"I want to write hockey."

I missed the introductory meeting for comping Crimson Sports way back in my freshman fall. Gathering all my courage as a timid first year, I walked into the sports office and asked the editor laying out the section the requirements.

I knew nothing of college hockey. I had a vague idea that Harvard was supposed to be good. My whole life had been spent arguing the pro game in my North Jersey home. I have three older brothers, and the oldest is a Devils fan like me. The younger two are Philadelphia Flyers fans, and my father supports the evil New York Rangers.

Our household traded names like Ron Hextall, Kirk Muller, and John Ogrodnick. Nobody ever marveled at Lane MacDonald '89 or the Fusco brothers. I had heard of Hobey Baker only because former Devil Tom Kurvers won the award.

Ed Krayer '92's overtime goal to win the national championship? By 1989, I was still on a glow from John MacLean's overtime goal in 1988 to catapult the Devils to the playoffs for the first time in their history. New Jersey made it all the way to Game 7 of the Wales Conference finals that year before bowing out to Ray Bourque's Bruins.

I never played the game. My brothers did. They all picked up the sport in high school, and the school I attended did not have a team. The best I managed was strapping on some makeshift pads to rob my friends in the driveway. Hockey, however, remained important because it was about family.

Watching a game with my brothers or my dad was one of those rare rituals that consistently brought us together and fostered a greater appreciation for the sport on the ice. From the basement couch, I learned about everything from defensive positioning to the relative merits of the Jofa versus CCM helmets. I remember nearly being in tears when Stephane Matteau scored that goal in 1994 to send the Rangers to the finals over my Devils. I also remember the satisfaction I would receive a year later, standing in the rafters of the Meadowlands with my oldest brother Tony as Scott Stevens hoisted the Stanley Cup over his head.

And so when Becky Blaeser '98, night editor on that fateful day back in September of 1997, asked me what sport I was most interested in writing, the answer was intuitive. Her eyes lit up. It turned out she was the Sports Editor, and the staff's lone hockey writer. I knew then that I would be able to write as much hockey as my talent and dedication permitted

I couldn't wait to go home and announce that I would be the hockey beat writer for the Harvard Crimson. I've done that so many times during my four years here-press box at the Fleet Center for the Beanpot, road trips as far as Omaha and Colorado Springs. All the time with hockey culminated in my election as co-Sports Editor along with the great William Bohlen.

I covered football too, even wrote a column once calling for Harvard to reconsider coach Tim Murphy's tenure, but, as strange as it was for a kid from North Jersey who spent his summers and winters playing either baseball or basketball, hockey was the sport of the household, and so naturally is was my sport here too.

The press box soon became a second home. I had my own seat and the same people would be on my right and left every game. It was my domain and I immersed myself in the world of Harvard hockey, considering it my duty to learn as much of the tradition and impart that back to the school.

I soon saw in the eyes of the people on the ice just what it meant to don a crimson jersey. The most vivid lesson came at the program's lowest moment in my career here, after Harvard had just been swept at home before Christmas break in 1998 to fall 0-8-1 in ECAC play. I consider it the finest back-to-back interviews I have ever done as a reporter.

First the captain, current Carolina Hurricane Craig Adams '99 came in and tried to keep a stiff upper lip. I asked the first question and kept following up. To my surprise, the pros from the Boston Globe and Herald simply let me do all the talking-completely satisfied in the quotes they were getting. The rest of the Crimson tried to skirt the media that night. Just when I thought I would have to make do with Adams, then-sophomore defenseman Graham Morrell, a tough nosed kid from Natick who has sadly been injured far too often in his career, volunteered himself.

He not only had heard the stories, but as a local he had seen them play on the ice. His eyes showed nothing but pain as he truly understood the depths the program had sunk. Here I was, his classmate, sticking a tape recorder at him trying to elicit more heart-breaking remarks.

Not all Crimson lore happens on the ice. I staked my small piece of Harvard lore in a little column about Cornell the following year, for the record, I still hate the Lynah faithful.

But for me, the game of hockey, beyond its unique combination of grace and power, has always been about community. At home it was a handful of friends and family, about the only people who knew the game well enough to have a meaningful discussion. Here, it was basically four people-myself, Jennie Sullivan, Brian Schulz and Chris Wolfe. The four of us, all graduating today, marauded together, Jennie and I for the Crimson and Chris and Brian for WHRB, covering the team with equal passion. We spent countless hours over numerous Papa Johns pizzas debating, speculating, and reminiscing.

While our passion was something extraordinary, the camaraderie we felt as the hockey media team was an experience that too few students at this school truly can appreciate. Finding a place where you belong and can make basic connections with other people is something to be treasured throughout life. Besides the sanctuary of the press box, I have been fortunate enough to form those bonds with my Belltower crew and my Sigma Chi fraternity brothers.

I complained numerous times about the apathy of the Harvard student body towards athletics. I only did so because I knew that hockey once served to unite the campus and could do so once again. As great as Harvard's 7-4 win over Yale in the playoffs this year was, the truly beautiful sight was the throng of students erupting in sheer elation over the team's feat.

I wanted the whole college to share in the rewarding experience I had by being at the game. When a sport has a tradition like Harvard's, the connection between the student-athlete and student-fan is transcended through the years and you can feel the presence of those who came before in an endless continuum.

I still am very much the college hockey neophyte. When Boston College's Scott Clemmensen broke the record for most saves in the Frozen Four, I had to ask the Boston Herald's John Conolly what school did the former record holder, Grant Blair '86 played for. The class year should indicate my embarrassment.

But even in those moments, I still was experiencing the community of hockey and of this profession. The feelings were the same in Bright Hockey Center as they were on my family's couch.

I hope you enjoyed my rants on these pages. I am forever grateful to have had this wonderful opportunity, but at the same time, I am terrified as to where I will find that community again not necessarily in hockey, but in life.

Because the meaningfulness of those bonds truly is the V Spot.