A Goodbye Worth the Writing

Either write things worth reading,

or do things worth the writing.

--Benjamin Franklin

Not bad, as mottos go. I spotted it in a museum in Arlington and used it as my high school yearbook quote, thinking that it captured rather well my ambition to be a writer, but one who actually—I couldn’t be very specific on this point—does stuff, accomplishes stuff. Before long I wished I’d opted for the line about high-school girls from Dazed and Confused, or at least made fun of the hordes who quoted “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”, but damn it, here I am again, reminiscing on four years past and a limitless future ahead, and it’s the only quotation I can think about.

Well, that, and something Olympia Dukakis says a few times in Moonstruck. She wants to know why her husband chases women, and hits on this: “Because they fear death.” I might only be 22, but I think that explains more than adultery.

It turns out that Ben Franklin had the same idea—last month I discovered that my yearbook quote was incomplete; there were two preceding lines in the May 1738 Poor Richard’s Almanac.

If you would not be forgotten,

as soon as you are dead and rotten

either write things worth reading,

or do things worth the writing.

That opener has special significance now, on the eve of graduation. I’m ready to move on, but I don’t want to leave Columbia; I’m going to miss all the drinking with friends, the permanent three-day weekends, my roommate. But, dorky as it sounds, I don’t want to leave Spectator most of all. I’ve always been able to cram nouns and verbs together; it’s just a gene I got from Mom. But it was in this dingy newsroom, with incomparable collaborators, that I actually did something that Ben would deem “worth the writing”—if you’re new here, ask around—and I just don’t know when that’s ever going to happen again.

I got a certain question again and again over the years—at certain times more than others. As I turned into the newsroom instead of the Heights on a Thursday night; as I wheeled my bike out of the Wien elevator at 6 a.m., the start of their day, the end of mine. I’d get it when a professor handed back a “see me” quiz, and when I missed hockey games and downtown excursions and so many other things that make up the meat of an awesome Columbia career. People would ask with incredulity: “Why are you working for the Spec?”

I never understood how these people didn’t work for Spec, or another undergraduate time sink. This is a wonderful school. But there’s a lot to hate. Columbia is still doughy, reinventing itself after 251 years, while its Ivy siblings motor ahead. I have such venom for certain deans whose job it is to make this place liveable, yet do so little (Colombo and Quigley, I’m thinking of you); I don’t think I can put into words the admiration I have for the kids who toil in their absence. They’re behind the Varsity Show, and events like Thursday’s barbecue on South Lawn.

And they’re at Spectator. I can’t name them all here, but a few—James, Telis, Josh, Megan, Theo—have been part of what I (immodestly and prematurely) consider one of the most significant periods in the paper’s 129-year history.

Having to turn down story pitches from journalism school students (Spec is all-undergrad) became a pleasant nuisance. And I enjoyed this note from a former managing editor at a certain enormous newspaper, who asked if he could talk to internship candidates in our newsroom: “I came to the J-School for interviews last year, and realized then that [our paper] has been making a mistake for years by not doing more to cultivate the Spectator. The J-School applicants have been, frankly, very disappointing, and I suspect you guys are better journalists than most of them are.”

Nobody asks why I work at Spectator anymore. And the new class—Jake, Anand, Jimmy, Steve, and countless more—understands why.

Jesus fucking crying-as-I-write-this Christ. I wouldn’t have done it any other way. Firing grown-ups makes you one yourself, but breaking big news makes you feel like a kid.

• • •

Phew! Now that I’ve Heimliched up that little blort of sentimentalism, I can move on to less grave topics. I was in the newsroom many a night, but not all of them—and God knows I worked double-time at making them count. From the blood-soaked Siegfried and Roy costume to the Schapiro Skylounge to the party bus; from the CC grade based on salad to the Grammercy Park fire to panic attacks; from rooftop boxing to our hockey coach’s dime bags to the Schiavo/Cochran funeral party, and all the people who were there along the way, these four years have been a shitshow.

My roommate, Nick “Indian Poker” Rosenthal, deserves special mention for putting up with me, and for being an original. I’ll try to name my children after the artists who make the Milano No. 10, the Spicy Special, and the Taqueria burrito. And I need to thank Mom, who winced through my binge-drinking hyperbole, and Dad, for enduring a few bobsummers.com jokes. I’m sorry to those who got the worst of it from me, but to those who were along for the ride—my God, we won’t be forgotten.

Spectator Sports would like to take this opportunity to express its sincere gratitude and thanks to our former Sports Editor and Editor-in-Chief Nick Summers. Two years ago, Nick, a news writer with zero sports bylines at the time, was handed the task of resurrecting the Sports section, and thanks to his steadfast dedication and leadership, the section has been utterly transformed. It isn’t an overstatement to say that Nick Summers saved Spectator Sports, and we are enormously grateful for his hard work,vision, and, most importantly, friendship. We wish him the best of luck.

Thank you, Nick.