✯✯✯ Why Football Is Important To Me Essay

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Why Football Is Important To Me Essay



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Student Life. Vocational Training. Standardized Tests. Online Learning. Social Sciences. Legal Studies. Political Science. Welcome to Owlcation. Related Articles. By StormsHalted. By Linda Crampton. By Reginald Thomas. By Priya Barua. By Eric Caunca. By Paul Richard Kuehn. By Sourav Rana. I have always believed in equal emphasis on logic and creativity in problem-solving situations, and an education at McCormick and Northwestern in general will bolster my well-roundedness.

My Northwestern experience isn't only about reaching an engineering career, but growing as a person. Such balanced growth will allow me to succeed through analyzation and innovation, preparing me to have an impact on the world. Once you have an idea about how you want to approach the Northwestern essay prompt and what you plan to write about, use the following three tips to help you produce a great essay. One of the most important tips to remember when writing the Northwestern supplement essay is to concentrate on what makes Northwestern different from other colleges.

Think about it: If Northwestern didn't offer anything unique, why would students want to apply there specifically? Don't just say you want to go to Northwestern because it's super prestigious or because your mom went there and loved it. Think deeply about why you've chosen to apply to Northwestern over the thousands of other colleges in the country. Although the Northwestern essay prompt is pretty open ended, take care to avoid writing about how prestigious, popular, and selective it is after all, lots of schools are like this! You don't have a lot of space just words! Use concrete examples to ground your story in reality and to make it clear to the admissions committee why applying to this school is so important to you.

For example, if you visited Northwestern, don't just say you went there and liked the campus—talk about something specific that happened to you and why this experience had such an impact on your decision to apply there. Perhaps a professor said something encouraging to a student that made you realize how much you appreciated the supportive nature and sense of camaraderie there. Or maybe you noticed how earnestly students studied and could readily envision yourself doing homework alongside them. In addition, if you plan to mention a specific professor you want to work with or a class you want to take, try to go beyond simple name-dropping. Instead, discuss why working with that professor or taking that class will help you attain your future goals, and why Northwestern is the only place you can actually do this.

As with any college essay, you need to spend some time editing and proofreading your "Why Northwestern" essay. Doing this will ensure that you're submitting a clean, polished, and overall well-written statement. Here's what to do: once you finish writing a rough draft of your essay, put it away for at least a few days. Don't look at it during this time; you want to have a fresh perspective when you take it out again. After some time has passed, take out your essay and begin to look for any glaring typos and grammar errors, as well as any areas you can expand, add, or delete.

Pay attention to the organization and structure of your essay, too. Ask yourself: is the focus clear here? Am I being specific enough? Does the general flow make sense? Once you've done this entire process a few times, give your essay to someone you trust, such as a mentor, teacher, parent, or older sibling. Have them look over your essay and offer comments on its topic, style, and structure. They should also check for technical errors in spelling, grammar, and punctuation. Finally, make sure they read the Northwestern essay prompt so they can confirm that you're actually answering what's being asked of you. Applying to Northwestern means you'll also have to submit an essay for either the Common App or Coalition App. Check out our guide to the current Common App essay prompts for tips on how to compose an unforgettable personal statement.

Freaking out about how to write a killer college essay? First, take a deep breath. Learn more about Northwestern, including its average test scores and average GPA, by reading its admissions requirements page. Want to write the perfect college application essay? Get professional help from PrepScholar. Your dedicated PrepScholar Admissions counselor will craft your perfect college essay, from the ground up. We'll learn your background and interests, brainstorm essay topics, and walk you through the essay drafting process, step-by-step. At the end, you'll have a unique essay that you'll proudly submit to your top choice colleges. Don't leave your college application to chance. Find out more about PrepScholar Admissions now :. She is passionate about education, writing, and travel.

Our new student and parent forum, at ExpertHub. See how other students and parents are navigating high school, college, and the college admissions process. Ask questions; get answers. How to Get a Perfect , by a Perfect Scorer. Score on SAT Math. Score on SAT Reading. Score on SAT Writing. What ACT target score should you be aiming for? I later found the dead man propped against some C-ration boxes; he had on sunglasses, and a Playboy magazine lay open in his lap; a cigarette dangled jauntily from his mouth, and on his head was perched a large and perfectly formed piece of shit.

I pretended to be Outraged, since desecrating bodies was frowned on as un-American and counterproductive. But it wasn't outrage I felt. I kept my officer's face on, but inside I was I laughed--I believe now--in part because of some subconscious appreciation of this obscene linkage of sex and excrement and 'death; and in part because of the exultant realization that he--whoever he had been--was dead and I--special, unique I me--was alive. He was my brother, but I knew him not. The line between life and death is gossamer thin; there is joy. And from the joy of being alive in death's presence to the joy of causing death is, unfortunately, not that great a step. A lieutenant colonel I knew, a true intellectual, was put in charge of civil affairs, the work we did helping the Vietnamese grow rice and otherwise improve their lives.

He was a sensitive man who kept a journal and seemed far better equipped for winning hearts and minds than for combat command. But he got one, and I remember flying out to visit his fire base the night after it had been attacked by an NVA sapper unit. Most of the combat troops I had been out on an operation, so this colonel mustered a motley crew of clerks and cooks and drove the sappers off, chasing them across tile rice paddies and killing dozens of these elite enemy troops by the light of flares.

That morning, as they were surveying what they had done and loading the dead NVA--all naked and covered with grease and mud so they could penetrate the barbed wire--on mechanical mules like so much garbage, there was a look of beatific contentment on tile colonel's face that I had not seen except in charismatic churches. It was the look of a person transported into ecstasy. And I--what did I do, confronted with this beastly scene? I smiled back. That was another of the times I stood on the edge of my humanity, looked into the pit, and loved what I saw there. I had surrendered to an aesthetic that was divorced from that crucial quality of empathy that lets us feel the sufferings of others. And I saw a terrible beauty there. War is not simply the spirit of ugliness, although it is certainly that, the devil's work.

But to give the devil his due,it is also an affair of great and seductive beauty. Art and war were for ages as linked as art and religion. Medieval and Renaissance artists gave us cathedrals, but they also gave us armor sculptures of war, swords and muskets and cannons of great beauty, art offered to the god of war as reverently as the carved altars were offered to the god of love. War was a public ritual of the highest order, as the beautifully decorated cannons in the Invalids in Paris and the chariots with their depict ions of the gods in the Metropolitan Museum of Art so eloquently attest Men love their weapons, not simply for helping to keep them alive, but for a deeper reason.

They love their rifles and their knives for the same reason that the medieval warriors loved their armor and their swords: they are instruments of beauty. War is beautiful. There is something about a firefight at night, something about the mechanical elegance of an M machine gun. They are everything they should be, perfect examples of their form. When you are firing out at night, the red racers go out into tile blackness is if you were drawing with a light pen. Then little dots of light start winking back, and green tracers from the AKs begin to weave ill with the red to form brilliant patterns that seem, given their great speeds, oddly timeless, as if they had been etched on the night.

And then perhaps the gunships called Spooky come in and fire their incredible guns like huge hoses washing down from the sky, like something God would do when He was really ticked off. And then the flares pop, casting eerie shadows as they float down on their little parachutes, swinging in the breeze, and anyone who moves, in their light seems a ghost escaped from hell. Daytime offers nothing so spectacular, but it also has its charms.

Many men loved napalm, loved its silent power, the way it could make tree lines or houses explode as if by spontaneous combustion. But I always thought napalm was greatly overrated, unless you enjoy watching tires burn. I preferred white phosphorus, which exploded with a fulsome elegance, wreathing its target in intense and billowing white smoke, throwing out glowing red comets trailing brilliant white plumes I loved it more--not less --because of its function: to destroy, to kill. The seduction of War is in its offering such intense beauty--divorced from I all civilized values, but beauty still.

Most men who have been to war, and most women who have been around it, remember that never in their lives did they have so heightened a sexuality. War is, in short. War cloaks men in a coat that conceals the limits and inadequacies of their separate natures. It gives them all aura, a collective power, an almost animal force. They aren't just Billy or Johnny or Bobby, they are soldiers! But there's a price for all that: the agonizing loneliness of war, the way a soldier is cut off from everything that defines him as an individual--he is the true rootless man. The uniform did that, too, and all that heightened sexuality is not much solace late it night when the emptiness comes.

There were many men for whom this condition led to great decisions. I knew a Marine in Vietnam who was a great rarity, an Ivy League graduate. He also had an Ivy League wife, but lie managed to fall in love with a Vietnamese bar girl who could barely speak English. She was not particularly attractive, a peasant girl trying to support her family He spent all his time with her, he fell in love with her--awkwardly informally, but totally.

At the end of his twelve months in Vietnam he went home, divorced his beautiful, intelligent, and socially correct wife and then went back to Vietnam and proposed to the bar girl, who accepted. It was a marriage across a vast divide of language, culture, race, and class that could only have been made in war. I am not sure that it lasted, but it would not surprise me if despite great difficulties, it did. Of course. The intensity that war brings to sex, the "let us love now because there may be no tomorrow," is based on death. No matter what our weapons on the battlefield, love is finally our only weapon against death. Sex is the weapon of life, the shooting sperm sent like an army of guerrillas to penetrate the egg's defenses is the only victory that really matters.

War thrusts you into the well of loneliness, death breathing in your ear. Sex is a grappling hook that pulls you out, ends your isolation, makes you one with life again. Not that such thoughts were anywhere near conscious. I remember going off to war with a copy of War and Peace and The Charterhouse of Parma stuffed into my pack. They were soon replaced with The Story of 0. War heightens all appetites. I cannot describe the ache for candy, for taste: I wanted a Mars bar more than I wanted anything in my life And that hunger paled beside the force that pushed it, et toward women, any women: women we would not even have looked at in peace floated into our fantasies and lodged there.

Too often we made our fantasies real, always to be disappointed, our hunger only greater. The ugliest prostitutes specialized in group affairs, passed among several men or even whole squads, in communion almost, a sharing more than sexual. In sex even more than in killing I could see the beast, crouched drooling on its haunches, could see it mocking me for my frailties, knowing I hated myself for them but that I could not get enough, that I would keep coming back again and again.

After I ended my tour in combat I came back to work at division headquarters and volunteered one night a week teaching English to Vietnamese adults. One of my students was a beautiful girl whose parents had been killed in Hue during the Tet Offensive of She had fallen in love with an American civilian who worked at the consulate in Da Nang. He had left for his next duty station and promised he would send for her. She never heard from him again. She had a seductive sadness about her. I found myself seeing her after class, then I was sneaking into the motor pool and commandeering a deuce-and-a-half truck and driving into Da Nang at night to visit her.

She lived in a small house near the consulate with her grandparents and brothers and sisters. It had one room divided by a curtain. When I arrived, the rest of the family would retire behind the curtain. Amid their hushed voices and the smells of cooking oil and rotted fish we would talk and fumble toward each other, my need greater than hers. I wanted her desperately. But her tenderness and vulnerability, the torn flower of her beauty, frustrated my death-obsessed lust.

I didn't see her as one Vietnamese, I saw her as all Vietnamese. She was the suffering soul of war, and I was the soldier who had wounded it but would make it whole. My loneliness was pulling me into the same strong current that had swallowed my friend who married the bar girl. I could see it happening, but I seemed powerless to stop it. I wrote her long poems, made inquiries about staying on in Da Nang, built a fantasy future for the two of us. I wasn't going to betray her the way the other American had, the way all Americans had, the way all men betrayed the women who helped them through the war. I wasn't like that. But then I received orders sending me home two weeks early.

I drove into Da Nang to talk to her, and to make definite plans. Halfway there, I turned back. At the airport I threw the poems into a trash can. When the wheels of the plane lifted off the soil of Vietnam, I cheered like everyone else. And as I pressed my face against the window and watched Vietnam shrink to a distant green blur and finally disappear, I felt sad and guilty--for her, for my comrades who had been killed and wounded, for everything. But that feeling was overwhelmed by my vast sense of relief. I had survived. And I was going home. I would be myself again, or so I thought.

But some fifteen years later she and the war are still on my mind, all those memories, each with its secret passages and cutbacks, hundreds of labyrinths, all leading back to a truth not safe but essential. It is about why we can love and hate, why we can bring forth Fe and snuff it out why each of us is a battleground where good and evil are always at war for our souls. The power of war, like the power of love, springs from man's heart. The one yields death, the other life. But life without death has no meaning; nor, at its deepest level, does love without war.

Without war we could not know from what depths love rises, or what power it must have to overcome such evil and redeem us. It is no accident that men love war, as love and war are at the core of man. It is not only that we must love one another or die. We must love one another and die. War, like death, is always with us, a constant companion, a secret sharer. To deny its seduction, to overcome death, our love for peace, for life itself, must be greater than we think possible, greater even than we can imagine. Hiers and I were skiing down a mountain in Vermont, flying effortlessly over a world cloaked in white, beautiful, innocent, peaceful.

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