I woke up this morning and took a look in the mirror. The guy I saw in there is having another birthday this Friday. He’s older than I am, though.
He’s been creeping up more frequently lately. I see him wherever I go. He pops out of store windows and is on the back of cereal spoons. It’s not that I don’t like him; he’s just a little early, that’s all.
It’s like the old saying goes: He keeps getting older while I stay the same age. He’s 24 and finally graduating. Me? I’m still 19, with a full head of hair. To be honest, he cramps my style.
He tells me about the times he walked through campus before Reser was raised, before Goss was more than a few hundred dedicated fans, before Gill was empty. Me? I still can’t figure out where Milam Hall is. He can’t walk through the quad without someone saying hi. I have my iPod on.
That guy in the mirror has settled down with a woman he loves with all his heart. I’m busy flirting with the girl at Bing’s. He’s making plans. I’m making excuses.
He knows the big man at Woodstocks, calls Coach Liskevych by his first name, waves at the entire staff at Ruby Tuesday and eats lunch at Slices. I don’t even remember my START leader’s name. He’s hunting for jobs. I’m hunting for a home-cooked meal.
He tells me about athletes like Derek Anderson, Steven Jackson, Liz Money, Allison Lawrence, Ebony Young, J.S. Nash, Matt Ellis, Chrissy Lamun, Brianne McGowan, Cole Gillespie and Jacoby Ellsbury. I discount him as an old-timer. Look at Sean Canfield or Omari Johnson, I say. Ryan Ortiz is the man.
He says, “women’s sports.” I say, “waste of time.”
He has been to two national championships. I assume he means baseball.
The guy in the mirror remembers watching Mike Hass’ first reception and final touchdown. He also remembers Hass as the first receiver in Oregon State and Pac-10 history to have three consecutive 1,000-yard seasons, only the 10th player in NCAA history to do so. I like James Rodgers. He says, “Fred Biletnikoff.” I ask who that is.
He’s going to miss Alexis Serna next year. I’m going to miss Biology 213 next week.
He looks at the Beavers as underrated. I know the Beavers as a national power. At every football game I boo the referees, at every basketball game I taunt the opposition, and in Goss I holler “Shake yourself blue!” at every opportunity. He’s just enjoying his last few games, listening to Mike Parker. I think he means that guy Parker Stadium was named after. He says, “Might as well be.”
That guy in the mirror has grown conservative in his time on campus. Won’t even write a nasty column. I’m busy trying to think of the next “Frosty the Turnover Man” story.
He listens. I speak. He likes a good story. I like the dirt.
He has a closet full of Oregon State apparel that he wears specifically in Eugene. I have an orange visor.
He has shot the breeze with Brandon Hughes, interviewed Jay John a handful of times and shared a meal with Tasha Smith. I’ve heard those names before. He’s caught a field goal, dove through a crowd at a deflected basketball and grabbed a foul ball in a barren student section. I don’t even bring a glove to Goss.
In sports, that guy looking at me in the mirror can’t run as fast. I can finish three miles in under 15 minutes. He’s lucky to finish three miles under 20. Can’t even finish a fartlek.
He has an outside shot in Dixon. I play inside. He passes the rock, looking for the right shot. I hurl up a dream and don’t play defense. He’s a possession wide receiver and plays the sidelines. I run the fly and look for contact. He can sink a putt from 16 feet. I sink the shot using my putter like a pool stick. He shoots a 43. I tell people I can shoot a 40. He hasn’t been able to hit a fastball in five years. I quit baseball because I was tired of waiting.
He is involved with multiple groups on campus. I surf YouTube every afternoon and complain that The Daily Barometer sucks.
He knows he’s not the best, or close to it. I know I’m the best, and I’m always right.
He thinks he can’t write. I heard about a co-rec softball team named “The Nick Lilja Fan Club.”
I hope he has a good life. There is a lot behind him, but more in front of him. He says the same to me, followed by a reminder to be careful.
After five years on this campus, he says he’s ready to move on, start a real life. Me? I’ll just hang around and wait for him to show up again. I know it won’t be long – he seems to surprise me about this time every year.
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