The process of recruitment for post-secondary athletics has caused both elation and depression, and it will continue to bring out the Jeckylls and Hydes of my own personality. About five years ago, I decided to go to Stanford University and play football. It's a great academic and athletic school with a damn near perfect campus. Another perk of playing football at Stanford is you don't pay for anything. Nothing. Tuition, dorms, food, books, laundry money — the list goes on. It's all paid for, provided you can play the game. I started playing football in seventh grade, though didn't really start living the game until ninth grade.

With my dream of being part of the Cardinals, I began to look at life more seriously. I worked very hard on and off of the field. My freshman grades were fairly poor, relatively speaking, but as the years dragged on, my grades improved. I took the hardest classes available and actually thrived on a tight time schedule which forced me to get organized. By my junior year, my academic GPA rose from a 3.5 (as a freshman) to 4.7, with much dedication. And now, as my senior year approaches, I am desperately trying to prepare myself for the numerous academic challenges I am due to face next year.

Then there's "on the field." That is, my work concerned with sports. "On the field," need not be taken literally; it could mean in the weight room or on the track. During the summer prior to my freshman year, I worked out with the incoming frost in the morning and with the Varsity at night. Four hours daily, which usually included a full plate of running and lifting weights. I also had the opportunity to become acquainted with many of my future teammates. During the football season I was moved up to Junior Varsity and practiced with the Varsity football team. Every day was my own special piece of hell; I was an itty-bitty fourteen year old trying to defend myself against grown men. Our coach, who many people believed to be completely insane, managed to physically crush most of us by the end of a practice.

Throughout this ordeal, I learned many things and became stronger as a result of the devastating onslaught. During this time, I further refined my dream of becoming a Stanford man, while exalting the university to ethereal status. I continued to try and shape my flabby body and mind into something desirable to anyone (coaches, girls, etc.). I managed to play some Varsity my freshman year and started some as a sophomore, while we were on our way to a state championship.

Life went on as a I studied and worked to try and better my chances at a scholarship to Stanford. I played every offensive down my junior year and performed fairly well. And one day I came home and saw a letter sent down from Stanford Football HQ, addressed to little ol' me. Like all introductory football letters, it said I was a prospective student-athlete and I should fill out their questionnaire so they could "learn more about me."

More letters eventually followed, and then I received my most prized possession up to that point. The former offensive line coach from Stanford, Pat Morris, (now with the San Francisco 49ers) sent me a handwritten note. The note was simple, but enough to send my hopes sky-high. I promptly signed up for their lineman's camp this summer to showcase my skills and waited for further contact. I learned that one of their new offensive line coaches would be visiting my school in May. Then I heard that the head coach, Tyrone Willingham, would be joining him. I didn't know what to do with myself! The head coach visits six prospects annually, and I was one of them.

Oh, the ecstasy! The two Stanford coaches met with my teachers and coaches, and initial reports were very good. Realizing I had to attend their camp in the summer, I stepped up my workouts. In early summer, I flew out for their Junior Day. Most schools have these "Junior Days," which are informal gatherings of coaches and prospects, so everyone can get to know one another. This was my first opportunity to see my competition. The linemen there looked big, but not too big — strong, but not too strong. Frankly, a couple of these linemen looked pretty brain-dead. However, just the notion of other kids in competition for a few coveted spots was enough to give me some serious jitters. This was the beginning of the end of my glorious Stanford. I went to camp and jumped through their hoops. I was tremendously nervous and managed to look inferior on numerous occasions. However, when the smoke cleared the coaches were supposedly pleased with my performance and I am still considered a top prospect.

The campus was beautiful and I liked the coaches, but something was lacking. I was not in my own personal heaven any longer. Stanford had acquired a harsh reality; the silvery utopia revealed some tarnish. Nothing was really wrong with my experience, I just began to understand that nothing is perfect, ever. The dream I had fostered for many years still lives, but now other schools permeate my thoughts. Yale? Maybe— but I'll have to pay. University of North Carolina - Chapel Hill? Quite possibly. Duke? Again, a definite possibility. Should I let go?

Dreams loose their lustre when they become possibilities. No, I won't let go. I'll never be able to let go. Whether or not I go to Stanford will soon be seen. All I know is my application is due soon, and my senior football season is fast approaching. I don't have time for dreams. It's time for realities; the chips will fall where they may, and let's play ball.

Quotes of random and questionable relevance!!!

"My dear sir, poverty is no vice, that is the truth. I know that drunkenness is also no virtue, and that is even more so. But destitution, my dear sir, destitution is a vice, sir. In poverty you may still preserve the nobility of your inborn feelings but in destitution no one ever does."

— Marmeladov to Raskolnikov in Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment
Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky

"Goin' back to Cali, strictly for weather, women, and the weed."

— Chris Wallace, a.k.a. Notorious B.I.G.

"Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?"

— Tennyson, "The Higher Pantheism