A Writer's Plea

Back in December, as I was in the throes of my comp, then-sports editor John Trainer called me with what I thought was the impossible assignment.

"There's a big swimming meet this weekend. The Harvard Invitational. I need someone to cover it."

I didn't know the first thing about swimming. All I remembered about my personal swimming experiences was jumping up and down on one leg to get the water out of my ears after I was done.

"I need a color story for Saturday's page, and a color story and game story for Monday."

I'm thinking, do you want fries with that?

I had no idea how I was going to write a story about swimming. Maybe there's another story John wants me to do...

"This'll finish your comp," he said.

Perhaps he could hear me thinking, because he sure pushed the right button. I agreed to do the story on the spot.

I headed down to Blodgett Pool that weekend, still worried about this assignment. What was I going to write?

"So-and-so was swimming great on Friday, lost his stroke on Saturday, but found it again in time to win his event."

Like I said, I had no clue what to say.

I set myself up in the bleachers of Blodgett. Sure enough, it wasn't long before I found myself thoroughly confused.

It took me at least three heats to realize there were touchpads in the water that were registering the lap times.

I actually had to ask a fan seated behind me to explain what an individual medley race was.

Heck, I had a hard time distinguishing between Harvard and visiting swimmers.

Gradually, however, I caught on. I started to recognize the swimmers and their events. And then a strange thing happened: I discovered I really was getting into the meet.

When Tim Carver lined up for the 100-yd. backstroke, I found myself shouting words of encouragement like the rest of the vocal Crimson swim team.

Me, biased? Naahhh.

I was furiously scribbling notes on each race, to the last detail. Fortyeight hours before, I was wondering if I would even know what to write.

In my sudden delight, however, I noticed that but for myself, groups of parents, and few students, Blodgett's cold, concrete stands were empty.

It was a little disappointing, because Harvard was in the process of ringing up a big win over powerful Penn State.

Having covered a number of games up to that point, I was familiar with the sight of empty stands and missing crowds.

These teams train hard. The swimmers, I've since found out, trained four hours a day. Yet they're often performing before sparse crowds.

I know we're all busy, that we don't have time to get out, that we all have our own activities to stay on top of.

Sometimes, though, we need to take a break. It's healthy. It's therapeutic. And it's an opportunity to support teams that are working hard to put Harvard's name on the national athletic map.

I went to a fairly small high school (graduating class: 105 students), and I didn't really go for all of the "school spirit" stuff. Not that I didn't like school (I did). The rah-rah, be-true-to-your-school jazz just wasn't my cup of tea.

That's not what I mean. You don't need to be some loud, rowdy fan. You just need to be there, period.

I'm a freshman. This past month, from choosing a house in the lottery to choosing my concentration, I've