuracy

The film treats Peter’s loneliness with a level of subtlety that feels almost rude. It’s not melodramatic — it’s the quiet, everyday isolation men carry around like it’s part of the uniform. The movie doesn’t preach about it; it just shows it. And because my attention tends to lock onto tiny emotional details whether I want it to or not, those moments hit with surgical precision.

Sadie Sink’s character: empathetic, powerful, and politically loaded

Her introduction is one of the film’s strongest choices. She’s immediately compelling — not because the movie tells you she is, but because she’s written with real depth. She feels like the perfect foundation for the modern X‑Men era, where mutant identity isn’t just metaphor, it’s commentary. And her connection with Peter through the Aunt May memory? That was cry number one. Full emotional collapse. Grief comes in weird ways and when you often don’t expect it. Yes, I miss my mom. Thanks for asking.

The Punisher ethos: regret. 

The movie’s nod to the Punisher’s worldview is sharp and understated. It shows how the “obvious solution” — the decisive, violent one — often becomes the regret you drag behind you for the rest of your life. It’s a critique of the fantasy that one bold action can fix everything. Instead, the film reminds you that shortcuts come with consequences, and those consequences linger.

Consent addressed. 

Peter remembers MJ. She doesn’t. And instead of trying to force a connection or reclaim what he lost, he accepts it. 

No manipulation, no destiny talk, no dramatic speeches. Just respect. It’s one of the most mature portrayals of consent in the genre, and it fits seamlessly into the film’s larger themes of responsibility and emotional honesty.

Government overreach: Damage Control doing what bureaucracies do best

The Department of Damage Control is basically government overreach with branding. It’s close enough to real‑world agencies — DOGE included — that the commentary lands without the movie needing to shout. It’s a reminder that institutions expand, power creeps, and “public safety” can become a very flexible phrase. 

And about that ending…

There’s a moment where the movie pretends it’s over — and it’s not. That fake‑out hit me with such emotional whiplash that it triggered cry number two. I genuinely thought the story had ended on a gut punch, and when it didn’t, I had to pretend I wasn’t wiping my face. Very dignified.

Brand New Day tackles massive social issues — loneliness, regret, consent, political identity, government power — without ever turning into a lecture. It’s fun, sharp, emotionally resonant, and far smarter than it pretends to be. I give it a 5 out of 5, no hesitation. You should see it as soon as possible, and honestly, more than once. The depth becomes clearer with every viewing, especially if you’re someone who catches the small details… or cries at fake endings.