Jack O'Leary, a sports-writer for the Boston Herald, stopped typing away on the small keyboard of his standard-issue Radio Shack laptop and looked up at me from across the fold-up table. "You're not going into this business, are you?" he asked gruffly.

I finished pecking away at my Powerbook and responded somberly, "No, this is it. This is actually the last game story I'm ever going to write."

"Good. Because if you ever get the crazy idea to go into this profession, talk to us. We'll change your mind."

I laughed. He didn't.

Jack looked tired and worn out. His hair and walrus-style mustache were completely gray, his mouth turned down sourly, his eyes squinted at the screen.

At that one moment in late March, nestled in the Worcester Centrum, we were both sportswriters, telling the story of Harvard's shocking loss in the first round of the NCAA men's hockey tournament.

I wasn't surprised with what he said. I've always suspected that being a sportswriter was a sure-fire way to sap the spirit of a young sports fan.

He hated his job. But, after three years at it, I didn't. I actually enjoyed the grim hours and thanklessness of being a sports editor. And to this day, that's what surprises me.

There's a certain notoriety that comes with being the sports editor of The Crimson. You write for the most widely read section of the newspaper, and, on a day-to-day basis, deal with more undergraduates over the phone and in person than in any other extracurricular.

But writing sports also brings with it profound infamy. I've received dirty looks walking down the street. I've been screamed at by coaches, athletes and readers. I've been cursed at parties and physically threatened in bars.

After I switched from news to sports my sophomore year, I learned pretty quickly that honesty and good wit may win you the respect of other journalists, but they bring you the ire of just about everyone else. And at a school with such a tightly knit (some would say incestuous) athletic program, that's a lot of enemies who know you by name and nothing else.

So you strive to be well-respected, if not well-liked, and that too can be a battle of its own. You become one with The Crimson, and what goes wrong on the news page, the editorial page or the sports page, ultimately, reflects back on your reputation, like it or not.

But my time in "The Cube" (the name for the cubbyhole we occupy in 14 Plympton) has not been all fear and loathing. I'll eternally be grateful to The Crimson, because through this job I've met more people, made more friends, experienced more emotions, done more things, seen more places, written more text and eaten more free Munchkins and turkey sand-wiches than I could have doing any other activity.

These three years have been a healthy mixture of hard work, hard times and, yes, fun. It's simply the nature of sportswriting and The Crimson in general, and my personal attitude in particular, that made my three years here so grueling and difficult. Then again, it's also what made the years so special.

As journalism, sportswriting falls somewhere in between news and art criticism. It requires both the reporting skills of a newshound and the analytical and stylistic skills of an essayist.