Sure, the field I ply my craft on doesn't directly resemble the playing field of many Harvard sports (if nothing else, the couch I play from is greener than Ohiri Field). Still, I give my all when I'm on that couch, and the results often show it.

I can do a 720 Indy Nosebone, skate seamlessly into a backflip over the halfpipe, through the secret room, land with a 50-50 grind, and then ollie off the pole for bonus points and the accolades of my crew.

Do you have any idea how many hours of training and practice went into that moderately difficult combination? The calluses on my thumbs resemble those of the most dedicated rower, and my stamina (six straight hours last Friday afternoon) easily surpasses that of any long-distance runner.

The unheralded video game athlete, beset with the same training-time requirements and intense pressure to perform as any "real" athlete, escapes the sympathy of our administration and fellow students. Finals rudely interrupt an otherwise full schedule dominated by kickflips and varials.

Whatever.

I don't do it for the recognition anyway, nor for the sweet ink on the back page of The Crimson. I do it because I love it, because it's a legitimate outlet for the under-appreciated exercise of "philangeal" dexterity, and I do it because my gelatinously weak will does not let me stop doing it.

Most of all, I do it for my crew. My teammates.