The Ladies' Dan: A Labor of Love Lost

Over the past four years, when I’ve told friends, family and casual acquaintances that I am a sportswriter for the Crimson, the reaction has been all too predictable.

“So, you want to go into journalism when you graduate?”

“Are you planning on writing sports after college?”

“Weren’t you going to be a lawyer and not a writer?”

These questions aren’t all that unreasonable. After all, as a general rule, people explore many different experiences in college and often commit the most time to activities that will, in some way, reflect their future careers. The politicos of tomorrow gravitate towards the Institute of Politics and Harvard Model Congress; future doctors join the Pre-med and Hippocratic Societies; and burgeoning writers first seriously ply their trade on the pages of The Crimson, the Advocate, or, Heaven forbid, the Lampoon.

So, for someone crazy enough to write over 120 sports articles and spend countless hours travelling across the Northeast to cover Harvard athletics, it would seem a likely guess that such a labor of love would continue outside of Harvard’s ivy-covered gates.

But, realistically speaking, this is the end of the sportswriting line for yours truly. In the fall, I’m enrolling in law school and from there on out the prospects of professional journalism seem far-fetched at best. This is likely my last newspaper article of any shape or style and, as you can probably imagine, my feelings are terribly mixed.

On the one hand, though I feel happy with my time at The Crimson, I’m very glad to leave behind the journalistic grind. I cannot possibly convey in words the violent frustration one feels when a computer crashes and deletes a nearly-finished article an hour before deadline. I can’t express in newsprint how horrible it is to be awake at four in the morning editing what will be that morning’s content, all the while worrying about the history paper that awaits unfinished on the laptop back home. Not to mention all those weekends that were spent travelling to cover sporting events that could have been better spent drinking, hanging out with friends and watching sporting events—on TV, that is.

In these respects, I’m quite content to be moving on to hopefully greener pastures. But for all the negative aspects of being a Crimson sportswriter (the deadlines, the hours, athlete egos, co-worker egos, etc.), I can’t help but feel deeply saddened by the prospect of leaving it all behind. As profoundly corny as it may sound, there is just something inexplicably magical about what we do at 14 Plympton, and in the Sports Cube in particular. Please bear with me, for the last time in my brief journalistic “career,” and allow me to feebly attempt some tribute to what I’ll miss most about this wonderful experience.

I will miss the writing aspect of this job a great deal. Unless you’ve tried it yourself and have been immersed perhaps a little further than expected, the thrill of newspaper writing is hard to describe. Aside from the ephemeral pride that comes with seeing one’s name in print (hopefully above a worthwhile story), there is the formidable challenge of forging interesting prose out of occasionally uninteresting material. To be sure, there are those rare exceptions when stories are so compelling that they’ll write themselves, but for the most part sportswriting is a study in literary salesmanship.

It may seem like a silly assertion to the uninitiated, but if done correctly sportswriting is every bit as much of an art as other creative pursuits, literary or otherwise. Faithful readers of the paper will note that The Crimson has been blessed with one of its best generations of sportswriters ever. The painstakingly insightful prose wrought by Brian Fallon evokes the deliberately beautiful brush strokes of Botticelli. The subtle verve and elegant execution of a Martin Bell story satisfies the learned reader as much as the nuances of Nabokov. Dave De Remer’s mathematical-like precision and dedication to perfection in writing is reminiscent of the intricately insane, yet precise rhythms of Stravinsky. A Rahul Rohatgi column exudes the playful and entertaining bravado of Figaro’s boastful aria in Rossini’s “The Barber of Seville.”

When I read these guys, I can see past the immediate context of their stories and appreciate their unique styles. Writing so often for The Crimson (in addition to editing countless stories) has helped me refine my own writing voice and cast a style which, though admittedly a tad too pompous and over-the-top (I have a propensity for big words, sadly), hopefully entertains and educates nonetheless. Looking back on my four years, I can safely say that The Crimson and not Expository Writing or any other academic class has been my greatest source of education in the art of writing. And for that, at the very least, I am immensely grateful.

I am also grateful for my aforementioned colleagues, without whom this whole ride would have been unthinkable. I will miss them all dearly, and, though we certainly had our moments of disagreement and discord, I can’t help but remember them for times of hilarity and happiness we shared. They understand what I do now—that being a sportswriter is largely a labor of love, born first of being a fan and followed by a dedication to the craft. Each of us in the graduating class gave it our all in our own unique ways and, though I would certainly hope that at least one of us continues with sportswriting, I know that this week will likely mean the loss of our love’s labor. My only hope is that it was as enjoyable for those of you who read us as it was for those of us who wrote for you.

And lastly, I will miss the sports themselves. All my life, I have always been inexplicably drawn to athletics and the pleasurable purity of competition on the field or court or ice. I won’t wax poetic about the beauty of sport, but I will say that its allure is what got me writing for Crimson Sports in the first place. It was, if nothing else, a fan’s way of getting more involved and probing a world with which few are truly intimate. No matter what I end up doing in life, I’m confident that sports will somehow factor into it.

And maybe—just maybe—this swan song is a tad premature. Although law school certainly beckons in a few short months, maybe I need not part with my fascination with sports just yet. I was pleased when the Dean of Admissions wrote on my letter that I may want to consider taking some “Sports and the Law” courses. I guess my dedication to, and love of, athletics was apparent in the application. I think I may just take him up on that offer.

But, even if nothing more comes out of that offer than just an entertaining class, I can “retire” a happy and fulfilled man. For four years, I was a sportswriter for The Crimson. And no, that doesn’t mean that I need to be a professional journalist to justify all the time I spent in college pursuing that passion. It means that, in many ways, I’ve already been a professional journalist and worked with many others who also share in this dedication and love. And, although we may be parting ways forever with our love’s labor, the memories of this great experience guarantee that it will never be fully lost.

—Staff writer Daniel E. Fernandez can be reached at daniel.fernandez@post.harvard.edu.