Moe Money, Moe Problems

Yesterday, as I passed by the mounds of team schedule cards on the checker's desk in the Murr Center, I realized something.

I play a cardless sport.

The Ides of March seems to bring an influx of these ID-sized scheduling cards--the new editions for the spring sports.


It is as seasonal as the smell of fresh-cut grass, the sound of the cleats pattering on Dillon's linoleum floor.

Being cardless, I am feeling a little left out.

I play golf, a sport that many under-grads and the gods of the schedule card do not know exist at Harvard.

During the early spring and fall, I disappear. My roommates become orphans as I escape to afternoon practices and weekend-long tournaments in far-off places. As spring break nears, I say a temporary farewell to the Harvard social life.

I am one of the many Harvard athletes who play a sport that does not draw throngs of spectators. In fact, I have had only a small following of loyal fans--I call them Mom and Dad.

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