Unless you are a Vikings fan or Brett Favre’s wife, who cares that Favre signed with Minnesota?

It’s been over a decade since we have seen the younger, more agile Favre lifting the Lombardi Trophy above his head.

I get it. The man has grit. He has charisma. Guess what? He also has gray hair, a beat-up arm and pretty soon, an AARP card.

I understand he won three Most Valuable Player awards and holds numerous records, including the most consecutive starts by a quarterback in the NFL, but he was not even the greatest quarterback of his generation. Favre’s best years were during the previous Democratic administration, and that was 12 years ago.

The guy that hauls up a 3 with .4 seconds on the clock. The guy that smashes his opponent into the glass to preserve the 1-1 tie in overtime. The girl that makes a diving catch in left field with the bases loaded in a one-run game.

You are probably not that person.

You are where you dreamed you’d never be. Sitting next to a few other guys, maybe even wearing the number of someone who actually plays because jerseys only run up to 99 and your team has over 100 players. When people ask you why they’ve never seen you on the field or the court, you reply that you are on the bench. They smile at you and nod, although you can feel a slight change in how they regard you from when you had told them you were on the team.

I’ll say my farewells in a minute, but I have to vent first and no I’m not talking the Coors Light commercial type of way — even though that sounds like a tantalizing idea. What is up with these Ithaca bees? I just walked up college avenue, through the Ho Plaza to the library and I swear I had to swipe away at least ten bees from my face. I got people out here looking at me like I’m crazy because my arms are flailing all over the place wildly as I try and get them away from me. One, I never got stung before and I’m not cool with the idea of getting stung even once, it’s not in my life plan. Two, even IF I was to get stung, I’d be damned if it were by one of these steroid injected buzzing insects. Listen, back in middle school, I used to go on outdoor education trips.

This column has been hard to write.

I have been looking forward to having a goodbye column since before I even had a column. My friends are probably tired of hearing about my parting 5,000-word magnum opus that I’ve had in the works since freshman year.

But that’s just how I think.

I began looking forward to my high school reunion before I even graduated. My last year at summer camp, I based my actions on whether I thought they would create a lasting memory. In the words of John Dorian, I’m a “sensi.” I’m an emoter, if you will.

But that’s all been hard for me recently. I’m having trouble not being bitter.

I was going to start this column differently. I was going to start this column with a GO BIG RED! With a happy exclamation and gold stars all around. And then, predictably, just when I had readied the celebratory poppers and had the Krug Grande Cuvée on ice, (Which wasn’t cheap, by the way. I blew $350 on that bottle, and I highly doubt I’m going to be able to return it!) a certain Big Red sports team lost! Ouch. It took some time, but I feel I have now recovered sufficiently, with a little help from my friends Krug and Cuvée, of course and I will now attempt to transcribe from memory the column I was going to run before Saturday, aka “the Big Red Disappointment.”

I can’t imagine why anyone would get involved with sports journalism. Most aspiring journalists dream of crafting an investigative story to reveal some deep-seated corruption in government; most sports fans avoid writing altogether. Sports journalists apparently come from that dead zone of the Venn diagram between “aspiring journalists” and “sports fans.” It’s not always a rewarding job; athletes whine that they don’t get enough attention and non-athletes complain that they get too much — after all, why spend so much time dissecting the intricacies and storylines of sports, an industry that has been equated with religion as an “opiate for the masses,” at least according to a lecture by Prof. Issac Kramnick, government.

Dear Philadelphia Phillies,

Thank you for winning the World Series. I am supposed to be writing a “good-bye” sports column, but 1) I hate goodbyes and 2) I love you guys. Let it be known, however, that this is no ordinary fan mail, but a published “newsworthy” article that numerous people ((i.e. some of my friends, probably not even my family) will read. Don’t worry, though, this isn’t one of those crazy letters where I try to guilt you into sending me free, signed, memorabilia by regaling you with stories of my fanaticism. Or, maybe it is…

“Take me out to the ball game, take me out with the crowd.”

Most people do not have a problem following Jack Norworth’s famous first two lines, but it’s when they’re finally with the crowd, that the trouble ensues. They lack proper ballgame etiquette. It is precisely this lack of etiquette that has prompted this column.

So we have reached the end of March Madness also known as the end of my sports happiness. The sports nation has already listened to my “One Shining Moment.” The Cinderella stories of Cleveland State and Siena have come to an end. Michigan State's emotional stimulus package to the Detroit area has all but expired. UNC has been crowned National Champions yet again and Cornell Big Red basketball fans will have to wait another year for a possible first-round upset.

I’m sure my loyal fans have started to notice the gradual shortening of my lovely bi-weekly columns. And for my next trick, I will make this column disappear!

But today I have a message of hope to my loyal fans — I flatly refuse to allow my column be choked out. No, I will continue to write meandering, sometimes funny, always ridiculous streams of consciousness until Editor in Chief Emily Cohn ’10 (who is required to read my column, ha! Did someone say No. 1 fan?) pries the keyboard from my spastic, over-caffeinated fingers ... lagging ad sales be damned!

On that note, I did have something I wanted to write about today with my remaining 300 words. Thanks to everyone who is still reading at this point, by the way. Ten points.