He’s the P.T. Barnum of pizza pies, the Meadowlark Lemon of marinara, the – well, it’s hard to watch Siler Chapman without getting a little carried away.
A traditional Chinese martial art test went the way of the master, a man more content to avoid using his fighting skills rather than relying on them.
It’s league night at Textile Lanes. The Belmont alley’s owner Kevin Walls has a dozen teams on as many lanes, bludgeoning the pit with arcing missiles just as fast as the pinsetter allows. I ask if he knows Todd Whitesides. Everybody here knows Todd Whitesides.
Todd Sykes would be much easier to deal with if he weren’t so darn pleasant. He’s that guy pudgy malcontents like me can’t relate to – fit, tan, calves that could cut cookie dough. A bank job in the city and still time for his lifelong passion, one growing a step at a time all throughout Lake Wylie.
Sunbeams sink behind the Gaston County shoreline, and as women and children along Lake Wylie tuck sleepily into their beds, Jeff Manning sets out in search of monsters.
Tim Wilkison hasn’t played professional tennis in almost two decades. The rust didn’t show against an overwhelmed Lake Wylie Pilot reporter.
Lake Wylie Pilot reporter John Marks takes on Camp Thunderbird’s greatest asset in a three-course competition of skill and stregnth.
There’s a price for imperfection on the water, and Bo Ibach isn’t interested in paying it. Nor seeing anyone else incur the cost, regardless of what it takes on his end.
He plucked a violin off a stranger’s wall for a symphony performance, and nobody noticed. Billy Graham endowed her chair. Whatever the German word for ordinary is, "The Roth Duo" isn’t it.
Beneath the championship banners, along a concrete cavalcade of maroon and gold eagle emblems outlying the Oakridge Middle School gym, hangs a record board you’ll need help reading.
A custom Chris Rice pinewood racer covers 49 feet of track in less than four seconds. But if all you see are spinning plastic wheels chasing timer ticks, you’ve already missed it.
Pharmacies can’t sell you anything for the feeling in your stomach just before your first lap around a competitive dog show ring. Maybe it was the “bait” in my mouth.