A man on a mission.
A drastically overused phrase.
But it sums up Dove Creek senior Cole Baughman perfectly. He is on a mission.
The day was Saturday, Feb. 18, 2012. The time was somewhere around 7:45 p.m. He was in the spotlight but it wasn't his night to shine.
more Dale Shrull
GRAND JUNCTION - The referee slapped the mat and Wyatt Wade sprang to his feet thrusting a right fist into the air.
Satisfied, yes. Relieved, definitely. Expected, you bet.
I couldn't watch. I couldn't listen to a man so arrogant and self-entitled, dispense his tale of woe.
Woe is him.
A cancer survivor, a hero, a bullet-proof athlete and supreme being. A man who was so indestructible and unbeatable that his dominance was almost laughable.
It's been a nightmare. A horrible, unimaginable nightmare.
On Sunday afternoon, Oct. 14, Rudy Samora got a phone call that every parent dreads.
An accident, a very bad accident.
It was his 17-year-old daughter Kiley on the phone. She didn't know where she was, she just knew that her brother Brett wasn't moving.
Two of the three winningest football coaches in Colorado high school history were at Dove Creek Saturday.
Neither one added to their win total and only one was one the sidelines. The other was a spectator rooting for the team he coached for a half century and amassed 305 victories.
I never thought these words would dribble from my lips: “I’m done with the NFL.”
The greatest team sport, with the largest weekly gathering of superior athletes the world has ever known, has deteriorated into an embarrassing punch line.
I don’t need the frustration.
Watching intently as my tugboat turd swirled to its inevitable doom, my thoughts strangely shifted to inventions.
Saying goodbye to the solid waste that was once a bacon cheeseburger and fries left me fascinated with this contraption called a toilet.
Yes, it was a slow TV night.
Every four years, the world gathers and we are amazed.
Athletes convene for the Summer Olympics and we are taken for an emotional ride.
From humble beginnings to overcoming devastating circumstances — the stories make us root for them. Sometimes we even root for other countries.
My father is going to die today.
It was 6:30 a.m. and Grand Junction was about to be bathed with sunshine. I’m sipping coffee in the hospital cafeteria.
My dad and I just spent a tormenting night together in hospital room 302. We reminisced.
I smiled and laughed a little at a story or two. And I cried.
A painful night.
Less than a quarter mile from my house, the ridge spewed choking black smoke. Ashes drifted through the air like evil confetti.
As we leisurely rolled out of Hotchkiss — a mere 380 or so miles to go — I couldn’t banish the feeling of dread that poked at me like a fourth-grade bully in search of lunch money.
Fortunately, I discovered that the bully was an Olympic-caliber bed-wetter, so I was able to keep my lunch money in exchange for my silence.