Aaron Stewart

"Sometimes I just feel worthless ... and other times I feel damned awesome."

My buddy Ugo said this once freshman year, and he meant it sincerely. It was hilarious. And although that was basically four years ago (!), it is strange how accurately it characterizes my feelings these days.

A quick free association to start things off.

Springtime. Change and transition. Fast-break layups. Dunks, Florida, the NCAA Tournament. Sports. Madness. The internet. Life.

Ignoring the last couple items, it seems like a good time to tackle the first few.

I'm not going to lie-it feels great.

Or rather, it felt great. After a Pixbox showing last semester than can be described only as "abysmal," "embarrassing," or "self-esteem-lowering"-especially considering that my defeat came at the hands of a bunch of sports jesters whose combined vertical leap is 13 inches-capturing the coveted Pixbox crown this semester was thrilling.

"We worked hard. It was a team effort. We faced a lot of adversity. No one believed in us!"

You've heard it all before. The typical responses. The thoughtless cliches. In the world of sports and sports reporting, you could call it honesty-deficient interviewing.

This past weekend I watched a lot of live basketball. And not all of it by choice.

On Friday night, on the brink of finally playing some hoops in the "University" Gym-which I've learned over the years is just a euphemism for Civilian Gym, or what athletes call the "Civ Gym"-hordes of pick-up-playing hopefuls and I were unceremoniously booted off the court by the field hockey team.

This weekend Maria Sharapova and Serena Williams will be battling for glory, a glory of a wholly personal nature.

The end of the year is here.

One can see it all over the place: on the fully-lighted and newly-sodded College Walk (Alice in Wonderland anybody?), in the full capacity rooms at nearby Butler Zoo, underneath the abundance of winter jackets and tartan scarves, and in the bloodshot eyes of to-be finals takers.

Like many of our fall sports teams, the men's and women's cross country squads weren't picked to finish anywhere near the top of the Ivy League this season. But unlike most of those teams, they did.

Columbia charged to a second-place finish in both the men's and women's races this past weekend at the Heptagonal Championships, which basically is the equivalent of an Ivy League title race.

I was scrolling through the new-fangled Columbia athletics Web site the other day and noticed that the men's golf team is competing in a tournament this weekend. It's their last one of the season. Which got me thinking: Who knew this tournament was happening? Who out there even knows we have a golf team? And, more urgently perhaps, who are these guys?

Part investigative, part curious, I set out to discover what exactly our men's golf team is all about.

Well, club sports has finally made the news. The only problem is it's not good news.

The Columbia club hockey team has been suspended for the semester and put on two-year probation for the posting of their now-infamous recruitment fliers that read, in part, "Stop being a pussy.

Not even a sentence deep into my columnist career and I already have a confession to make, one that I suspect is shared by many of you former athletes.

I miss high school sports.

Anyone who's played knows the feeling. Think back to when you were coming off a screen and burying a jump shot, or lofting a pretty chip shot to a streaking teammate, or carving up a lacrosse defense with some nifty footwork-in front of stands packed with friends, teachers, your parents, and dolled-up sophomore girls.