Dave and Me

They say that being sports editor is a lonely job, one that will make you go slightly mad, but I don't believe it for a minute. In fact, one of the biggest benefits that I've received form the job is the opportunity to meet a lot of great people.

Through the course of the semester, through covering games, editing stories and taking complaints, I've had the opportunity to come into contact with hundreds of nice people in many different situations.

Of all the people with whom I've come into contact this semester, though, from the guys working the graveyard shift at Store 24, to the student who complained about the lack of backgammon coverage (you know who are), one man has touched me more than any: David Allen Boucher, the dee-jay on 106.7's "Bedtime Magic" radio program.

I first met Dave on my third day on the job. Trudging through the snow on my way back to North House after a long day, I fumbled through the channels on my sports Walkman to find nothing but his soft bass voice:

"This is David Allan Boucher and don't forget: Relationships can be painful but you've got to remember that the pain is all a part of the pleasure," my radio said, before trailing off into a Richard Marx song.

I hate schmaltz. I hate Richard Marx. And I hate French names. In other words, I was hooked. Since then, on all my walks back from the Crimson, Dave has been with me, always saying and playing the right thing.

I remember the night in March when I spent five hours researching a story only to misspell one name and get an angry phone call. I was pouting, in desperate need of someone to yell at, but he calmed me.

"Take it easy," he said. "Slow down."

And he played a Tiffany song.

I remember the night in March after the hockey team advanced to regionals when I was ecstatic, as happy as I could have been over a hockey game. Again, he was there.

"Take time out for fun," he said. "You deserve it."

And he played Kool and the Gang.

And I remember the first week after we got the Sports Wire page, a development that made our late-night closings much later. Dead tired, I felt like junking the whole idea. But once again, he was there.

"Believe in yourself," he said.

And then he played Whitney Houston's "The Greatest Love of All."

Seventy nights. Seventy different moods. And each night he was there, always making me feel better with heartfelt words and horrible, overly cheesy love songs good for a few laughs.

But of all those occasions, there is one that I will remember the most. It was Valentine's Day, it was cold and rainy, and I had just received a joke valentine from a friend signed simply "The Crimson." I fumbled with my Walkman, turned it to 106.7, and Dave was there.

"If you love what you do, why complain?," he said.

And then he played Bobby McFerrin.

Perfect.

They say that being sports editor is a lonely job, that it will make you go slightly mad.

Maybe they're right.