My books lay scattered at the foot of the couch, my much-needed studying pushed aside for another time. A warm breeze floats in through the window, and the April afternoon is enticing.
On any other day I would be basking in the sun somewhere, playing tennis or engaging in some other outdoor activity. But it is Masters Sunday, and my studying and the outdoors will have to wait.
Tiger Woods, my personal favorite and in my opinion, the best golfer ever to lace up a pair of spikes, is methodically working his way around Augusta, yet again forcing every other player in the field to merely shake his head, knowing there is nothing that can be done to beat the great Woods.
I write this, my senior column, only at commercial breaks, for fear of missing any piece of the history that is unfolding. I watch intently as Tiger, doing nothing fancy, slowly builds his lead as the contenders waste away under the Georgia trees.
Vijay Singh and Ernie Els drop shots into the creek on the 13th, and then Singh plunks two more on the 15th, and their slim hopes for victory float away. Phil Mickelson does not surprise anyone, and is his usual self in the final round of a major, crawling around the course, often choking on his own saliva while standing over makeable putts.
But it matters little that the other mere mortal golfers make unsuccessful and sometimes feeble attempts at cutting Tiger's lead. As a sports fan since I could walk, and as an aspiring sportswriter, it is simply fascinating to watch one man's march into the record books, leaving everything and everyone in his tracks.
And this year, my appreciation of Tiger's triumph is greater than ever.
Over the past two semesters, my last at Duke, I've written close to 50 articles for The Chronicle's sports section. And each one has allowed me to gain a better understanding of sports. I've learned to look past the action, and instead admire the beauty that is human competition, no matter the situation, the environment or the stakes.
My time at the newspaper started on a whim--I responded to an ad seeking out new sportswriters--and has blossomed since. I started covering some soccer and football press conferences, before quickly moving on to cover one of the best basketball teams in the country, and more importantly, the best basketball team at Duke this year.
No, not the men's team and the absurd circus that is the lower section of Cameron, but instead the women's team, that behind little fan support, roared through the ACC without a loss, and then pushed forward to the program's second Final Four appearance. And all of this came with only one senior, eight total players and the confidence of few.
The first women's game I covered at Cameron was a non-conference contest against Elon. It was a Friday night affair, and no other Duke sports were taking place, either at the school or on television. But few bodies filled the stadium.
I had been to plenty of women's games in prior years, so I knew what to expect, but the stadium's emptiness was still quite a shock. Granted, Elon was not the most formidable of opponents, but the night before, I covered the men's game against Nike Elite, a preseason battle no less, and the stadium was shaking with excitement, completely jammed.
The next few months were an incredible journey for me as I followed the women's team through its unforgettable conference rampage. Duke never got caught up in the history, but instead stayed the course, as focused as ever.
I was never present at a loss, but instead got to watch a group of athletes who probably best sums up what a team is supposed to be, demolish the competition. I learned about the team's quirkiness, its strange but effective good-luck measures, and about a coach, in love with the game and with her team, going to the limits for success.
And then, too quickly, my tenure as a Duke basketball writer came to a close in Raleigh, as I watched the team cut down the nets and move on to the Final Four. As I had done during my first opportunity to cover the team, I sat in awe at the utter lack of student support.
The men's team had already been eliminated, and the chance was there to witness history, but the student section was a small, quiet group standing behind one basket. I guess the game, which turned out to be a back-and-forth battle, did not carry the same social value that brings even the non-basketball fans out of their rooms and into tents for weeks at a time to watch a men's game.
On one hand, I guess it was disappointing to see such little effort from the student body and from the University, which easily could have chartered buses or publicized more. But at the same time, I felt privileged knowing I was one of the few who got to witness the last win of what was a near-perfect season.
From covering the women's team, I not only learned about becoming a better sportswriter, which I think I have, but I learned first-hand how wonderful sports really are. The members of this year's team weren't playing for the support of the student body or to impress a television audience. They were playing for themselves, because they loved each other and the game of basketball, and that's really what it is all about.
I turn my attention back to the golf, and Tiger is making his final walk down the 18th fairway. When the day started, he had more victories than anyone in the field, more money and more fame, but he still came focused and motivated. It is a walk of conquest. And as Tiger's final putt drops, it is not about anything but a love for the sport.
It is a good time to be a sports fan and an even better time to be a sportswriter.
Shawn Nicholls is a Trinity senior and staff writer for The Chronicle.
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