Category: Uncategorized

By Margaret High

The bow of the Spirit pushed through glassy lake water in the pre-dawn haze. Caeli Harr was on stroke 400 of 1,000 of the morning’s workout. The sun hadn’t risen yet to show her wincing with every repetition. Something was wrong.

She struggled to stand on the dock after finishing her hour-long morning workout. A teammate asked if she was OK.

“I don’t know; something just isn’t right,” Harr said.

Her left hip had been painful for the past month, but the last race in the fall 2017 season for the UNC women’s varsity rowing team was two weeks away. The pain could wait to be addressed. Winning was more important.

The senior scholarship rower knew what was wrong as soon as the pain hit. It was the same injury a fellow recruit from her class suffered from freshman year. A year later, another teammate from her recruiting class also medically retired from the injury. The same fall Harr’s hip hurt, another rower had surgery for the injury and was beginning her eight months of recovery.

Harr tore her left hip labrum sometime in the fall. The labrum is a ring of fibrocartilage. It secures the ball part of the hip’s ball-and-socket joint within the hip socket. It also helps to stabilize the hip joint.

Torn labrums: a common injury, but a relatively new medical discovery

Despite prevalence on the UNC rowing team, torn labrums are a new medical discovery. Roughly 15 years ago, doctors believed the symptoms meant arthritis. Surgery has low success rates, and few orthopedic surgeons know how to do the procedure, which involves reattaching the torn labrum back to the disc within the hip socket. In extreme cases like Harr’s, cadavers are required to replace the shredded labrum.

“The first time I heard it was a torn labrum, tears were just streaming down my face,” Harr said. “I was distraught. I didn’t know what to do.”

In addition to a torn labrum, Harr suffers from a stress fracture in the top of her left femur and a cist within the stress fracture. The daily pain Harr feels from her injuries pushed her to decide to opt for surgery.

Dr. Joseph Barker, a hip specialist in Raleigh, told Harr they would try microfracturing to get rid of the cist. Just like the labrum replacement, it’s a controversial surgery. Microfracturing involves poking holes in the femur to trigger the body’s natural healing responses to a broken bone, increasing blood flow to the area and hopefully healing the stress fracture and cist at the same time.

“I wish I had known how serious it was. I thought it was just another injury,” Harr said. She would’ve stopped sooner had she realized the severity of her issues.

Harr’s history of injuries and passion for sports

Her inevitable surgery will be scar number five on her 5’7” body. Her right knee has two major scars on either side. The left one is from an anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) tear in eighth grade from a non-contact soccer injury. The botched surgery resulted in the right scar.

Harr was a sophomore in high school, just back from three month’s recovery from scar number three that rests beneath her jawline from jaw surgery. It was her third day back at practice. The freckle-faced 15-year-old was running when she tripped and tore her ACL for a second time.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Harr said as she looked down at the ground. “It just tore.”

Soccer was Harr’s passion. It consumed her since first grade. When her parents divorced in middle school, Harr stayed after soccer practice to work on her technique. When only one parent could attend her soccer games instead of both, Harr worked harder to be the best on the field. In between different homes on the weekends, she threw herself into the sport.

“Sports give me a purpose,” Harr said. “When I don’t have structure, I just feel lost. I feel all over the place.”

Discovering rowing

The San Jose, Ca., native needed a sport to satisfy her. Harr’s favorite running trail overlooks a water reservoir, which houses the Los Gatos Rowing Club. Rowing was a sport that could get her into a good university and let her continue to be an athlete without ruining her knee.

“When I first started, I was so bad,” Harr laughed. “I’ve never been so bad at something.”

Her long legs helped propel her body in the boat, but her disproportionately short torso created a litany of technique issues. Six days a week, three hours a day, the Los Gatos head coach, Matt Pinschmidt, berated Harr. The 5’2” former national champion would turn his sharp nose up at Harr, displeased eyes shaded by the baseball caps he always wore.

“I would come home sobbing,” Harr said. “My coach was screaming like bloody murder at me every single day.”

After practice one day, Pinschmidt sat Harr down and told her she should quit. She wasn’t fast enough to be recruited.

Harr worked harder than ever after that day. She shaved off almost a full minute on her 2,000 meter score. She raced every teammate and won. There was no amount of pain Harr couldn’t breach in order to prove Pinschmidt wrong.

“It was really satisfying. I just had this whole ‘screw you’ mentality toward my coach,” Harr said. ”He was absolutely shocked. He had no clue I could actually be that good.”

Soon after, Harr received a scholarship offer for the UNC women’s rowing team.

A year later, Harr was in a four-man boat racing down the Schuylkill River in Philadelphia with more than three seconds between the stern of her boat and the bow of the next. Her Carolina blue unitard swung back and forth quickly in the boat, propelling her to a first-place finish in the largest collegiate regatta in the United States.

She continued to enjoy success as a sophomore, racing in the ACC Championship in the top varsity eight-man boat. Pinschmidt, her former club rowing coach, even sent her a text message before the 2015 ACC Championship, congratulating her success.

“It was like something out of a movie,” Harr said. “We went from hating each other to learning to love each other.”

Hip labral tears are a common injury for UNC’s varsity women’s rowing team

As a junior, one of Harr’s best friends on the team medically retired from a hip labral tear.

Nina Luker, a member of the freshman four-man boat and Harr’s best friend on the team, decided to not undergo surgery after learning of her torn hip labrum. She weighed the options of dealing with the pain or dealing with recovery. Unlike Harr, her labrum doesn’t bother her as intensely every day.

“When I heard it was a labrum tear, I left the doctor in full tears,” Luker said. “You have the idea that something can be kind of a sport-ending injury. But hearing those words come out of someone else’s mouth triggered those emotions. Hearing that I wouldn’t be a student-athlete anymore… that was my identity.”

Alex Davis, another teammate with a torn labrum, felt surgery was her only option.

“I didn’t really have an option,” Davis said. “Basically I needed surgery to resume normal daily activities.”

Davis underwent a six-hour surgery and received a cadaver iliotibial (IT) band to replace her labrum. She was on crutches for three months and has five more months of limited mobility.

Originally, Davis thought she’d just need to have her labrum reattached, the mildest form of surgery for labral tears. However once the surgeon saw her labrum, they found it too damaged to repair. Cadaver was her only option.

“I woke up and thought everything went well,” Davis said. “I was on a lot of drugs, so I think when they told me my recovery would be longer and I’d be on crutches I was a little dazed. But I do remember crying a lot.”

The three rowers, Harr, Davis and Luker, all describe the pain the same: it’s a catching feeling in your hip; it’s always throbbing and constantly commanding attention.

“This whole journey with Caeli is kind of bringing up my memories,” Luker said. “I know the mental struggle that comes with this injury.”

Pushing through their pain resulted in worse injuries for the rowers

All three could’ve avoided shredding their labra had they not continued to push through the pain. It’s their desire to never stop working hard that put them in these positions.

A couple of weeks after the end of her senior fall season, Harr was running up a hill with 47 other teammates on a cold November afternoon. Leaves crunched underneath her feet as sharp pains ran from her hip. Harr began breathing harder with fear that her hip would give out mid-run. The next day she could barely stand.

Harr knew without a doubt her labrum was torn. She had pushed too hard for too long.

Since her initial visit to the doctor in December 2017, Harr has gone through two MRI’s and an arthrogram. The results are all the same: arthritis, stress-fractured femur, bone cist, torn labrum.

Now as the bow of the Spirit cruises through murky lake water, Harr has been replaced. When her teammates wake up, she stays asleep in her bed. The senior lost her last season on the rowing team.

“It really sucks,” Harr said. “Finishing meant I proved everyone wrong.”

Edited by Savannah Morgan 

By Cailyn Derickson

He followed behind his dog. The intense rain made it difficult to see. His dark blue uniform didn’t protect him from wind, but he bundled tight and kept marching. They had done this what seemed to be a hundred times before. Not even the incoming hurricane would hinder their routine.

But suddenly, his energetic black Labrador retriever stopped, sniffed and sat.

UNC-Chapel Hill police officer Matthew Dodson knew what that meant.

His dog, Kash, had found an explosive chemical.

“I’m thinking, ‘Are we going to have to postpone this football game?’” Dodson said. “I didn’t know if it was real or not.”

Dodson trusted his dog, trained to identify 30 different chemicals most commonly found in explosive devices. He spoke into the walkie-talkie attached to his left shoulder.

“We’ve got a possible device,” he said.

The hurricane wouldn’t interfere with their routine. But an explosive device would.

Then, UNC-Chapel Hill police Sgt. Keith Ellington assured Dodson it wasn’t real. It was just a training aid.

All clear. The game could go on.

UNC-Chapel Hill police K-9 officers, Kash and Molly, specialize in explosives detection.

Four-year-old Kash  works with Dodson and 8-year-old Molly works with Ellington. Both dogs are black Labrador retrievers. They are the backbone of safety for any high traffic event in Chapel Hill. Whether it’s football, basketball or a controversial speaker — the dogs are there.

They sweep Kenan Memorial Stadium and the Smith Center for explosive chemicals five hours before the start of each game. The dogs haven’t found an explosive device on campus before, but the training aid Kash found last October was a close one.

When the officers sweep the stadium, they use training aids — a small pouch of non-hazardous, non-explosive chemicals — to test their dogs. Dodson said the incident was a miscommunication.

“We always know where the aid is because we’re clearing it for an actual event,” Dodson said. “But on that particular game day because of the rain, (Ellington) had to move his training aid from where he usually keeps it, and he didn’t have time to tell me.”

Although it wasn’t an explosive device, Ellington said the moment was still tense.

“It’s a lot of weight on you when you’re at the stadium and your dog alerts,” Ellington said. “You have to make that call. This football game is going to be postponed or it’s going to be delayed because we’re making the call to shut it down until we can get somebody over here to see exactly what’s in this box or particular package.”

But the officers go through hours of training with their dog to prepare for situations like that. Dodson and Kash trained for 275 hours over a six-week period.

From preparation to protection

“I struggled with it,” Dodson said. “It was hard. This job, in general, has always come pretty easy to me. Now, I have this other living being I have to learn and watch and work with.”

Prior to their training, Dodson and Kash were complete strangers. Dodson knew nothing about trusting a K-9 and Kash, still a puppy, only knew how to sit. Now, Kash roams without a leash and Dodson knows his dog won’t stray.

In order to become a K-9 handler, an officer must meet certain credentials. One credential focuses on an officer’s years of service. If the officer meets the credentials, they can apply to become a handler. A panel will then interview the officer to decide if the officer is eligible for a dog.

Both Dodson and Ellington knew they wanted to become K-9 handlers when they joined the UNC-Chapel Hill police. Both officers said they enjoy working with animals. Ellington has nine hunting dogs and three inside dogs at home. Dodson has two other dogs at home. Being a K-9 handler gave them the opportunity to incorporate their love of dogs into their careers.

But the road to get there was a long one.

“I put in for the first dog back in 2003, and I didn’t get it,” Dodson said. “Then, I went on to be a detective, and I was a detective for 11 years. When this opportunity came up, based on how the dogs work, I knew it was now or never.”

The purpose of the training is to establish a relationship between the handler and the dog. Ellington said that relationship is similar to the relationship between a parent and child.

Caring for a canine companion

“You take care of them at home,” he said. “You feed them. You bathe them, just like a kid. It’s like always having a baby. I’ve got four kids, so to me, (Molly) makes five.”

Kash was born in Blaine, Washington. Dodson adopted Kash from a kennel in Scotland Neck, North Carolina, in 2015.

Molly is different. Rather than coming from a breeder, she came straight from Afghanistan, where she worked with active-duty Marines. She is credited for finding live explosive devices during her two tours abroad.

“She likely saved lives before she ever got to campus,” Randy Young, a UNC-Chapel Hill police spokesperson, said.

Ellington said Molly can be aggressive toward other dogs. He suspects she got into a fight with another dog while she was deployed, causing her act more aggressive.

Molly would bark and growl at Kash when he first joined the UNC-Chapel Hill police team. But the dogs have since learned to work together.

“There was a time when it was really hard for us to take a picture together,” Dodson said. “But now it’s like, ‘Hey, that’s Molly. That’s Kash. Whatever. Let’s do what we got to do.’”

Ellington said Molly is more aggressive when she is protecting Ellington’s four kids.

“My kids were in the bedroom watching TV,” Ellington said. “My mom and dad came up. I live right beside them and when they came in (the bedroom), luckily, I had the cage door shut. But she got to growling. She would run over and try to stay between the kids and my parents.”

Dodson said Kash is similar to Molly in that aspect.

“If we come in late at night from working a game or something, he makes his rounds in the house,” Dodson said. “He comes in. He goes in my son’s room. He checks on him, makes sure he’s in the bed. Then, he goes into my daughter’s room, checks on her. Then, he goes to my bedroom, where he sleeps on the floor in his bed.”

Although Molly and Kash are the only K-9 officers with the UNC-Chapel Hill police, they aren’t the only dogs Dodson and Ellington received from the department.

Both Dodson and Ellington took home a chocolate Labrador retriever puppy last month from UNC-Chapel Hill police Capt. Thomas Twiddy — something Molly hasn’t gotten used to yet.

“I’m in the process of introducing the puppy,” Ellington said. “(Molly) didn’t want any part of it. I don’t know if she felt it was pulling the attention from her or if she didn’t like me holding another dog that looked like her. But she’s gotten a lot better.”

The puppies won’t be trained as K-9 officers. Dodson and Ellington plan to keep the dogs as indoor pets.

Retiring to a bright future

Molly, who will turn 9 in May, is nearing retirement. Ellington said the department will look to replace her early next year.

After her service, Molly will stay with Ellington and instead of searching for explosive devices on patrol, she will get to relax at home.

“These dogs really open up a lot of opportunity for you to be able to participate and see stuff you wouldn’t normally see as a normal officer,” Ellington said. “She’s with me all the time. It’s just like having a kid.”

Edited by Jack Smith

By Courtney Triplett

When I walked into Tattoo Phoenix in Greensboro wearing my red high heels, I knew I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I had just come from a bridal shower for my high school best friend and was still dressed semi-formally. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Realizing my awkwardness, I smiled politely at the receptionist and approached his desk.

        “Hi, um… is Kevin here? I’m interviewing him and hopefully shadowing him for a story today.”

Just like that, a head poked around the corner. It was Kevin, gloves on, wearing a glowing head lamp that reminded me of something a coal miner would wear.

        “Hey… Courtney, right? Just give me 10 minutes; I’m finishing up a tattoo now.”

I walked across the waiting area and found a seat in a cushy armchair. I sat surrounded by five or six other people, mostly women, facing an enormous antique pool table. The table was offset by a large taxidermied wolf perched purposefully on top of some shelves; it looked ferocious and seemed to be staring right at me, teeth bared, as I nervously tapped my heels with anticipation.

The shop was on the small side and wasn’t flashy in any sense of the word. The furniture was clearly worn, and the waiting area almost had the feel it had been thrown together at the last minute. That was a part of its charm; the shop felt comfortable and easy rather than harsh and intimidating, like I’d imagine other shops could be.

I wasted time on my phone, checking social media and going over interview questions while I waited on Kevin to finish up. He had been working for almost six hours on an intricate pocket watch tattoo when I arrived at 4:30 p.m. After about 10 minutes, he emerged from the back room, looking worn but confident. He was tall, dressed casually in a pair of dark skinny jeans and a black T-shirt. He removed his helmet light, smoothed his black hair back into place with a stroke of his hand and broke into a huge smile.

        “It’s so cool that you want to interview me. That’s pretty crazy. I think that while we are interviewing I should give you a tattoo. Have you ever been tattooed while you interview?”

I let out a giggle. Of course I haven’t — but with the idea now in my head, how could I say no?

        “All right, let’s do it.”

I wanted a tiny tattoo, something small and simple and easily hidden. I picked out a picture of a sun from Google, and Kevin, eyeballing it a couple of times, sketched it perfectly onto some paper in less than a minute.

I’m extremely close with my younger sister Hannah, and we decided when she turned 18 that we would get matching tattoos. We chose  a moon and sun on the side of our heels — she was always the perfect balance for me, and I for her. She went ahead and got her moon tattoo months ago, and I was finally getting around to my end of the bargain… I couldn’t wait to surprise her.

Kevin motioned to me and I followed him to the small room in the back. The walls in the room were technicolor, covered in various paints and signed in Sharpie by hundreds of happy customers. There was a black leather chair meant for me to lie down on, and next to it, a small table filled with scary-looking equipment. I noticed the needle right away and felt queasy. I climbed up into the chair, took several deep breaths and removed my shoes.

        “So, how did you get into tattooing? Where did that stem from, and what inspired you to do this full-time?”

Kevin began wiping down my heel with alcohol and readying his equipment. I watched as he dipped the long needle in dark black ink.

        “Well, I never really grew up wanting to be a tattoo artist … it just kinda happened. I started hanging out at my brother-in-law’s shop in Greensboro, and he really encouraged me to pursue tattooing because I loved art so much and didn’t really have another job.

        “I usually drew all the time when I was at school, but my parents told me I should stop because drawing wouldn’t take me anywhere in life … and now here I am.”

He placed a piece of wax paper on my ankle for a few seconds and then pulled it off, leaving behind a tracing of my tiny tattoo. He looked up at me:

        “You ready?”

        “Ready.”

I kept talking as he put on plastic gloves and loaded the needle into the gun, rambling out of sheer nerves at this point.

        “So, um… tell me about the shop. How long have you been an owner here?”

Kevin, head lamp now on, leaned over my ankle and began.

I cringed. Ow, this really hurt. I caught a glimpse of my blood and had to look away.

        “I have owned this place with my partner Kim since I was 17 years old. I’m 27 now if that tells you anything. I used to work in High Point … they’re like family to us, but they didn’t exactly treat us right as employees because of that. So we decided to open our own shop.”

I was taking deep breaths to deal with the pain. Kevin had to hold my foot steady with one hand as he tattooed with the other.

        “So what is the most intricate tattoo you have ever done… And have you ever turned down a tattoo down because you couldn’t do it, or do you like the challenge?”

He chuckled.

        “Well of course you gotta’ turn down some people if you don’t know how to do something. But for me, I always know how to do it.

        “But to answer your first question, when I first started out, I did a Koi fish on someone’s ribs, and it was pretty intense. It took me about eight hours. I only charged her a little bit. Sometimes it’s not about the money; it’s about the challenge and the artwork.

As I was watching Kevin tattoo, I noticed that he didn’t have any tattoos at all, at least not that I could tell.

        “Kevin, do you have any tattoos?”

He laughed.

        “I knew you would ask. No, I don’t. Isn’t that funny, a tattoo artist that doesn’t have any tattoos?”

I asked him why that was, and he told me it was because he didn’t like needles, despite the fact he used them every single day of his career. He insists, however, that using needles and having them used on you is a completely different thing.

        “You know that famous painter, da Vinci? Well, he painted things as a part of his art, but he never felt the need to paint himself, if that makes any sense. It’s much more about creating art for me.”

He turned the gun off and told me I was all done. Even though had it been less than five minutes, I breathed a sigh of relief that the pain was over. My tiny sun turned out exactly as I wanted it, and I smiled as Kevin blotted and bandaged my permanent souvenir.

        “This looks so good; thank you so much!”

I fished for my wallet inside of my purse, but when I found it, Kevin waved his hand, immediately dismissing it. He insisted on giving me the tattoo for free. I was taken aback by his generosity and thanked him again.

        “Where do you see yourself in the future? Do you see yourself continuing to tattoo and own the shop?”

He paused at this question and began toying with his hair, clearly giving it some thought. After a few seconds, he nodded to himself and turned back to me.

        “I know I see myself tattooing. I never get bored with it. I get bored easily, but every tattoo and every person is different every day. I love that; I really do.”

I watched as his eyes sparkled with clear passion. His love for art was obvious and refreshing. Gathering my belongings, I had one final question for him.

        “What would you tell anyone who wanted to get into tattooing?”

He replied, “Just don’t give up if you want to be a tattoo artist. Pursue your dreams. If people put you down — and there’s a lot of people and even other artists that will put you down so that way you won’t achieve your goals — just don’t listen to them and keep doing what you’re doing.

“Just go for the gold … you never know — you could own your own shop or be famous one day. You could put a tattoo on Kendall Jenner or something. Just don’t give up.”

Edited by Danny Nett

By Blake Richardson

At first, it was just another closing prayer. Heads bowed, eyes closed — the usual at every church on Easter Sunday. But then the pattern ruptured.

“If you want to welcome God into your life today,” lead pastor Tadd Grandstaff said, “raise your hand.”

Curiosity snaps my eyes open. Are there any takers? I’m trying to scan the room while keeping my head still so I don’t make it obvious that I’m breaking the heads bowed, eyes closed rule that’s still technically in play despite what I’m witnessing.

“I see you guys in the front and you in the back,” he continues. “Come on. Who else? Maybe you’ve lost your way and you want to come back. This is your chance.”

God, why did you have to make me so short? All I can make out in the dim lighting is Grandstaff at the front and the silhouettes of heads surrounding me in my usual seat in the back left with my brother, Jack. There’s a sense of urgency in Grandstaff’s voice, but there’s also reassurance.

“I invite you now to come up so we can go pray together. Don’t worry. Nobody’s looking around. Nobody’s going to be looking at you.”

Oops. I force my eyes shut, and suddenly this moment surpasses my curiosity. Submerged in blackness, I realize that this wasn’t for me. None of it. Not the alternative service format that switched between short sermons and music, not the Philippians verses flashing on the screen that I wrote down using the free pen and notecard placed in each seat on Sundays, and not the black-and-white videos of people reenacting Palm Sunday and of others saying, “In a moment, my life changed when I accepted Christ.”

Nine hands shot in the air to take on this  life-changing step in the safety of Hope Church in Burlington. I was just a lucky observer. Leading up to Easter, Grandstaff told the congregation that, for many people, this is one of just two church services of the year to attend. Christmas is the other. For him, that meant today was show time.

Religion is declining in the United States. Millennials are the generation least likely to pray, attend church or consider religion an important part of their life. This cultural shift puts churches’ survival at risk. But not Hope Church. This congregation took the change as a call to evolve. And the result has left this church even more emblematic of Christianity’s original mission.

With unexpected obstacles, Christ calls for a change  

I was doing this usual, partying pretty hard with my friends, and I ended up in the hospital: alcohol poisoning along with too many drugs in my system.  I remember that moment like it was yesterday. I laid in a hospital bed, never being suicidal, and I prayed out to God for the first time in a long time.  I told him, “God, if this is all I am ever going to do with my life, then just let me die, ‘cause I can’t do this anymore. I cannot continue to live like this.”  I was miserable.  I knew I had been running from God. I’ve never heard God speak in an audible voice, but in that moment I felt God’s presence in my life like nothing before. I felt him, in my spirit, tell me that he was done with me, that he had a calling on my life and it was time for me to answer that calling.  I left that hospital room and made drastic lifestyle changes.

A relationship with God, Grandstaff said, is defined by a series of moments that mold your identity. This moment in 2000 was the first in a sequence of life-altering instants that drew Grandstaff to become a pastor. He knew God was calling him toward the job as early as his sophomore year of high school. His grandfather, father and older brother are all pastors. But it wasn’t until this moment that he decided to answer the urge.

After graduating from Liberty University and then getting married in 2005, Grandstaff launched Pine Ridge church in 2007, holding services at Smith Elementary School. The church was a resounding success, but then the congregation rose to 300 people. They had outgrown their place of worship. They needed a new home.

Meanwhile, Brookwood Church was encountering a different obstacle. Their pastor, who shared similar goals with Grandstaff, moved to Greenville, South Carolina. Who would run the services now? In the church’s search, they invited Grandstaff to preach there one Sunday.

“It was a natural fit,” said Peter Sawyer, first-time guest champion at Hope Church and former member of Brookwood Church for about 25 years. “We needed a pastor. They needed a building.”

For about a year now, Grandstaff has been working on a sermon series that will take the congregation through the entire Bible. He took a month-long break for an Easter series, but he is currently working through the story of Joshua. Grandstaff’s sermons have amassed a substantial popularity. The church has only been around for 3 1/2 years, and its already played with service times to figure out how to manage a growing congregation.

But the merging hasn’t been seamless. The two churches were different. Brookwood featured more traditional music, and Pine Ridge embraced a contemporary style of service. But the melting pot became a success because of the overarching mission that bonded the two churches together.

Do whatever it takes to reach people who are far from God.

Affiliating the obstinate in the toughest of times

Hope Church is fighting a cultural current.

People who identify as unaffiliated with a religion rose from 16 percent in 2007 to 23 percent in 2015, according to the Pew Research Center. That number is even higher among millennials, at 35 percent. Studies have shown that millennials are more mistrusting of institutions in general, but the change is striking.

And Christianity has moderately declined, too. The percentage of Americans who identify as Christian dropped from 78.4 percent in 2007 to 70.6 percent in 2015, according to the Pew Research Center. Grandstaff noted in a sermon that the number of practicing Christians is likely much lower. But this might not be the fault of the church.

“You see millennials holding to where they stand intellectually, morally, spiritually,” said Yaakov Ariel, a religious studies professor at The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

The United States has always been more involved with organized religion than other post-industrial countries. But since the Cold War ended in the 1990s, deciding against identifying with an organized religion has become more socially acceptable, Ariel said.

But denominations should not be concerned. Ariel said that across American history, the church has made changes to respond to drops in attendance and other cultural changes. Grandstaff said this is about shifting your target audience away from the regulars.

“The focus of too many churches has been keeping the people happy that show up each week and making everything be about them,” Grandstaff said in an email. “My heart has always been for the kids and students in this community because I know what it’s like to grow up in a church where you are bored out of your mind as a kid or a student.”

Those kids who were once doodling on envelopes in the pews are now grown up. Grandstaff wants them to want to go to church. That means changing the approach. And so he hatched a service plan that incorporated comfort in to the very fiber of the service and in the interactions with volunteers.

“One of the things we are passionate about is being authentic,” said Diane Sawyer, first-time guest champion at Hope Church. “We try not to be judgmental about what other people’s mistakes are because we make mistakes as well.”

Comes as you are when no strings are attached 

Jack and I walk through the door, and we are blind.

Once the timer on the screen up front hits zero, the lights fade to nearly black and the band starts to play. We’re five minutes late to church today. Well, I was five minutes late driving to Jack’s dorm at Elon, and he waited for me. So when we walk in, we’re submerged in darkness. I can barely see my hand. Wow will we find our seats?

“Here,” a voice says. A flash of light comes to life in front of us. How? Behind the illumination, I make out a woman with blonde hair in a Hope4NC T-shirt. We’re saved! As I get situated in a seat next to Jack with this stranger’s help, I can’t help but find myself in awe. They think of everything. And it’s always no strings attached.

Jack was the one that found Hope Church, and that’s why he kept coming back. That’s why his raving compelled me to join and why I’ve been continually drawn back. It’s laid back and meets you where you are. Where other churches failed to captivate me, this one clicked.

That’s also what set Hope Church apart for Jennifer Hanpole, position leader over guest services at Hope Church, who started going to the services three years ago. Hanpole drives from High Point every Sunday to volunteer with the church.

“I was a single mom at that time, working, and it was the first place where I could come to church and no one would really judge me,” Hanpole said. “I could actually sit in church and it feel welcome … It kind of felt like home.”

Every tiniest detail is geared toward making people feel comfortable. Why is it so dark? So you don’t feel like you’re being stared at. Why is the music so loud? So you can sing without feeling judged. The no-pressure environment makes it easy to engage.

“The come-as-you-are mentality … it’s probably the purest form of worship,” Jack said.

At the start of each sermon, Grandstaff announces that the church will give a Bible to anyone who doesn’t own one. And after I filled out a connection card my second Sunday there, I went to a booth outside the auditorium and received a free mug. No judgment. No expectations. Just kindness.

“We’re not trying to put on this façade that we’re perfect people,” Peter Sawyer said. “We’re just regular people that believe in Christ.”

I was most surprised three days later when I walked home from class, music blaring through my ear buds, and found a postcard in the mailbox by the door. It was addressed to me.

Blake, It was so nice meeting you Sunday. I am glad it was your second time back and hope that you join us again! Have a great week! -Tyler

I couldn’t pick Tyler out of a lineup, but that postcard has been resting on the shelf above my desk for months.

Something about Hope makes it seem like no other

Little droplets of rain ricochet off the tires to form a grey haze behind every car. I can only tell it’s water and not smoke when my windshield wipers quickly clear the fresh layer of wetness that has accumulated on the glass. I have two papers due the next day and work in an hour and a half — I need to get back — but the water flying in all directions keeps my right foot treading lightly on the gas pedal.

Maybe I could have stayed home — spent my Sunday collecting precious sleep instead of adding another far-away obligation to this world where time is divided like pieces of cake. Then the rain, my homework and my near-empty gas tank would’ve been problems I could have delayed addressing — even if only for an hour.

The changing millennial culture may seem to pose a threat to the survival of churches across the nation, but it’s not a problem without solutions. It’s a challenge. A call to evolve. And for Hope Church, that change has paid off.

Somehow the magnet of this church was strong enough to pull me out of bed at 9:30 a.m. and down the highway for a 40-minute drive almost every weekend this semester. Yes, seeing my brother every week is its own motivation, but there’s something about this place. It’s unlike any other church I’ve experienced.

“We realize that the vision for our church is not necessarily the vision that God has given to other churches,” Grandstaff said. “However, it is who God has called us to be.”

 

Edited by Ryan Wilusz

 

By Sofie DeWulf

Vimala Rajendran has seen her fair share of miracles, all of which seem to connect back to her. Sometimes they’re big ones in the traditional sense of the word — characterized by the extraordinary.

Like what happened a few weeks ago, for instance. A man was on life support in a coma for three weeks at Duke Hospital. Vimala visited him one day and started rubbing his feet and talking to him.

He opened his eyes on Good Friday, and by Easter he had started talking. Vimala tells me the story with very few details, but despite this, I have no doubt that it actually happened.

Most miracles Vimala has been a part of, though, aren’t so big in the traditional, extraordinary sense of the word. It’s the little, everyday miracles that have defined her.

The community dinners that turned into a full-fledged restaurant. The fried chicken she makes that’s just as good as her traditional south Indian food. The “Everybody Eats” policy that ensures no customer goes hungry, even if they don’t have the money to pay.

It’s the details of her past, adjusting from life in India to the United States; her work in Chapel Hill and connections with the local community; her passion for social justice and peace; and her restaurant, Vimala’s Curryblossom Café, that are the true miracles in Vimala Rajendran’s life.

The Place Behind the Woman

Vimala, 56, is a successful restaurant chef and owner, long-time Chapel Hill resident and mother to eight kids, now all adults (three are her own and five are her current husband’s, Rush Gleenslade, whom she married 12 years ago.)

While the United States has been her home for many years, Vimala is originally from India. This shows in the food she cooks as well as in her distinct accent, her brown eyes and skin, and her hair, which you can tell used to be a rich black but is now turning white.

Vimala was born in the state of Kerala, the southernmost tip of India, in 1961. She grew up in the populous city of Mumbai, although she doesn’t call it that. To her, it’s still Bombay.

She gets a faraway look in her eyes when she talks about Bombay.

“I was a very content child. I just loved the city,” she says.

When I ask her what she disliked about it, she waits for a moment and smiles.

“Nothing. I didn’t know any better not to like anything,” she says. “Now I long for everything.”

Her greatest memory? The food and the fact you could find signs of it everywhere: the sounds of it cooking, the smells at all hours of the night and day, the sight of street vendors and large piles of produce on the side of the road.

It was during her childhood in India that she learned how to cook. She laughs, because the reason for her getting into food preparation didn’t necessarily stem from a desire to learn, but instead came from a sense of impatience. Food was never ready soon enough for her.

She bothered her mother endlessly, to the point where she would get frustrated enough to hand Vimala things to do. At three years, she could sift and sort grains. By the time she was seven, she could cook entire complex recipes.

The Restaurant Behind the Woman

While Vimala loved to cook, she never thought it would become her livelihood.

In the beginning, she had the financial support of her now ex-husband, whom she joined in the United States in 1980 after completing studies in political science. However, years of abuse led her to leave, which suddenly left her a single mother of three struggling to make ends meet in Chapel Hill.

Community dinners became her saving grace.

Vimala cooked the traditional south Indian recipes she learned growing up, and neighbors would come and donate money to offset the costs. The dinners started in 1994.

Their popularity grew through word-of-mouth, and soon she was implementing takeout orders, catering and even serving outside of Johnny’s Gone Fishing in Carrboro.

Anyone who tasted the food told her she should open a restaurant, but that was never something she thought she could take on.

Despite this initial doubt, she couldn’t deny the opportunity, and with the help of investments from those in the community who believed in her and her food, Vimala’s Curryblossom Café opened in May 2010.

You could easily miss it if you didn’t know it was there. It holds an ideal location on West Franklin Street—just before the start of Carrboro where the road curves and turns into Main Street—but it’s hidden behind Kipo’s Greek Taverna, tucked in a courtyard.

The benefit of the courtyard is that there’s an outdoor seating area that will fill with people when the weather is nice.

The restaurant itself is fairly small, but the L-shaped layout is efficient, with a bar to order on one side and an open kitchen on the other. The brick, wood and warm colors on the walls as well as the smell of spices that greet you when you enter add to the welcoming feel of the place.

The staff is very diverse, drawing from all walks of life in Carrboro and Chapel Hill. Justine Benjamin, a 24-year-old who’s been working at Vimala’s for about a year, appreciates the different backgrounds of her coworkers and how they are embraced in the restaurant.

“Sometimes they’ll make tacos or empanadas back there,” she laughs.

She also never fails to notice Vimala’s involvement in the restaurant.

Her boss gets in around 8:30 or 9 a.m. and constantly works until 4 or 5 p.m. She spends a lot of that time cooking and preparing food in the kitchen, but you can also find her serving meals and chatting with customers.

“She’s definitely involved in each step,” Justine says.

That includes dealing with all the logistics. Before she started Curryblossom Café, Vimala thought owning a restaurant would be impossible. Now, she says it’s even harder than she imagined.

“Cost of overhead, cost of food, cost of labor, human resource management, people’s moods and motivations and morale… it is a super-human task to own and run a successful restaurant,” she says.

Yet she does it, and she does it well.

In addition to being a phenomenal cook, Vimala is a skilled businesswoman. Before she starts to cook every morning, she catches up on emails and phone calls, which can involve everything from possible auction items to potential projects.

Her business decisions are not only in the best interest of the restaurant but also the community. This can be seen in her partnerships with local businesses, such as Mystery Brewing Company in Hillsborough, North Carolina.

Vimala is in the process of finalizing a deal with the company. Initially, she plans to buy their existing products, but her ultimate goal is to “do something no one else has done” and possibly collaborate on a beer that complements her food.

She’s always trying to come up with new ways to do things and grow the restaurant, and her efforts have certainly paid off.

In its first year of business, Vimala’s Curryblossom Café made $680,000, and that number continues to grow. Over seven years, the restaurant has gone from eight employees to 30, four weddings per year to 30, and $200,000 to $400,000 earned from catering to UNC-Chapel Hill.

The Food Behind the Woman

One of the very first things Vimala asked me when I met her was if I had eaten. It took a little encouragement, but I did end up accepting the free meal she offered me.

I told her to surprise me, and soon after, a worker brought out what I later learned was Vimala’s favorite thing on the menu: appam — a rice and coconut pancake.

It was served with a side of chicken curry on a stainless-steel Thali dish, completing the truly authentic feel of the meal. We talked while I enjoyed the sourdough taste of the fluffy-in-the-middle, thin-at-the-end appam that perfectly balanced the flavorful curry.

Later, she revealed to me why she offered the food: it breaks down barriers.

“When you eat it, I am making a crack in the closed door for you and me to interact.” It was also a chance to show me more about who she is.

“My entire history is on that plate,” she told me.

The menu at Vimala’s Curryblossom Café is filled with items inspired by Vimala’s roots.

To someone unfamiliar with traditional south Indian food, the menu can be a bit overwhelming, full of names like paratha, bhatura, samosas and uttapams.

Surprisingly enough, Vimala also offers her own take on Southern classics, such as fried chicken and plantain fritters. (She’s even won an award for her grits.)

If nothing on the menu tempts you, there are always plenty of specials written on the chalkboards in the restaurant, which are constantly changing based on what’s in season and in stock. Whatever choice you make, though, won’t be a wrong one. Everything is delicious, which is why people keep coming back.

Many of Vimala’s assorted mix of customers are regulars, who have grown to love the food as well as Vimala. You can distinguish the regulars from the newcomers because of the familiar way Vimala will greet them or hug them, or their confidence when they order from the menu and sit in the restaurant for a while.

Frank Worrell, 66, is one of those regulars. Like many of the visitors to Curryblossom Café, you can tell he’s interesting just by the look of him, with his white beard and mustache that’s curled at the ends, round eye glasses and all-black outfit.

He’s been eating at Vimala’s regularly — about five days a week for the past three years — and orders the same thing every time: rice and dal, a split pulse soup Frank says is the “comfort food of India.” (I try it later, and I can’t disagree. The soup is instantly comforting.)

Frank remembers Vimala back when she served food outside of Johnny’s, and he’s still impressed by the commitment to quality she has to this day. The reason he and many others love Vimala’s food so much is because it’s prepared with “a certain consciousness.”

“It may sound really weird,” Frank says, “but the food seems really clean.”

That’s because all of the ingredients Vimala uses are wholesome, healthy and organic. In addition to that, everything is sourced from local farms.

The inspiration behind this? For one thing, it reaffirms Vimala’s dedication to supporting the community. The other source of inspiration, not surprisingly, is her home country.

“Back in India, we always ate what was unloaded from a farm to the market,” Vimala says.

She or her mother would go to the market twice a day to buy produce because her family didn’t have a refrigerator, so everything was fresh. She missed that freshness when she came to the United States, where everything was bought at a grocery store, so she decided to bring it back with Vimala’s Curryblossom Café.

The Mission Behind the Woman

Vimala’s community involvement is further strengthened by her commitment to social justice.

There are signs of this throughout the restaurant. There’s the “Everybody Eats Community Meal Fund” jar on the takeout counter in front of the kitchen, which supports the day-one policy that anyone who wants a meal, regardless of finances, will be able to eat at Vimala’s. The goal is to make food accessible through affordability.

There are also the “Refugees are Welcome Here” and “Stop Profiling Muslims” signs on the window near the side entrance of the restaurant. Vimala is a strong believer that anyone is welcome to work and eat in her restaurant.

She’s held lunches to support refugees and migrant farm workers. On ‘A Day Without Immigrants’ on Feb. 16, when immigrants protested by not working, all profits made at Vimala’s went to staff members because a lot of the employees’ family members are immigrants.

In addition to that, Vimala speaks up for domestic abuse awareness, women’s rights, truth in advertising and international peace and love, which is inspired by her strong Christian faith.

Anyone in Chapel Hill who knows Vimala considers her an activist in the community. She believes it’s because she has a lot of ideas, but she also takes action.

“I stand up for what is just and right,” she says. “I question injustice and do something about it, while feeding people at the same time.”

Vimala’s efforts don’t go unrecognized.

Just a few weeks ago, she received the Public Health Champion Award from the UNC Gillings School of Global Public Health for her commitment to healthy food and social justice. She doesn’t care as much about the recognition, though.

“I am more proud of the daily reports of the impact of the food we serve here to heal and grow people than the awards we’ve received because I’m doing what I’m doing,” she says.

It’s just one more confirmation that it’s the little miracles, not the big ones, which define Vimala Rajendran.

Edited by Molly Weybright

By Luke Bollinger

Casey Degnan should have the day off. It’s Good Friday and since he’s employed by Cardinal Gibbons High School, he shouldn’t have to be doing any work. Instead, the holiday gives him time to work at his second job as co-owner of the Raleigh Flyers, a professional ultimate Frisbee team.

Today’s mission is to finalize arrangements for the team’s away game on Saturday. His first appointment is at 10 a.m. with Clouds Brewing in Raleigh to finalize plans for a viewing party the next day. He’s about 30 minutes late.

Degnan arrives with George Lampron, the team’s physical trainer, and Mike Wittmer, leader of The Hangar, the Flyers fan club. Degnan apologizes for being late, but explains he had spent the morning with his 9-week old son, Cash, who had rolled himself over for the first time. But now he is focused on his task ahead, which is sampling beer to figure out which ones would go over well with Flyers fans.

Most of his job as co-owner is not as leisurely as going to a beer tasting, though.

Degnan, Mike Denardis and Sean Degnan founded the Raleigh Flyers in 2015. It’s a young team, in a young league, trying to gain a foothold as a non-traditional sport in an area dominated by three universities that regularly compete in the highest levels of Division I sports.

It’s a tough job, especially when you already have a job. Because of an already blossoming ultimate community, though, and the vision and drive of Degnan and everyone who has bought into the organization, the Flyers have become a welcome addition to the Triangle sports environment.

Friday’s agenda wasn’t looking too daunting, a nice change of pace for Degnan. Once he and John Oldendorf, chief brewing officer at Clouds, agreed on the type and quantity of beer for the viewing party, Degnan and his team began brainstorming ideas for a short video to promote the event.

After a few minutes of discussion and about ten seconds of filming, the final product was the three guys sitting around a homemade monopoly board they found at the brewery, rolling die until they hit doubles, yelling, ‘that’s a jail break,’ and knocking over a tower of oversized Jenga blocks.

The video then ended with Lampron standing up, pointing at the camera and saying, “Clouds Brewery, Saturday night viewing party, 7 o’clock.” It would immediately be posted to Facebook for the enjoyment of the Flyers faithful.

To most people, this video would make no sense. But it was somewhat loosely related to Flyers fans’ in-game tradition of smashing a plastic bucket, or any breakable object they have on hand, with a large rubber mallet after the team scores a big goal. It’s a bit ridiculous, but they don’t care.

The viewing party ended up attracting about 40 people. Not a bad turnout, Degnan said, and all the proceeds went to the Flyers.

“Got to make that money, man,” he said. 

Background

When Degnan was attending college at High Point University, owning a professional ultimate team seemed ludicrous to him.

While at High Point, he was a member of their Division I tennis team, but immediately after practices, he would join his friends to play in whatever intramural sport was in season. When ultimate was in season, he played that too. Degnan continued to play ultimate and as the sport got more intense, so did he.

After graduating, Degnan moved to Chicago where he played for the Chicago Wildfire ultimate team while also working as a trader for the Chicago Board of Trade. It was here where he became devoted to ultimate, in large part because of how involved and immersed the team was in the community.

Though Degnan could’ve played for the Wildfire into his 40s, he said with a laugh of confidence, he wanted to establish a professional ultimate team in Raleigh.

“I thought I could do it better,” he said. “All those things that were offered to me, I wanted to offer it to the people in my hometown.”

The Team

In 2015, the Raleigh Flyers became a member of the 24-team American Ultimate Disc League. In its first season, the Flyers won its division and advanced to the playoff semifinals. But Degnan’s ambition has always extended beyond a winning record.

A large portion of Degnan’s job as co-owner is offering himself, and the players, as mentors to youth in the Triangle. Upon joining the team, players are required to sign volunteer contracts with minimum service hour requirements. Many of the players opt to coach middle and high school ultimate teams.

The team also offers mini-skills development clinics before games, as well as multiple weekend clinics throughout the year that have seen as many as 2,000 participants at one time.

This kind of involvement can be taxing for the players, though. They work 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. jobs because, according to an estimate from Degnan, the average pay-per-game for professional ultimate players is about $100.

The pay for being a Flyer gives the impression it is only a part-time job, but the time requirements make it feel full-time, Degnan said.

“So there’s not a lot of big egos,” he said.

“Although there are actually some big egos,” he said with sarcastic concern to the team’s media guru, Hugo Sowder.

But what the players lack in financial compensation is made up for in material benefits. Thanks to team sponsors, players receive free gym memberships, chiropractic and physical therapy care and lots of team gear. They also have their travel paid for, receive a per diem and don’t have to pay expensive club dues.

A bonus, Degnan said, is the possibility of making it on SportsCenter Top Ten, a nightly TV segment highlighting the best plays in sports from that day. A couple of Flyers have made the segment, including JD Hastings after making an incredible summersault catch for a goal.

Whenever Degnan talks about his team, there is pride in his voice and excitement in his body. He’s proud of what they do, but no one does quite as much as he does for the Flyers and its outreach. Degnan recognizes the crucial role he plays in the development of the team, and thankfully he has the energy to keep up with a rigorous schedule.

“If you go to sleep early, something’s not happening for the team,” he said.

Degnan often handles the day-to-day and long-term operations of the team from his home or his office at Gibbons. Degnan’s job with the school involves coaching the ultimate team, providing students the opportunity to play sports during their lunch period, starting an intramural program and organizing as many major school functions as he can. The latter task is something he feels he has a particular knack for.

Pre Game

The Flyers hosted the DC Breeze for the first ever cross-divisional game in league history on Saturday, April 22. The game was scheduled for 7 p.m., but Degnan showed up to the fields 12 hours early.

Before he could begin preparing for the Flyers game, he had to set up and manage a 14-game high school ultimate tournament. North Carolina Ultimate, a statewide ultimate organization, was originally supposed to be in charge of the tournament, but for some reason, the responsibility was passed on to Degnan. He only showed a hint of exasperation toward the organization, but never complained.

“If it can be done, I’ll do it,” he said.

At one point during the day, he almost threw out his back setting up a tent.

“Maybe I should have had someone else do that,” he said.

After the tournament, Degnan took a break to get lunch with his dad, and then it was back to the field to set up for the Flyers’ game. One of his main tasks was making sure the live stream to the league’s website would be running by game time, all while coordinating with referees, both teams, and volunteers who would help out at the merchandise and ticket tents.

The weather had been mostly overcast that day but was particular gloomy as game time drew closer. The wind began to pick up and the air became a bit too cold for an afternoon in late April. But the storm warnings only added to the increasing anticipation.

The game garnered about 200 fans. Degnan said the largest crowd for a Flyers game totaled 1,000. He said it’s difficult to consistently get that kind of number, but it’s not for lack of effort.

Sowder, for example, produces and posts the team’s video and photo content to Facebook on a daily basis and writes blog updates on the Flyers’ performance for the website. Bill Bourret, a journalism student at UNC-Chapel Hill, creates graphic content for the team on a weekly basis. While not a primary goal, volunteering its time in the Triangle’s thriving ultimate community is definitely good promotion.

It was a lively crowd regardless.

Game Time

The DC Breeze scored the first goal and stayed ahead for 40 minutes of the 43-minute game.

The Flyers started the game looking nervous. After a bout of simple mistakes and a few long passes that couldn’t connect, the team slowed it down. They played conservative, electing to go for short passes to try and work their way to the end zone and only making deep passes when a runner had almost certainly outpaced his defender.

This strategy kept the Flyers in the game for the most of the first half, but it wasn’t enough to catch up, especially when the Breeze capitalized on the Flyers’ lackluster downfield defense at moments when it seemed they might tie the game.

At the end of the third quarter, the Flyers were down 17-12. It seemed like the Breeze could put the game away.

With the score tied, you could feel the collective tension. Degnan paced up and down the track, motivating the crowd to get louder, shouting and waving his arms. Fans roared for what felt like a more high-stakes game than just a regular season match up.

It should be noted that throughout the entire game, the fans remained engaged, especially the fan-club section of the bleachers with their collection of chants, good-natured taunts and the occasional trip to the track to smash a bucket. If it were a collegiate game, they were the student section.

Then the Breeze retook the lead with 27 seconds remaining. The crowd convulsed, but the players remained calm.

After the throw off, the Flyers’ most skilled passers shared the disc a couple of times so there was time to spread the defense. About 12 second passed until Jonathon Nethercutt, a UNC-CH graduate and team captain, found a teammate in the end zone with a 50-yard overhead pass, known as a hammer throw.

There was 10 seconds left, not enough time for the Breeze to get a goal. The score was tied 20-20.

The Flyers took their first lead of the game with 3:27 remaining in the 5-minute overtime period. They maintained that lead for the rest of game, winning 23-21.

Post Game

In the aftermath of the game, Sowder noted how gritty the team was. He’s always looking for narratives to promote, and the team’s toughness is one of its trademarks.

But for Degnan, there was not time to reflect. Immediately after the win, he posted himself by the field’s exit to make sure people received season calendars on their way out. It seems his job never ends.

The next big project, Degnan said, is getting funding for a micro-stadium with team offices. He’s met with city officials to discuss the idea, but admits getting public or private funding for a stadium to be used by a niche sports team will be a struggle.

Degnan said he’s not sure what the timeline will look like for a stadium, but he’s remaining invested in the idea, just as he is with the team.

“I love what we have, but I always want it to be more,” he said.

Edited by Matt Wotus

By John-Paul Gemborys

On a warm spring day outside the Campus Y, Cecilia Polanco sat in the driver’s seat aboard her food truck, carving up a pupusa with a plastic fork before the midday lunch rush.

Behind her, two little Latina ladies smiled and giggled over a stainless steel countertop as they smacked corn flour dough into thick, round disks. One was Nora Polanco, whom Cecilia called mami, a sweet, soft-spoken mother of four with a round, rosy face and a streak of crimson in her dark hair. The other, a firecracker with short, black hair and laugh lines drawn across her face, was the 61-year-old Victoria Galdamez — otherwise known as tia Vicky. Wetting their hands, the two ladies pinched out balls of dough and patted them into flat cakes before applying a generous dollop of modo, or filling, which on that day was chicharrón con queso (a savory paste made of fried pork and cheese) or frijoles (refried beans mixed with shredded mozzarella). The two sisters then sealed the dumplings and removed any excess dough before flattening them once more to be seared atop a hot griddle. As the rich smell of sizzling pork and cheese wafted through the air, Cecilia stood at the window, taking orders from excited students.

“This is Salvadorian food?” one man asked, his voice barely audible over the hum of the truck’s generator.

“Yep,” Cecilia replied as the two ladies worked behind her, flattening the dough so that it sounded like the clapping of hands. “Do you want the toppings?”

“Sure,” he replied.

She reached for a pile of pupusas set aside by her mother who flipped them hot off the grill — each one was browned and dappled with crispy, black bits. As Cecilia set one on a paper plate, she added a handful of curtido, a piquant slaw of pickled cabbage and carrots, and a squirt of red tomato salsa.

For Cecilia, being the owner of a food truck was never something she had planned on.

“We kind of started talking about it in passing, kind of jokingly that we should start a food truck,” Cecilia said of her mother and her. “Once I started talking about it, I was like, ‘Wow, I really am thinking about this. I do want to do this.’ But it really didn’t become real real until I bought the truck.”

But So Good Pupusas is more than just a business for Cecilia; it’s a mission.

“This is really a means to an end,” she told me. “We wanted to start a scholarship fund for undocumented students. We don’t have any money to do so, so we have to generate it somehow, and pupusas is what we know best.”

Family, tradition and pupusas – a simple recipe but a powerful one. A recipe Cecilia hopes to use to effect enormous positive change.

Journey to the United States

It was 1982 when Jose Alfonso Sandoval left his rural village of La Isla to make his journey to America. At 26 years old, he was leaving behind the only country he ever knew, two daughters and a pregnant wife, but he knew he had to get to America. With his third daughter on the way, he wanted a better life for his children than was available in his village, which at the time had no running water, paved roads or electricity and only offered an education that was equivalent to middle school.

“Everyone there is from el campo. We’re all campesinos — we work in the fields, and you don’t need an education to work in the fields,” Cecilia said. “My dad didn’t really see a future for us there — for his daughters.”

But that wasn’t the only reason, Cecilia said.  “We had no choice but to leave.”

At the time of her father’s departure, a brutal civil war was raging in El Salvador, and her father, a former serviceman, was in danger.

“They were trying to recruit him back into the military, but it was the military against their own people, and then the guerilla forces also wanted him, so you had to choose. If you chose one, you were still fighting against your own people, and if you didn’t join either side you were kind of seen as a traitor to both of them,” Cecilia said.

“My grandmother would tell stories about waking up in the morning to clear dead bodies. And that was just something that happened. Or the military would come, and we would have to feed them. And you already were poor, so what did you feed them?”

In order to escape the violence, her father left. But he couldn’t bring his whole family at once, so he set off on his own, accompanied by only one of his wife’s sisters, to work and send money back home. Before reaching the United States, Cecilia’s father first had to cross into Guatemala and then Mexico.

“There’s a storyline that we tell about how Salvadorians are tres veces mojados,” Cecilia told me. “We say mojado can kind of be translated into ‘wetback,’ but they have different connotations. For us, mojado is just someone who is crossing the border. ‘Wetback’ has a much more negative connotation. So we say that we are that three times because we have to cross into Guatemala, we have to cross into Mexico and then the United States.”

Along his journey to cross three different borders, Jose Alfonso was detained in Mexico and spent some time in a Mexican prison. When he finally got to the United States, Cecilia said he weighed only 115 pounds.

His first time, Jose Alfonso entered the country illegally, and for a whole year he worked.

“That’s one of the hardest things he had to do,” Cecilia said. “(That) was being here by himself without his wife and his little girls. And the little girl he’d never met.” After one year Jose Alfonso had enough money to bring his wife Nora to America to work with him.

Nora said that the first thing she thought about when arriving was work. “Trabajar mucho para traerlos” she said.

“The first thing she was thinking about was working — working to bring her daughters,” Cecilia translated.

“Mhmmm,” Nora said, nodding.

“That’s the story that they tell,” Cecilia said, “is that when you get here you’re indebted. So you get here to work, to pay off your debt and then save up money to bring someone else over, and now you’ve got to pay off their debt. So that’s how it goes. You have to pay the coyote.”

By the time Cecilia’s third sister turned 4, the entire family had resettled in America, though not yet as citizens . “There was a point in time where we were essentially undocumented before going through the process of seeking political asylum,” Cecilia said.

“I don’t know how — he just did the right things,” she said of her dad applying for citizenship. “Part of that was filling out papers to gain residency — to seek political asylum — he just had to figure everything out. He was so smart in so many ways, in ways that are more than scholarly intelligence. Our situation turned out for the best because of a lot of the decisions he made.”

In 1992 Cecilia Polanco was born in Los Angeles, California — the only one of her sisters to be born in a hospital.

Pupusas and tradition

Cecilia has been eating pupusas made by her mother since before she can remember. Growing up, she said, pupusas were a treat only had on rare occasions.

“We would have them probably a couple of times a year — so not that often,” she said. As Cecilia grew older, her mother began to make them more often, and with Cecilia’s food truck officially opening last March, the treats have become more common but no less special.

“Now we have them really often because we’re working on the truck, but this was something really special that I shared with people to show them a deeper part of who I am,” Cecilia said. “They might know me as their fellow UNC student or know me as a Latina, but what they might not know are the specifics behind that — the diversity within that make me Salvadorian. And so I get to share that to people with food. And that’s really special.”

For Cecilia, it’s important to feed people exactly what she was fed at home. But it can be a difficult learning process for her, as her mother has no official recipe for pupusas.

“She doesn’t measure anything. She tastes everything. By smell, taste and how it looks, she knows if it’s ready. And so that’s what I’m learning, which is probably harder than learning the recipe.”

The recipes can also be time-consuming with a lot of prep in advance. But as a second-generation citizen, Cecilia said she believes the effort to learn her mother’s recipes is worth it.

“Something I worried about when I was younger was not learning to cook like she can cook because I’m in school or I’m working or something like that. But now my job is to learn how she does it, so now I’m going to learn how to make pupusas. I’m going to know how to make them, and I’ll make them for my children and my grandchildren and keep her legacy alive,” she said.

Even so, Cecilia confessed that she still hasn’t mastered the art of pupusa-making.

“It’s hard to get it perfect like that,” she said as she pointed to some of her mother’s crispy examples. “Sometimes mine come out with half of it being dough inside, and the other half the filling’s all spilling out, so it takes a lot of time and practice to get to that level of expertise.”

But with her mother and tia Vicky to guide her, it’s likely that she’ll figure it out eventually. “They’re my two main chefs,” she said as her mother flipped pupusas over the stove and tia Vicky roasted a sweet potato. “I’m really like the sous chef in training. I need (tia Vicky) to tell me, ‘OK, yeah, this is right,’ or, ‘This needs a little bit more of this,’ so that’s who she is,” Cecilia said.

Paying it forward

As the child of Central American immigrants, Cecilia is conscious of how fortunate her situation is in comparison to others.

“There are a lot of families that arrived here just like my family, seeking something better, and because they were Mexican or Guatemalan or from somewhere else, they didn’t have the same path — they didn’t have the same opportunities.”

In December, Cecilia got official status for her nonprofit, Pupusas for Education, which gives out two $1,000 scholarships each year to undocumented high school seniors. Last year they had five applicants. This year that number tripled. One of their scholarship recipients received a Golden Door Scholarship, one of the most prestigious scholarships for undocumented students in the country. “Her name’s Maria, she is doing really well academically, and she’s vice president of their Latino organization there. She’s just rocking it,” Cecilia gushed over her recipient.

With no state or federal funding, undocumented students have a massive financial hurdle to clear and often have to piece together smaller scholarships, like Pupusas for Education, to afford higher learning.

“We’re kind of a drop in the bucket for an undocumented student trying to pay out of state tuition, but we feel that through our mission and the assistance we provide, we’re affirming that students are worth investing in,” Cecilia said.

Cecilia also plans to use her food trucks to allow locals who may not have a legitimate platform to sell their own food.

“I’ve always known of food trucks to be a Latino thing,” she said. “They’ve been at soccer fields, at construction sites for decades in North Carolina. Now illegal food vendors who might sell their food in nontraditional ways like out of their van, at church or at a corner store — there’s been a big crackdown on that community. And they’re majority Latinos, majority-minority — people of color who are selling food.”

In exchange for using her truck, a small portion of the earnings will go toward Pupusas for Education, but first Cecilia says she needs to fine-tune the business model so that it’s worthwhile, and so that no one gets exploited.

Near the end of the day, a woman approached the truck informing Cecilia that she had never tried a pupusa.

“Great, I love being people’s first pupusa,” Cecilia smiled.

“But I already know that I want the chicharrón,” the woman said.

“One?”

“Uhmm, is that a good amount to get?”

“One’s a snack. Two or three’s a meal.” Cecilia informed her matter-of-factly.

“Then I want two. Can I get one? Hmmm.”

“One pork, one bean?” Cecilia asked.

“Yeah,” the woman said. “Gonna try them both.”

As her aunt and mother shaped pupusas in the back, carrying on a tradition that had been in their family for generations, Cecilia shared that tradition one pupusa at a time, helping other students like herself go to school — students who might one day share their culture with the world as well.

Edited by Alison Krug.

 

By Alexandra Blazevich

On December 31, 2016, my mom kicked my dad out of the house.

Happy New Year, right?

Before my dad left that night, my parents called me downstairs to the kitchen from my room, where I was listening to music. Even with my headphones in on maximum volume, and the makeshift blanket fort I made as a sound barrier to drown out the yelling, I could still hear them. Every night was the same story, but that night they invited me into the conversation.

Part of their discussion now involved me, a 22-year-old college student who was living at home to save them money until I could graduate and find a big-girl job to support myself. I watched them struggle to pay my sister’s way through college and I didn’t want to put them through that again. In turn, I had to put up with them.

“Your mom and I have been talking,” my dad said.

“Yeah, I heard,” I responded, sarcastically.

“We’re giving you the chance to stay here or go with your dad,” my mom chimed in.

It was happening. They had actually decided to separate – something I could see coming since the time I was 12.

What had once been love had become tolerance. From tolerance, it turned to hostility. And from hostility, it became anger. The anger resulted in fights that took place most nights in the kitchen, where my parents would yell until they got too tired.

Then they would retreat to their separate rooms and watch TV. My dad would sleep on the couch. As if they thought I was a little kid who didn’t know any better, the next day they would pretend like it never happened. They would let their issues bottle-up until they exploded.

Still, my mom would ask me why I hid in my room all day. My dad understood – he hid in his office.

At that moment, all I wanted was to escape. I would have done anything to leave that house. I grew up there and it’s where most of my childhood memories took place, but none of that mattered to me anymore.

“I’m going with dad,” I said without hesitation.

With that, the conversation was over. I walked back to my room, to the quiet hum of the heater, and I turned off the music that was still blasting through my headphones.

Silence.

 Reflection

Throughout the semester, I’ve met other people my age who are going through the same thing – their parents waited for them to reach a certain age before separating.

Gloria, a UNC-Chapel Hill sophomore, opened up to me about her parent’s separation and divorce this semester. They waited until she and her sister were out of the house before deciding to part ways.

Susan Orenstein, a family and couples therapist, said it’s common for married couples to divorce or separate after their kids move out.

“As they (couples) get through the first few years (of marriage), they are really busy building their lives and raising their kids, and they have some common goals,” she said. “What I’ve seen is that once the kids are off to college, then they look at each other and try to figure out what their purpose is as a couple. If they can’t answer that, they may be more vulnerable to getting a divorce.”

My parents both turn 60 this year, which makes them part of the baby-boom generation. Among baby boomers, the divorce rate has roughly doubled since the 1990s, according to the Pew Research Center. In 2015, 10 out of every 1,000 married people over 50 got divorced. In 1990, it was 5 out of every 1,000, or 0.5 percent.

This is my mother’s second marriage, which increases the chance of divorce up to 16 out of 1,000 people. Among all adults 50 and older who divorced in 2015, 48 percent had been in their second or higher marriage.

According to the same research, each time a person is remarried, the chance of divorce goes up.

 Things fall back together

“Hey dad, will you be here for dinner tonight?” I asked him one day while I made breakfast.

“I’m going out with your mother,” he replied casually.

I quickly made my way over to his bedroom and stood in the doorway. His back was to me as he sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen.

“What?” I said in disbelief.

He repeated the same answer without turning around – as if this was completely normal and expected. After years of fighting and months of being apart, they were going on a date. I don’t even think he would have told me if I hadn’t asked.

When he posted a picture of them smiling at dinner on Facebook later that night, I almost puked. My world had turned upside down.

 The first night

It’s been almost five months since the night I packed up my entire room in trash bags, threw them into my car and drove 15 minutes down the road to the apartment my cousin is letting us stay in.

My entire wardrobe was stuffed into three large garbage bags that sat on the floor. My shoes were in another messy pile nearby.

My new room was previously a bachelor pad. The walls were bare. My grandmother’s old couch was covered in video games and books my cousin probably hadn’t moved since he put them there in the first place.

I hung up some photos to remind me of better times, when I didn’t feel like my life was a carpet being ripped out from beneath my feet.

I wanted to cry, but I was too tired. I ended up combining the two and crying myself to sleep that first night.

 “Talk to your mother”

On January 18, my birthday, my aunt treated me to lunch. As my mom’s older sister, she knows her even better than I do. She understood my hurt, but she encouraged me to talk to my mom. I wasn’t ready.

A week before Easter, my dad told me the four of us – my sister, my parents and myself – were going to spend the holiday together. My parents had been on numerous dates together at this point, and my sister had even come home one weekend and to see my mom. I still wasn’t ready.

After days of telling me to talk to my mother, I took my dad’s advice. The text read, “Hey mom, would you like to get breakfast this week? I’ve taken a step back for a while just to think about things, but I think this will be good.”

Two hours later, she responded, “Ok. We can meet around 9.”

Not exactly a warm and fuzzy response, but at least she answered.

Resolution

That week, we met for breakfast at our favorite place. We shared stories from the past months apart. She jumped out of her chair in delight when I showed her the promise ring my boyfriend gave me while I visited him over spring break. It looked like a genuine reaction, but the whole situation didn’t feel real to me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked eagerly.

I had no desire to talk to her. I felt betrayed – like the world I’d known for so long was falling apart. My parents were no longer my role models for how I wanted to parent my kids or treat my husband. I don’t want anyone else to have to go through what I have these last few months.

On Easter, my family went to church and made dinner together, something we hadn’t done since my sister and I were kids. We ate, we drank and we laughed that day – more than I had since long before that cold January night when we packed our bags and left. After dinner, my sister drove back to Charlotte, where she lives. I drove back to the apartment and my dad came back later. It was bittersweet. While some things have not changed, many are different.

I still don’t like to look at my neighborhood when I pass by. I don’t live there anymore. It isn’t my home, and I’m not welcome back. The memories I have there are now tainted.

My dad hopes my mom will let him back in the house soon. He’s been saying that since the day we left. He wants to go back, but I don’t. I moved out, and it’s time for me to move on.

Edited by Paige Connelly

By Jacob Hancock

It’s the fourth quarter. It’s the ninth inning. Two-minute warning. Stoppage time. The game is on the line. If you love sports, you live for these moments. How do coaches handle these situations? How do they prepare their players for these, the most intense moments, on and off the field? There’s no right answer. No two coaches operate the same way, and there’s no real blueprint for success. What follows are three success stories from three coaches that I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know during my life.

“Born with a whistle in my mouth…”

You’d be hard-pressed to find a more successful high school basketball coach than Billy Anderson, who runs the show at East Carteret High School in Beaufort, N.C.

With Anderson at the helm, the Mariners have won seven consecutive 1A Coastal Plains Conference championships – perhaps one of the most powerful conferences in the state at the 1A level. Rival team Pamlico County High School gives East Carteret a good game every year. Jones Senior High School is on the rise with new head coach Tod Morgan, who played JV basketball at UNC and has coached at several successful high schools in the state. North Side High School in Pinetown joined the conference in the 2013-2014 season, and were led for two seasons by Bam Adebayo, who played for the University of Kentucky this past season and will enter the NBA Draft after playing just one year in college. Anderson also makes it a point to schedule tough teams in non-conference play, often scheduling games against schools that have success at the 2A, 3A and 4A levels.

“I believe that to be the best, you’ve got to beat the best,” Anderson said. “I want my guys to be the best, and you don’t get that by playing weaker teams. I try to use some of those games in December as a measuring stick – see where we are in comparison to where we want to be and what we need to work on to get there.”

Mariner fans enjoyed a four-year stretch in which the team competed at the Eastern Regionals in Fayetteville each season. They also made it to the state championship in back-to-back seasons in 2014 and 2015. The team went undefeated in 2014 before losing in the final game to perennial powerhouse Winston-Salem Preparatory Academy. The Mariners, led by a trio of the most successful seniors in program history, got redemption over Winston-Salem and won the title in 2015.

“The support that the community showed us during that stretch was incredible,” Anderson said. “It hasn’t quite been the same since, which is understandable because that group was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of group. I consider myself lucky to have coached them.”

Anderson graduated from High Point University in 2000, and promptly started his coaching career as an assistant on his cousin’s staff at West Caldwell High School. He comes from a long line of coaches in his family and said he always knew he wanted to coach.

“I was practically born with a whistle in my mouth and a clipboard in my hand,” Anderson said.

Watching Anderson on the sidelines is pure entertainment – almost as entertaining as watching the team play. Every year you can count on high-octane offense from the Mariners. Anderson demands that each of his players puts his foot on the gas to get out in transition. Anderson is animated and emotional during games, pacing the sideline with his sucker in his mouth.

“It’s usually a cherry Dum Dum,” Anderson said. “It keeps me calm – sort of.”

Anderson has coached teams where the tallest player was (generously) listed at 6’2”. He’s had groups that can light it up from beyond the arc, and groups that “couldn’t throw it in the ocean from the shore.” Though he always wants his team playing at a blistering pace, he says it’s important to make slight adjustments when necessary.

“You have to have an idea of what your kids can do,” Anderson said. “Figure out what they do best, and then go from there.”

Asked about the secret to his success at East Carteret, Anderson said the answer was simply getting the kids in the gym.

“When I got here, we had some good athletes,” Anderson said. “But they weren’t in the gym every day. I started challenging them. Our guys now are gym rats. I have guys now that ask if they can come into the gym during lunch to get up shots. Now, our guys are all playing AAU during the summer and getting better year-round. Because we’ve had success, it means something to play for East Carteret, and I think guys want to live up to that.”

Anderson can be very demanding of his players, but the respect they have for him is clear. Former players are spotted at home games, and they stay after the game to see their old coach.

“That’s my favorite part of coaching,” Anderson said. “Building relationships with these guys, and seeing them grow up and become good men. It means a lot that so many of them still come back and support us. Some of them will even come around and play pickup with our guys during the summer, which is a great opportunity for the young guys to play against quality competition.”

Anderson said the toughest part about his job is having to make cuts and trying to find playing time for everybody.

“We really have a great talent pool here,” Anderson said. “There’s so many good athletes, and so many good kids. But you can’t run a program with 40 kids on your JV team.”

That’s not an exaggeration by Anderson. I tried out my sophomore year of high school, along with more than 40 of my fellow classmates. I was the last person to be cut. But Anderson encouraged me to come try out the next season, and even though I elected not to because of a heavy academic workload, I appreciated the interest that he showed in me – someone who didn’t even make the team.

“If you make the effort, and you genuinely take interest in their lives, they’re going to respond,” Anderson said. “They’re going to trust you, and that’s when you get the best out of them.”

“I was speaking a foreign language…”

When Antonio Diaz first came to East Carteret High School from Cordoba, Spain, as part of a teacher-transfer program, it had what could be called a soccer team. It had had some marginal success, winning a couple of playoff games in the 1990s, but was a complete mess in 2005.

“There just wasn’t a very good soccer presence in the area,” Diaz said. “We had guys who didn’t even play in middle school coming into high school.”

My brother was one of those guys. A freshman, he had played growing up and was offered a spot on a Classic League team in Cape Carteret that played year-round. But the traveling was going to be expensive (a 40-minute drive to practice every day), and he didn’t want to give up baseball. When he got to middle school, there weren’t enough people who wanted to play, and they couldn’t field a team.

“I knew that if I was ever going to turn the program around, I had to improve the development in the middle schools,” Diaz said.

Diaz met with members of the local parks and recreation services to encourage them start classic teams in Beaufort that would travel. This happened as I was coming up, and even though I did not play, a classic team was established and many of my friends joined. By the time I was in middle school, we had plenty of players to field a team.

“The difference that made, it was incredible,” Diaz said. “The group your freshman year was probably the most talented group in program history, and the group the next year was even better.”

The team only won four games my freshman year, but we improved at the end of the season and were competitive in a conference with Dixon High School and South West Onslow High School, two of the best 1A teams in the state. Diaz blamed himself for the early season struggles.

“I was a little hesitant to play some of the freshman at the beginning of the season,” Diaz said. “I didn’t want the older players to feel like they were being tossed to the side.”

The next year, the team made it to the playoffs for the first time since 1995, and the year after that we won a playoff game. The next season, conference alignments were adjusted, and Dixon and Southwest Onslow moved up to 2A and were replaced by North Side High School, South Side High School, and Bear Grass Charter School – all three much weaker teams. The program seemed to be peaking at the perfect time.

“Fans were starting to take notice,” Diaz said. “I think everyone could tell that big things were coming.”

The team had some unfortunate injuries early on. I sprained my ankle two days before the season opener against 3A county rival West Carteret, our star freshman sprained his the next day, and two senior would-be starters were already lost for the season.

“That was a very trying period,” Diaz said. “You really hate to see good kids out with injuries. You want them to get back out there as soon as they can, but safety is the top priority. You have to keep them motivated and make sure they understand that you have their best interest in mind. You also have to keep players on the bench mentally prepared, because they may have to replace someone at any time.”

But the team overcame those early season struggles and captured the first conference championship in program history. The team earned two first-round home playoff games before losing an unlucky draw in the third round. The next season they made it to the fourth round, losing to eventual state champion Wallace Rose Hill High School. East Carteret has now won four consecutive conference championships.

“The difference from where the program started and where it is now is night and day,” Diaz said. “It’s truly my proudest accomplishment.”

Before Diaz came to town, you might see students walking the halls wearing the jerseys of professional basketball or football athletes, but never soccer. Now, it’s not farfetched to find a student sporting a Messi or Ronaldo kit.

“The culture here has completely changed,” Diaz said. “I feel like when I came here, I was speaking a foreign language, and it wasn’t Spanish – it was soccer.”

Students love Diaz, and many opt to take his Latin class to fulfill the foreign language requirement instead of the more traditional option of Spanish. Everyone loves to listen to him talk – the difference in his voice inflection, the way he rolls his R’s, the way he pronounces “mayonnaise” (maYO-naise!). He’s a very easy-going man and is always looking for ways to make his students and players smile.

“I think it’s important to remember that soccer is just a game,” Diaz said. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

I can’t remember one day of high school in which Diaz didn’t make an effort to have a conversation with me. Whether it was in the hallway between classes, in the cafeteria during lunch or in the middle of Latin class while we worked on projects, I’m almost certain that Diaz spoke to me every single day of my high school career.

“You have to get to know each of your players,” Diaz said. “You have to figure out what they’re like, what they’re good at – both skill-wise and attitude-wise – and you have figure out how to make all of the different personalities blend into one cohesive team.”

“It takes a lot of patience…”

When Jason Salter was growing up, he never thought that he’d become a baseball coach.

“It had never even crossed my mind,” Salter said. “I don’t think anyone else who knew me would have expected it either. I was a bit of a troublemaker.”

Salter was a talented baseball player. He had the opportunity to play at UNC-Chapel Hill, but he didn’t even make it to the spring semester before flunking out.

“That was a bigtime reality check,” Salter said. “I had always been able to rely on being smart enough, not having to study. Add that with all the partying, I just wasn’t mature enough. I knew I had to make a change in my life.”

After taking some time off, Salter enrolled at UNCW a changed man. He kept his grades up and started working as an assistant at Roland-Grise Middle School in Wilmington.

“That was a good experience,” Salter said. “It made me realize that I wanted to get involved in coaching.”

After graduation, Salter spent several years working as an assistant at North Brunswick High School, a perennial power in Eastern North Carolina.

“I really learned a lot from my time there,” Salter said. “The coaching staff was so professional, and they expected the same from the players. The baseball culture there is incredible.”

In 2008, Salter became the junior varsity baseball coach at East Carteret High School. He immediately saw a difference in the culture between the two programs.

“The guys running the varsity team really didn’t have a clue of what they were doing,” Salter said. “I really didn’t want them telling my JV players what to do. It was a circus.”

Shortly before the 2010 season, East Carteret decided to promote Salter to varsity head coach. For the first several weeks of the season, he focused his practices on conditioning. Some people joked that Salter was more of a track coach than a baseball coach.

“Those kids simply weren’t in shape,” Salter said. “I didn’t have a chance to work with them in the offseason, and they hadn’t been putting in the work on their own.”

Salter struggled control his temper at times. He’s had to complete mandatory anger management classes on multiple occasions.

“It takes a lot of patience, which was something I didn’t always have when I first became a head coach,” Salter said. “It’s hard when you’re trying to change a culture. You feel like you want more for your kids than they want for themselves. I came in expecting them to play like North Brunswick, but I quickly realized that wasn’t going to happen.”

Implementing the offseason training made a big difference. The team hadn’t been in the playoffs since 2006 and hadn’t won a playoff game since 2002. In his first season, the Mariners made it to the third round of the state playoffs. East Carteret has made the playoffs every season under Salter. In 2013, the team captured its first conference championship in decades. Since then, the Mariners have won four consecutive conference championships. Salter saw his greatest success in his last season in 2016, in which the team made it to the Regional Final for the first time since 1984.

But just as his program was peaking, Salter decided to step down.

“I needed to spend more time with my family,” Salter said. “Being a high school coach is a huge time commitment. I loved doing it, but I felt that it was reaching a point where I couldn’t be fully committed to the program and my own children, and that’s not fair to either group of kids.”

Salter now helps coach his daughters’ softball team. He said he loves spending time with her, but the transition from high school baseball to middle school softball has been less than smooth.

“You can’t treat them the same,” Salter said. “With the high school boys, I could pretty well assume they knew the fundamentals. I have to be more patient with the girls. I do O.K. with my own daughters, but I struggle with other people’s kids. I always practiced tough love, but you can’t do that unless your players understand that it’s love. I think I’m still trying to figure out how to do that with a different kind of group.”

Thanks, coach

All three coaches credited their success to their ability to develop a winning culture. Whether that’s through challenging their players, harping on the tactics or showing tough love, creating the expectation for your team to win is crucial before the team can actually tally W’s. It’s also important to show a special interest in each of your players to develop a sense of trust, so that, whatever your message is, they will be willing to buy in to it.

 

Edited by Jordan Wilkie