* * *

Martin Bell is universally acknowledged as The Nicest Guy at The Crimson. Sometimes, I have thought more than once, too nice.

Sometimes Martin seemed just a bit too happy, a little too in love with the time he’s devoted to the Crimson—time that, in my case, I wouldn’t mind getting back.

I told him as much once. We had our moments, he said. And then he reminded me of a bunch of times that I thought were all well and good, but certainly not the things I would remember for the rest of my life. To me, they were throwaway moments.

Not to Martin. He talked about how he couldn’t help but feel attached to, and proud of, something he’d invested so much in. How he insisted on taking it all in and refused miss a moment.

“I’m thinking that the very next second could be the funniest moment of my life, and my eyes are like saucers,” he said then. “I’m deathly afraid of missing it.”

It was right about then that I realized I had spent the last four years in denial, pretending there was no reward where there was no glory. Marty steered me out of, in his words, a culture of disappointment to the culture of what’s next. For that badly needed perspective, I can’t say thank you enough.

* * *

I’ve been around athletes who’ve confessed to playing not for the ‘H’ on their sweater but for their own pride and for the guy next to them. Gradually, this has become my approach, too. Life on the Cambridge side of the river humbled me more times than I would care to admit, but my time on the other side offered nothing but affirmation.

There, the people were real. There, you didn’t need to keep your distance for fear of rejection or, worse, disappointment that the more you got to know someone, the less interesting they’d become. There, I learned that the most meaningful successes in life are won amid the most raw, most private moments. When I leave here, I won’t miss Harvard all that much, just a few certain people it introduced me to. And I don’t care about being seen as a Harvard man anymore, just a good one.

I identified with the athletes here because, for the longest time, I was right there with them, plugging away in anonymity and searching for meaning when there was no recognition to be had. I hope they felt some satisfaction when we covered them, but more than that, I hope they felt some satisfaction when we didn’t. During my term at the helm of this section, I never believed that all 41 sports merited equal coverage. But I’d hope the athletes on those teams never let that fact demean the dignity of their endeavor. There is excellence in the pursuit, regardless of the publicity it generates.

Some things are worth neither the reading nor the writing but are still worth remembering.

—Staff writer Brian E. Fallon can be reached at bfallon@post.harvard.edu