“Good, man, how are you?” he responds.

The reporter looks around. No one else in sight. He had seen something worth writing about for the next edition’s story.

The press box beckoned.

***

It is midnight for the kid now. He is graduating from college.

Never again will he cover a game for his student paper. He surely won’t play another game of football. He’s put on a couple...dozen...pounds since he last did that.

He’s not on the team anymore. He’s not the one throwing passes, scoring goals, or taking that outside deuce to right.

No, he wears a suit now. This is a job, one he loves. He hopes to make it a career.

But covering the Red Sox or Yankees wouldn’t be the same as covering Harvard hockey, in the same way that covering Harvard hockey wasn’t the same as playing Garber football. It’s all one more step away from Essexville.

There are fewer common bonds with people he meets now. He had known his high school teammates since elementary school.

He knew some of the guys he covered in college for years, too, between classes and the rink and the odd night at Brother Jimmy’s. But how much in common would a sportswriter, making $550 a week, have in common with a $252-million man? Not much. And that’s OK.

He will not smile as much during celebrations now, not like he did in Albany, and certainly not like he would have if that 0-9 senior football season had been 9-0 instead. But that’s OK, too.

Because to enjoy the present, you have to understand where it was you came from, who was once important to you and who still is. And enjoying the present is a lot easier when you’re doing something you love—like writing about sports.

No need to beckon anymore. He’s going to the press box on his own.

—Staff writer Jon Paul Morosi can be reached at morosi@post.harvard.edu.