And those Hollywood nights in those Hollywood hills

She was looking so right in her diamonds and frills

It was looking so right it was giving him chills

Trust my mother to think of me first.

When standout Harvard winger Nicole Corriero ’05 was nominated in the Best Female College Athlete category for the annual ESPY Awards, most people I told about it reacted with bewilderment or apathy or a simple dismissive smile. I had the privilege of covering Corriero all winter as she racked up a Division I single-season record 59 goals and led the Crimson to the national title game. Her nomination, though an impressive acknowledgment from one of the definitive sports authorities in ESPN, seemed a mere footnote to a historic season.

My mom saw it as an opportunity. For me.

It was only a “Well, you should go...” but her suggestion planted the seeds of ambition and summoned visions of tony parties and journalistic successes.

So, with just a week remaining before the taping of the show on July 13 in Los Angeles, I logged on to a simple website called espymedia.com and got bold. The process was as straightforward as entering my name and affiliation in a form and clicking submit. I figured it was a shot in the dark, a transparent fit of whimsy that would surely be dismissed. So you can imagine my surprise when a conformational e-mail hit my inbox twenty minutes later: “You have been approved for 1 credential.”

Before the day was done, I had negotiated the day off from work, made lodging arrangements with my roommate, and developed several fantasies of, well, you can imagine.

My generous parents bought me a round-trip ticket from the Big Apple to the City of Angels, and off I went.

Seeing as it was my first time on the West Coast (and my first time west of the Mississippi, for that matter), my first day in town gave the flavor of the city: I got ankle-deep in the Pacific, breathed in the palm trees and the smog, and got stuck in brutal traffic.

The next day was Showtime.

I met with Nicole briefly at the swanky hotel where she was staying to get her pre-show sentiments. Her measured excitement reminded me of my own, and I got a lift over to the Kodak Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard.

After navigating a traffic stop and a dizzying maze of barricades and consulting a half-dozen burly but friendly security guards, I finally found my way to the press tent at the foot of the red carpet to pick up my credential. The staffer begrudgingly handed it over; I don’t think she was expecting any profusely sweating eighteen-year-olds.

The red carpet itself was a shocking eddy of bejeweled humanity. Although the athletes and famous guests are separated from regular ticket-holders by a velvet rope, there wasn’t much preventing me from trying to sack Peyton Manning if I wanted to. Or if I thought I could bring him down.

Wide-eyed, I found a spot among the line of press and spent the next hour-plus agog at the whirlwind of celebrities and their girlfriends and their agents and their publicists.