Today I returned to the University of Delaware to speak to a sportswriting class. I’ve gone back many times since graduating in 1994, and it’s always odd. Sorta like stepping into a time warp, where I’m tossed backward to a simpler era, where I worried solely about (in this order):
1. Hooking up.
2. The Review, the student paper.
3. Grades.
4. Hoops.
Man, I loved college. Loved it. And yet, you can never really go home again. Cruising the campus, I mainly felt … old. I had on shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops, with a backpack flung over my shoulders. But even if I looked 22 (I don’t), I’m not 22. I’m a 37-year-old man with a wife and two kids; a mortgage and a damned minivan. There’s no turning back from reality: I’m aging.
That said, the visit renewed my desire to teach college journalism. I really enjoy standing before a group of students and just … spewing. It’s fun, and I tend to get a good response. One day, me hopes …
