Traditionally in Western literature, springtime is a time of growth and of love and of renewal; Tennyson writes, "In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." Clearly, Tennyson never experienced March Madness.

But what follows after the adrenaline surge of the NCAA Tournament? April, "the cruelest month" according to Eliot's The Wasteland, is cruel in that it is a time of transition; the winter months have finally passed, but the warmth of summer has yet to arrive. In terms of sport, the two premier teams at Harvard--women's basketball and men's hockey--have concluded their respective seasons, and the spring sports are in their infancy.

And I feel tired.

After an autumn in which the Harvard football team was exciting, if only in its unpredictability, and a winter in which the women's basketball team won the Ivy League in record-breaking fashion and competed in the NCAA Tournament, the spring season seems remarkably unappealing.

Certainly, the men's and women's lacrosse teams are both nationally ranked and one, if not both, may qualify for post-season play. However, like many at Harvard, I've always found it difficult to cheer excessively for a bunch of rich kids from Long Island (which is probably hypocritical in that my background is similar. Lacrosse is a game for the elite; I'd rather play stickball.

The softball team should be successful; perhaps the Crimson will finally defeat Princeton this year. But if you've ever attended a softball game, you know exactly how exciting it is to wait 40 to 50 seconds between pitches for Tasha Cupp to stalk around the mound and re-focus. Best wishes to the softball team, but I'll pass.

The Harvard baseball team, the Red Rolfe Division champs and bridesmaid in the Ivy League last season, has a legitimate shot to win the Ancient Eight. A talented group of junior outfielders and some phenomenal sophomore pitchers will undoubtedly make for a lot of wins this season. I'm actually fired up about the baseball team, but when the sun goes down around 6 p.m. and the wind starts to pick up, Soldiers Field can get pretty damn cold pretty quick. I'll probably attend a couple of ballgames, but not without my mittens (that last statement about "mittens" was self-mocking; I don't actually own mittens and I'd never admit it anyway).

One of the spring sports I like best at Harvard is men's golf. They are usually appreciative of any coverage The Crimson provides, and it's always fun to talk to a fellow hacker about his round.

I've never gone to a match or sat in on a practice, but that's what's so fun about covering golf. Total anonymity provides for maximum imagination. I've never lied about scores or performances, but it's always fun to embelish: "Choo left his tricky left-to-right twelve-foot birdie putt an inch above the cup and had to tap in for par on the sixteenth hole" is a lot more interesting to write than "Choo parred number 16."

Perhaps my dislike of the spring season is that it comes at a time when I like to be active; rather than watching other people play tennis, I'm playing tennis. Perhaps, I'm exhausted after covering football and women's basketball for the last seven months.

Or maybe, as Tennyson suggests, in springtime, my fancy "turns to thoughts of love."