How I became a Duke student

I've crossed over to The Dark Side: I'm a Duke student. Well, kinda.

In a fit of boredom at 1:35 a.m. Sunday, I signed up for my first Coursera class, "Sports and Society." Coursera is a website that offers massive open online courses (MOOCs) taught by professors from universities around the world.

Anyone can sign up for the course for free. It's taught with recorded video lectures, online discussion boards and Google Hangouts. It doesn't count for college credit, but you get a certificate of completion (yipee!). I've read about MOOCs and have wanted to try one. When I looked through the course listing, "Sports and Society" seemed like something that would both interest me and possibly help with my work.

Orin Starn, a professor and chair of the Department of Cultural Anthropology at Duke, teaches the class. Starn also recently wrote a book about Tiger Woods. It's listed as optional reading.

From the course description:

"Sports play a giant role in contemporary society worldwide. But few of us pause to think about the larger questions of money, politics, race, sex, culture, and commercialization that surround sports everywhere. This course draws on the tools of anthropology, sociology, history, and other disciplines to give you new perspectives on the games we watch and play. We will focus on both popular sports like soccer (or “football,” as anyone outside America calls it), basketball, and baseball, and also lesser-known ones like mountain-climbing and fishing. Special guests will include former major league baseball player and ESPN commentator Doug Glanville; leading sports journalist Selena Roberts; and sports studies experts David Andrews, Grant Farred, and Katya Wesolowski. You will never watch or think about sports in the same way again."

Seems interesting enough. And it's free, so it can't hurt. The class starts April 30 and is seven weeks long, with regular readings and homework assignments in addition to the video lectures and guest speakers.

I will post any interesting things I come across on the blog. I'm mostly interested in seeing just how these things work. If I like it, maybe I'll also become a Stanford student. Or a Johns Hopkins student. I'm gonna make Momma so proud.

"There is no great writing ..."

Writing a long story can be stressful. It can take a while. Just when you think you're done, there's another question to ask or fact to check. But it's all worth it when you open the newspaper one morning and see your work in print.

It never gets old.

My story about Bryan Moore ran on the front of the Charlotte Observer sports page Sunday. It's the story of a local kid who has made it to one of the top junior hockey leagues in the country. He's the first Charlotte player to do it. The league he's in produces many first round NHL draft picks each year. A teammate he was close to was drafted No. 3 overall last year.

I heard about the story in September. I didn't talk to Bryan for the first time until December. Soon after, I talked to his dad, his mom and a former Charlotte Checkers player that Bryan has known since he was a stick boy for the Charlotte minor league hockey team.

I wrote my first draft sometime after Christmas. I would completely rewrite it at least twice more. I rewrote or rearranged sections many more times.

I talked to Bryan on the phone four different times and asked him other questions via text. I talked to his mom three times. I think I asked the same question about 40 times.

But each new interview and revision made the story better. For that, I have my editors to thank.

To me, this one of the hardest lessons for a writer to learn. In high school and college, I would write a paper or an article at the last second, never look over it and get a good grade. I thought everything I wrote was good the first time around. No need to go back and change anything.

So when an editor tells me to go back and rework an article, it's hard. I feel like I did a bad job. But that's not it. It's part of the process. You write, you edit, write again, revise, rewrite, rework, edit and then, finally, publish.

There's a quote I read that sums it up best. I recently used it in a presentation to high school students interested in journalism. I hope they were listening.

"There is no great writing. Only rewriting."

Read the story on the Observer website here.

[The Corey Project] Wake up call

It's hard to believe that it's been more than eight months since I got married.

That was about the same time I put "The Corey Project" on hold.

My gym attendance has slumped.  I haven't run more than two-and-a-half miles since the wedding, and even that has been rare. The occasional "splurge" on tacos, burgers and pizza (and beer) has happened more frequently.

This picture was taken around when
I was at my smallest, March 2012.

I can't see much of a difference in how I look. Maybe a little rounder in places, but I expected that. My clothes still fit more or less the same. Sometimes it just takes a little extra tugging to button the pants.

A couple of weeks ago, it was especially hard to button a pair of pants. My shirt felt a little snug around the middle. I decided to weigh myself, see the extent of the damage. I hadn't done that in months.

My scale tracks your weight, showing how much you've gained or lost since the last time you got on it. I held down the corner until my last saved weight popped up: "179."

To be fair, that was some time before the wedding. I had weighed myself since -- though not recently -- and was in the 180s, but I didn't want to save that. I liked the look of 179.

I knew I was more than that. I expected it. But I didn't expect this. The three little lines bounced up and down on the display and a number popped up: "205."

Twenty-six pounds.

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I couldn't believe it. I hadn't weighed more than 200 pounds since May 2011. I made a little promise to myself that I wouldn't go back to that. But here I am. Back.

I'm not happy about it, but I think it's exactly the kick in the pants that I needed. A week since that weigh in, I've dropped a pound. Not much, but the needle is moving in the right direction.

But I'm not motivated to run and 40-minute round trip to the gym is frustrating. I need to mix it up. So Courtney and I bought "Insanity." We started Sunday. If the first two workouts are any indication, my body is going to be sore for 60 straight days.

We took all our "before" measurements (see mine in the image below). We will remeasure every two weeks when we do the fitness test. I know it's going to be tough, but tough is what I need.

The Corey Project resumes.

Note: I know the weight below is higher than the weights mentioned above. I took the above measurements in the morning, before I ate. The one below was in the afternoon after a big Sunday brunch.

My initial measurements

On being Southern ... ish

Sometimes I wish I was more Southern. I'm not sure that's common, but there it is.

I was born in Cary, which is about as far from Southern as you can get in North Carolina. (Charlotte is probably a close second.) If you've heard of Cary, you've heard of its nickname: Central Area for Relocated Yankees. And it's true.

Sitting just west of Raleigh, the "Town" of Cary is the seventh largest city in the state, thanks to technology jobs coming to SAS and Research Triangle Park. It's a great place to grow up; It's not the South.

My family is from the South. My mom grew up in Greensboro. My dad grew up in Roanoke Rapids. The Inscoes came from England and settled in southern Virginia, into northeast North Carolina.

My parents don't have strong accents, though. At least none that I notice. I don't think I have much of an accent either.

Sure, it comes out sometimes in the "yessirs" and "ma'ams" and the "y'alls." I can fake one pretty well. But when I travel to the mountains or down East, I realize I've got nothin'.

I love my barbecue (Eastern style, please). I grew up on NASCAR and love football. I'll take some liver puddin' for breakfast and a hot dog with chili and slaw for lunch and some fried chicken for dinner. I'll take some bourbon for a nightcap.

I've always liked bluegrass and can even appreciate some country music.

But I've never been hunting. I've only fished a handful of times. I grew up in a townhouse less than a mile from the Cary Towne Center mall. I've never lived more than a couple of miles from a WalMart or Harris Teeter.

I never did yard work until I moved into my current house. I guess yard work isn't a distinctly Southern thing, but it feels un-Southern to not do it growing up.

I hear and read stories about the South and Southern culture and I want to connect to it. (This post was inspired by reading "All Over but the Shoutin'" by Rick Bragg.) I want to feel like it's my heritage he or she is talking about. And I guess, somewhere higher on my family tree, it is my heritage. But it doesn't feel like it.

I feel like I'm stuck in the middle somewhere. My granddad ("Paw Paw") grew up in a small town on N.C./Virginia border. He's definitely Southern. My dad grew up in the same small town and lives Down East in Wilson. He's Southern.

Me? The Cary-ite turned Charlottean via Chapel Hill? I'm Southern ... ish.

"Inscoe? Where's that from?"

Three generations of the Inscoes.

I have an unusual last name. I love it. It's so much easier to make user names and emails when you have a last name (and a first name, for that matter) that not many others do.

When you have an unusual last name, everyone asks where it's from. I've never really known. Polish? Dutch? Sure, sounds good.

A couple years ago, I got curious. I started searching the internet, learning whatever I could about the name without paying a genealogy site. I eventually found someone who claimed to have mapped the Inscoe name. He sent me the file and I promptly forgot about it.

Around Christmas, I was talking with my dad about his side of the family. It got me thinking about that file. I found it in my email and opened the 1,111-page file.

Control+F: "Walter Franklin." There was my great-grandfather. Listed below him was my grandfather, Walter Jr. Listed below him was my dad, Douglas. And below him, me.

I had no idea that the tree included our branch. It traced my family back 12 generations, to John Inscoe (Inskow) in 1620s England.

So there's my answer.

I learned several other things about my ancestors:

• There are more spellings of Inscoe than I imagined, such as: Insco, Inskow, Inscow and Enscho. 
• The tree goes back to John Inscoe (Inscow), who was born about 1627 in the county of Staffordshire, England. 
• My branch of the family came to America around 1697, when Edward Jone Inscoe (Inskow) came over as an indentured servant to a Colonel Covington. 
• We settled in Virginia. My branch moved to Franklin County, N.C., then to Halifax County, N.C., where my grandfather and father both grew up. 
• I have an ancestor named Augustus. That should absolutely be the name of my first-born son. 

Here's an abridged look at my family tree: 

• John Inscoe (Inscow), born 1627 in England. Married Alice Unk (meaning unknown) around 1646. Had six children: Alice, John (Jone), Joseph, Bartholomew, Joan and Edward. 
• John (Jone) Inscoe (Inskow), born 1651 in England. Died 1673 in England. Married Mary Unk around 1672 and she died in 1673. They had one child: Edward Jone Inscoe (Inskow). 
• Edward Jone Inscoe (Inskow), born May 9, 1673 in England. Died around 1730 in King George County, Va. Came to America as an indentured servant in around 1697. Married Mary Dugsdale around 1698 in Virginia. They had three children: Abner, John and James. 
• Abner Inscoe was born in 1701 in Hanover Parish, King George County, Va. He died around 1760 in Essex County, Va. He married Martha Unk around 1725 in Lynchburg, Va. They had five children: James (Wasard), Mary, Marthey, Martha and Rueben.
• James (Wasard) Inscoe was born in 1726 in Essex County, Va. He died after 1800 in Newberry Park, S.C. He married Esther Unk in 1756 in Lynchburg, Va. They had six children: William, John, James, Jinny, Hannah and Keziah. 
• William Inscoe (Insco) was born April 10, 1756 in Essex County, Va. He died in 1840 in Franklin County, N.C. He married Honor Unk around 1780 in Mecklenburg County, Va. They had four children: Matha, William Henry, Mary and Samuel.
• William Henry Insco (Inscoe) was born Sept. 4, 1784 in Mecklenburg County, Va. He died Aug. 19, 1860 in Franklin County, N.C. He married Nancy Andrews April 21, 1812. They did work and had 13 (13!!) children: Winifred (Winny), Sally, William, James, Lucy, Daniel, Augustus, Emerline (Emily), Samuel, Norfleet, Henry, Armistead and William Joseph. 
• Augustus Insco was born Jan. 19, 1822, in Franklin County, N.C. He died Nov. 29, 1861 in Perry's Mill, Franklin County, N.C. He married Nancy Swanson Dec. 28, 1847. They had six children: Joseph Oliver, David Stewart (DS), Nancy Elezzetta, John Randolph (JR), Luziny and Havana (Holvania). 
• David Stewart (DS) Inscoe was born Jan. 9, 1850 in Perry's Mill, Franklin County, N.C. He died May 7, 1912 in Franklin County. He married Nancy Elizabeth Nelms Oct. 27, 1876. They had 10 children: Minnie Ida, Annie Elizabeth, James Peter, Henry Kearney, Mary Masgdaline, Joseph M., Charles Colombus, Walter Franklin, Iley Ptiscilla and William V. 
• Walter Franklin Insco was born June 4, 1892 in Sandy Creek, Franklin County, N.C. He died July 8, 1967 in Roanoke Rapids, Halifax County, N.C. He married Dora Alice Smith in 1917. They had five children: William (Willie), Arthur (Oscar), Claude, Dora Dean and Walter Franklin Jr.
• Walter Franklin Inscoe, Jr., was born June 9, 1927 in Roanoke Rapids, Halifax County, N.C. He married Mildred Dare Hasty around 1946. He is still alive. Mildred died Dec. 9, 2007. They had one son: Douglas Emery Inscoe. 
• Douglas Emery Inscoe was born Jan. 12, 1960. He married Elizabeth Jane Hubbard. They had two children: Corey Franklin (that's me!) and Madison Jane. 

A big thanks to Kurt Inscoe Hahn, who is the one that sent me this genealogy. I can't even imagine the work that's gone into this.

On why I'm becoming a Panthers fan

The Panthers never seemed to catch on in Cary. Don't believe me? Go watch football at a Cary sports bar on Sunday afternoon. You'll see Steelers jerseys, Redskins jerseys and Giants jerseys. No Panthers jerseys. Except for maybe one guy watching the game on a corner screen at the bar.

Maybe it's because Cary (and the surrounding area) is filled with transplants, who have stronger ties to teams in other cities.

Whatever the reason, that's part of the reason why I was never a Panthers fan growing up. Not to say I ignored the team. I had one of those Panthers fake uniforms (Kerry Collins, I believe) complete with Styrofoam shoulder pads and a plastic helmet. I still have a Sam Mills jersey in a closet somewhere.

Growing up, though, I was a Dolphins fan, like my dad. I had multiple Dan Marino jerseys. That lasted until Super Bowl XXIV.

I was looking for a new team. The Dolphins weren't doing it for me. I always picked a team to root for in the Super Bowl, and the Tennessee Titans seemed as good a choice as any. They were new. They were in a neighboring state. They had pretty blue colors (yes, that mattered to me).

Then they came within one yard of tying the Rams at the end of the game, with Kevin Dyson stretching his arm out, trying to reach the end zone and coming up just short.

I was sold.

For the 12 years since I've been a Titans fan. I've never lived in Tennessee. I'd only visited the state twice before my wife moved to Memphis to teach for two years. It wasn't until 2010 that I saw the Titans play a regular season football game in person in Nashville. They haven't sniffed the Super Bowl since I've started pulling for them.

People always ask me why I pull for them, and I tell them the story of watching the Super Bowl. But it's getting harder to justify.

I moved to Charlotte in 2009 after I graduated from college. Here, the Panthers are everything, and it makes sense. You go to a sports bar here and you may see jerseys for other teams, but the loudest cheers come when the Panthers do well.

I read about the Panthers all the time in the Observer. I maybe read one story a month about the Titans in the Tennessean. I'm pretty sure I can name more Panthers players than I can Titans players. It's a chore to find a place that is playing the Titans game each Sunday. The Panthers are always on local TV, every week, no matter what time they play.

It's gotten hard to be a Titans fan.

Most fans would power through that, team loyalty overcoming the inconvenience. But here's the thing: I was never really that loyal to the Titans. I pulled for them, sure. I own the jerseys. But that's about it. They win? Yay. They lose? Eh. I love football too much to be the passive fan that I've become.

That's why I've decided to switch my allegiances to the Panthers, even though they're going through one of the worst stretches in the franchise's history.

I went to my first regular season Panthers game a few weeks ago. It was cold, the stadium was half full and the Panthers blew an 11-point fourth quarter lead to lose in overtime to the Buccaneers. I had a blast.

There's something special about rooting for (and griping about) the hometown team. You're all in the same boat. It's the same thing I enjoy about the Olympics and the World Cup: Almost everyone is pulling for the same team. You share in the joys of victory and the frustration of mediocrity.

The Panthers are my team. I'll be in Bank of America Stadium Sunday to watch them play the Falcons, wearing the one Panthers shirt I own. They'll probably lose. But when they do, I'll get to walk out grumbling with the rest of the fans instead of being the only one in the bar that cares that the Titans won. Or lost.

Plus, I still get to wear a pretty shade of blue.

A story unlike any I've told before

Jim Mueller. Charlotte Observer photo by Robert Lahser.

The chance to write a story like this doesn't come around often for a high school sports writer. I guess I got lucky.

Every year I send out an email to the athletic directors of the schools I cover. It's generic, just asking them to give their coaches my email for story ideas. Many don't respond, but I always end up with a few good ideas. This time, I learned about an incredible story. 

It's about Jim Mueller. He's 43. He is a first year boys' soccer coach at Butler High after moving to Pineville from Chicago this summer. And about six years ago he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease. 

Mueller and his wife, Michelle, were kind enough to open up to me about their story. I met with them at their apartment, saw Jim lead a practice with his team at Butler and saw him coach several games. The Muellers are an inspiring family. 

There's so much more I wanted to put in this story. It could have gone 5,000 more words, but I'm happy with the finished product. And I'm honored I could tell Jim Mueller's story. 

Jim Mueller writes his plan for Butler High boys’ soccer practices – what he wants to say, detailed descriptions of the drills to run – into a large notebook, which he references throughout practice.

On the sidelines during games, Mueller takes notes in a pocket-sized notebook about everything from how the referees are calling the game to what formation to run.

Mueller, whose Butler team has gone from the bottom of the Southwestern 4A to a No. 15 ranking in the state 4A poll, may be the most organized soccer coach in the area.

That’s because Mueller, 43, has to be. He has early-onset Alzheimer’s.

Diagnosed at 36, he is one of 5.4 million Americans with the disease. Only 4 percent are under age 65.

Read the rest of the story here.