Though I made a brief stint as the beat writer for girl's high school swimming during an internship at The Capital Times, my true roots are with The Daily Cardinal. But while becoming more involved at this newspaper, I have come to realize my identity has slowly changed.
Outside of my group of friends, Jon McNamara has dwindled away and the kid that writes sports for the Cardinal\ has taken reign. A large foundation of the college is based on meeting new people and now each time I get introduced to a new person, it is quickly followed by: ""... and he's the guy from the Cardinal, you know ... (a brief impression of the mug shot in my column ensues).""
Immediately this produces one of three answers:
1) ""Cool"" (I still have no idea who this kid is).
2) ""Oh, my friend writes for the Herald.""
3) ""Yeah, you wrote that column on women's basketball. That was crazy.""
Local celebrity? Hardly. Person that looks vaguely familiar as I walk by you on campus? More appropriate. Either way, I enjoy it, the good and the bad.
While I do have control of a sports section that is read by many everyday (and get to hear ideas from every person with an opinion for column ideas) I've also been cornered at bars and asked who is currently the starting left guard for the Cleveland Browns or who the NBA Rookie of the Year was in 1976. And when I fail to produce the correct answer, my whole existence on this planet is questioned.
I take extra heat when my NCAA bracket gets banged up early or when I failed this year to foresee that George Mason would make its Cinderella run into the Final Four. My friends often say that I major in ""sports,"" and watching ""Around the Horn"" and ""Pardon the Interruption"" are part of my course requirements.
But, just like every other sports major on this campus, there are some things I don't have a firm knowledge of. For me, my kryptonite is hockey. Sure I can fake a quick 450-word recap if necessary, but this Canadian sport is highly foreign to me.
However, with the success of Badger athletes on the ice this weekend, I took an extended course in Hockey 101, taught by my immigrant (he's from Minnesota) roommate Nathan, or the man that can't close.
I watched more hockey Saturday afternoon than I had in my entire career. Sure I actually attended a few games in the past couple years, but I spent more time trying to locate the three flasks floating around the my crowd of friends than following where the puck was on the ice.
But back to Sunday. Even though I took a nap in the second quarter, excuse me, period and flipped over to the Sopranos (was it a coincidence or fate that the second overtime period ended perfectly in sync with the starting time of the Sopranos?) at 8 p.m., I learned more about the sport than I could have ever imagined.
I was an amateur here—a sponge eager to soak up knowledge. The first lesson: commercials are much shorter in hockey, allowing you only a brief time to check MTV to see if the girl took the money or the second date on ""Next.""
Over the following hours or 100 and 11 minutes, (or just 111) it was explained to me what ""dumping"" the puck meant, the meaning of the offsides penalty and the difference between the blue and red line. I even found myself yelling at the puck when it floated around the crease or when the Badgers went on the powerplay. And just as Pauly explained to a comatose Tony how it was necessary he wear a cup in order to keep his testicles elevated, the news hit the living room of our five-bedroom house that UW had prevailed with a 1-0 victory.
What a day. A national title for the women and a Frozen Four berth for the men. And good thing the NHL isn't on strike so I can continue watching and learning after the collegiate season is over in two weeks.
A ""crease creature"" in the making? Are you serious? I was just happy not be watching soccer.
Jon is a senior majoring in English and journalism. E-mail him irrelevant sports questions or comments are jrmcnamara@wisc.edu.
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