Journey from the first to last Spectator byline

There’s a picture sitting on the floor of my room in Dallas, Texas. My father had it framed for me for Christmas my freshman year, and inside rests my first byline in the Columbia Daily Spectator.

In the four years since that byline ran, too much has happened to ever be recounted satisfactorily in my last column. Too many road trips, too many fights, too many interviews, and too many articles to ever convey what being a part of Spec has meant to me.

I came on as a timid freshman determined to make my mark. Yes, the self-proclaimed diva of the sports section was at one point a small, intimidated first-year that brought in clippings from her high school newspaper just in case the editors wanted them.

I’ve had a draft of this column in my head for two years. Scattered in my mind are millions of different thoughts I wanted to put down: advice, thanks, praise, criticisms. But none could encompass the ridiculous ride that has been the past four years.

Freshman year at one of the first Spectails—our monthly cocktail party—a staffer had just returned from a basketball game where a benchwarmer played a hell of a game. The sports section tends to be insular when involved in Spec activities, and so we all stood in one corner and someone in the group raised his beer and shouted: Joe Bova!

And so it began, the “Joe Bova” toast. Get enough of us in a room together with drinks and you can bet there will be a Joe Bova toast, despite the fact that Joe Bova graduated and there are only three staffers left on the section who were actually there that night. Those are the type of experiences that have characterized my time in the section.

In the past four years I’ve done it all: reported the wrong facts accidentally; fought for a columnist’s right to print his or her opinion; stayed up until 3 a.m. finishing the sports page; ripped into editors for, dare I say it, editing my articles. (Though I do still hold a grudge against the idiot who replaced T.O. with Terrell Owens and misspelled his name.) I set the record PDF time for the sports section at 11:04 p.m. and I’ve even gotten a quote put on the famous quote wall.

There is one senior—yes, I always think of him as a senior—who took my first few attempts at stories and turned them into actual articles. Thank you, Anand, for teaching me how to write.

The two sports editors when I was an associate deserve much thanks and praise for dealing with me. JTay, thank you for writing the articles that I refused to write at midnight, even though you were technically my boss.

I owe Jonathan August about a gallon of fries from my days as an associate sports editor. I also owe him for always listening to my rants, because God knows that’s a full-time job.

The lessons that Spec taught me aren’t as simple as what a nut graph is or how to write a lede. Spec taught me how to tell a friend when they’re doing something wrong, how to stand up to an authority figure, how to compromise, and, most importantly, how to deliver truly excellent “that’s what she said” jokes.

But really, Spec goes beyond the journalistic training, beyond the papers that appear around campus, and beyond the K4 meltdowns in the office. The sports section has given me some of the best friends and best memories of my college career.

Taylor Harwin, thanks for showing Matt and me the ropes and for teaching us the noun game. More than that, thank you for starting the tradition of dank pancakes on road trips. Max Puro, you kept the “what you did this weekend” tradition alive. Thank you also for willingly watching the Rose Bowl with me.

From winning the award for sportsmanship at the first—and only—Spec Sports basketball game to bringing two staffers home to Texas with me just last weekend, sharing these past four years with this section easily qualifies as the best decision I made while at Columbia.

Michele, Jacob, and Bart: thanks for not killing me over the million and one emails I sent. Victoria: I pass the torch to you—keep the girl-as-football-beat-writer tradition alive.

The spring of my sophomore year (the first semester after I started covering the football beat) the football photographer, the other beat writer and I decided that going from spending every weekend together to hardly seeing each other wasn’t working. We decided to have weekly dinners, the three of us, until the next season. Well, two and a half years later, the tradition is still alive.

Lisa “the kid” Lewis: that nickname never really stuck; but I’m dragging it out for the world to see. Four years of college cannot be reduced to a couple sentences, but never have I been so glad that you decided to stick with the sports section. You’re the voice of reason when I stray off the path of sanity.

Matt “Mama Duck” Velazquez, there’s too much to say in one column. Lisa and I decided in the Bahamas that you’re the instigator during road trips, as we got along fine just the two of us! But I’ll keep you around for the “Party in the USA” dance parties, your cookie-baking abilities, and lending me your scarf during the Brown game a year and a half ago.

The long nights in the office and the marathon weekends, the hours in front of the computer and the hours spent in Dodge, cannot fit in under 1,000 words. Nor am I certain that I’d have the words to describe them.

So, whether or not anyone has actually read my columns, I can’t say that I’d do anything differently. And when we have our last Spec Dinner, I’ll raise my glass to Joe Bova once more.

I will spend one week in my room in Dallas before coming back to the city. One last week where I have no responsibilities other than watching “Saved by the Bell” reruns and eating my mom’s home cooking.

And when I look at the first article I ever wrote for Spec, the one my dad framed for me Christmas my freshman year, I’ll always think, “Anand wrote that entire thing.”