Peter Kogut's Journal Entry
Sunday
July 10, 1983

Have I mentioned I like sports?  I’m sure I will mention it again, one way or another.  I like being part of a team.  I like getting to know new people and making new friends.

I must also like wearing worn out and often times smelly sports equipment…everything from hockey helmets to cups.   It’s hard to keep this stuff new and clean and smelling like the first time you wore it.  Grandpa says that everything you could possibly care about smelled better before you ever bled or peed on it.  I guess that's true.

For the most part…my sports friends smell a little better than my sports equipment.

But there’s more to me than sports and smells.

I’m the middle child.  My brother is five years older than me.  Rob has our father’s name.  My sister is exactly one year younger than me.  Shelby has our father’s first car’s name.

I am not the shortest kid in class.  I am not the tallest.  I am not the smartest.  I am not the dumbest.  I am not the quietest.  I am not the loudest.  I am the middle child in every sense of the word.  I am in between everyone.

Sometimes I fight with my sister.  Okay…I fight with my sister a lot.  But doesn't everyone?  So, in many ways I don’t stand out.  I don’t stand out at all.  Thank you, God. 

There are two things that are unusual about me.  First of all there is my feet…which is one thing, not two.  One foot is bigger than the other.  One shoe, one ice skate always feels tight while the other always feels loose.  The smaller foot has old scars.  I have no idea how I got the scars.  I have heard how some people carry scars that no one can see.  I must be one of those people as long as I keep my socks on. 

The only other thing unusual about me…the only thing that is different between me and my friends…when my shoes and socks are on…is writing.

I’d rather write than play video games.

I’d rather write than watch TV.

I’d rather write than play sports.

I’d even rather write than fight with my sister.

I write about boring stuff…not the stuff of great novels.  I write about what I see…and hear…and touch.  Sometimes I write about what I understand. 

More likely than not I write about what I don’t understand.  I write about that a lot.

As I sat in my bedroom, writing, I could hear Mom and Dad arguing.  That’s not unusual.  Shelby barged into my bedroom to get away from the noise and to bother me.  That’s not unusual either.

She saw me writing and asked, “Why do you write all the time?”

“It’s my homework,” I answered.

“This is summer vacation,” she said.  “Nobody has homework, jerk.”

I looked up at Shelby and said, “It’s more fun than beating you up.”

She replied, “I wish I could say the same.”

That was a good one.  But I couldn’t let her know that.  I thought for a moment and then replied.

“Oh you’re so cool, let me write that down,” I said as I wrote it down.

Just then we both could hear Mom finishing up her argument with Dad.  You can tell when she’s about to wrap it up.  She always says the same thing.  After she says it, she’s done…and Dad never knows what to say after that.  It’s a good way to end an argument.  It’s four simple words.  I’m sure Mom learned them from her mother.  Both Shelby and I stop arguing to listen…

“It’s all about you!”

…Mom shouted at Dad.  Yesireebob.  That puts a cork in it as Grandpa says.  There’s nothing more for Dad to say.

Shelby and I turned our attention back to each other. 

“Don’t forget to write about how weird you are…how bad your room stinks…and how you can never beat me in arm-wrestling,” she said.

“Why should I do anything you tell me to do?” I asked.

“Because!”

“Because why?”

She thought about it.  I thought for a second that I got her.  I got her goat as Grandpa says.  But then her nasty old goat bit me.  Shelby looked me in the eye and smiled.  She figured out what to say.

“Because…it’s all about you,” she answered.

I can’t argue with that.