When given the choice, I take the stairs.

It’s not because I’m a health nut or because I’m better than those lazy idiots on the escalator.

It’s because I can, or even more so, because it’s something I may not always be capable of doing. I don’t want to deal with the frustration of not being able to kick myself in the rear for avoiding the stairs all of those years.

I feel as if many of Harvard’s athletes play with this same mentality, but perhaps without the self-deprecating forethought.

Although Crimson Olympians, national champions and all-stars certainly exist, many of the athletes in Harvard’s 41 varsity programs may never see that sort of stage. Sure, they might share an Ivy League title or go to an NCAA tournament, but these goals represent only one of many sources of motivation.

These athletes play for the love of the game, for the competition, and for the chance to represent their school with the rest of their team. They play because they can. They play because if they didn’t, they would kick themselves.

In fact, the individuals who impress me the most are the ones who play, and play tough even though their roles and efforts do not always translate onto boxscores. I’m talking about the players that aren’t Harvard household names but still play like ones (see Rule No. 76 from Wedding Crashers: No excuses, play like a champion).

While these players don’t see their names in headlines and aren’t randomly approached as they walk around campus, they are certainly not ignored by all. Just ask any coach or athlete on campus.

For instance, take the football team’s offensive line.

To the idle viewers who only see the green field of Harvard Stadium through a drunken stupor every other year at The Game, these six or seven hulks of flesh seem to serve little purpose other than to block a fan’s view of the guy throwing the ball. Even the slightly more informed fans (i.e. those who know who Clifton Dawson '07 is) might struggle to come up with a quick, direct way to assess an O-line—sacks allowed? Rushing yards per game?

For other members of the football team, though, there’s no question of the unit’s value—and they don’t need to reference numbers to prove it.

“They’re simply the heart and soul of our football team,” said junior running back Cheng Ho, after Harvard’s victory over Lafayette. “Whatever we do offensively strongly correlates with their performance.”

Analogues of offensive linemen exist throughout Harvard sports; women’s volleyball provides another example. As a setter, junior co-captain Lily Durwood plays a pivotal role on the team, although it may not be readily apparent until you hear from other affiliates of the squad.

“She’s the quarterback in that she touches every second ball,” coach Jennifer Weiss said. “She really gets to know each hitter. She’s hard on herself. In terms of team captain, she’s doing a wonderful job in delivering.”

Sure, the time that Durwood invests in familiarizing herself with the team and the game can be somewhat quantified in the number of successful sets she makes, but even this stat is a tough sell to the casual onlooker. The number with the most visceral appeal in volleyball is not sets but kills, which even sounds cooler than Durwood’s meat and potatoes. It’s a lot easier to get a crowd on its feet after the occasional monster slam than with a match of steady, accurate setting.

Players like Durwood and the members of Harvard’s offensive line anchor their teams, often providing opportunities for greatness while rarely receiving plaudits identical to those dealt out to the more high-profile positions.

Why? The instant gratification derived from numbers masks the significance of the roles these players hold.

As a sports writer, I myself am guilty of the near-necessary evil of worshipping the statistics gods. Too often is a story, or our attention for that matter, centered on numbers and other easily recognizable heuristics for information intake. Unfortunately, whether writing a story or leafing through the paper, it’s all too easy to cling to glamorized, surface level details rather than dedicate the time to delve into the nitty-gritty. Although essential to the team, these roles take time to appreciate and too often receive less attention than deserved from non-affiliates of the team. I dedicate my first column to those players who don’t necessary make the headlines each time, who don’t rack up huge numbers and who don’t need to be in the spotlight to play the game and enjoy it.

They do what they do not just because they can but also because we need them to, even if that need goes unnoticed. This is a tribute to them—the legs that are too easily taken for granted.

May we never have to ride the escalator.

—Staff writer Emmett Kistler can be reached at ekistler@fas.harvard.edu.