The Magic of the Kentucky Derby
By Luke Hicks
The first thing I recall is how hot it was. Not just the sun overhead, but the heat that rises off the pavement and settles into your clothes. It smells like grass, sunscreen, beer, and food trucks. I felt the Derby before I ever saw a horse or heard "My Old Kentucky Home." It was noisy, crazy, colorful, and full of life in a way I had never seen before.
After my first year of college, my friends and I went to Louisville for the Kentucky Derby. We sat in the infield, which is more about the experience than the polished tradition. There was movement all around you. People in bright gowns and silly hats walked by, all dirty and sweaty. Speakers that were considerably too loud played music. People who didn't know each other laughed along like they had known each other for years. Even though most of us were there for the atmosphere as much as the race, it felt like the whole area was vibrating with excitement.
The Twin Spires seemed far away yet strong from the infield, like a reminder that history was happening right in front of us. The grass under our feet was uneven and trampled, and cups and programs were all over the place. I stopped for a while and looked around. My pals were happy, tanned, and yelling above the noise, just like I was. You know you'll remember this moment forever, even while it's occurring.
At the start of the call to the position, everything changed. The turmoil became clearer. People pushed for screens and barriers. People stopped talking. The energy went from celebration to pulse. Even though I didn't have any money on the race and didn't know much about the horses, I felt my heart racing as they lined up. The noise that came after the gates opened was like nothing I had ever heard before. It was raw and collaborative, with thousands of voices responding as one. The race felt huge and personal, even from the infield, which was away from the track.
The race itself was finished soon, but the feeling stuck with me. Long after the winner crossed the finish line, I remember walking out fatigued, hoarse, and feeling great. It wasn't just one horse or one moment that day. It was about being young, with friends, and going to one of the most famous sports events in the least polished but most memorable way possible.
I learned something about athletics that day on the infield. Not all of the best times come on the field, track, or court. They are about where you are, who you're with, and how it feels to be a part of something bigger than you.
​Pins Down, Spirits Up: A Friendly Battle at the Alley
By Luke Hicks
The bowling alley didn’t feel like much when we first walked in. High ceilings, bright lights, the faint smell of fried food and lane oil hanging in the air. It was loud in that constant way where pins crashing blend into background noise, and at first it felt more like a place to kill an afternoon than a place where anything memorable could happen. But by the end of the day, it felt completely different.
The tournament started loose. People joked between frames and leaned back against the ball returns, barely paying attention to the scoreboard. It felt more like a group of friends killing time than a real competition. But once the games began to stack up, the mood slowly shifted. Frames started to matter. Conversations grew quieter. Everyone checked the screen a little more often than before.
Jackson settled in early. He didn’t rush anything, taking the same approach each time, barely reacting whether the shot was good or bad. Tyler came out confident too, throwing aggressively and trusting his ball speed. I wasn’t trying to do anything extra. I focused on staying clean, picking up spares, and keeping myself in it. As the games went on, it became clear no one was pulling away.
The alley started to feel smaller as the pressure built. The noise never stopped, but it faded into the background. Every missed pin felt louder than it should have. Every strike felt earned. Jackson kept answering shot for shot, refusing to give any ground. Tyler stayed competitive, but late mistakes made it harder for him to keep pace.
By the time we reached the finals, the scores were tight. Close enough that every frame could change everything. The joking was gone. People stood instead of sitting, eyes locked on the lanes. I focused on slowing down, keeping my routine the same, not letting the moment speed me up. Jackson stayed right there the entire time, making it impossible to relax.
The final frames dragged on. Not because they were slow, but because every shot carried weight. Tyler battled through, but a few tough frames held him back. Jackson and I stayed locked together until the very end. When the scores finally updated, it took a second to register. I had won, but barely.
There wasn’t a big celebration. Just a quiet moment of relief. Jackson shook his head and smiled, knowing how close it was. Tyler was frustrated but still part of the moment, already replaying shots in his head.
Walking out of the bowling alley later that night, it didn’t feel ordinary anymore. The lights, the noise, the smell, all of it stayed the same. What changed was the memory attached to it. What started as just another tournament turned into a night defined by pressure, focus, and a finish that could have gone either way.