I like to think I accomplished the goal. Unlike my Australian blog, this one had a beginning, middle, and definite conclusion.

I like to think that. I truly do. But I know it ain’t correct. Because I’ve got the itch, the unnerving buzzing that comes when I haven’t sat in my chair, pounded out a couple hundred words, and hashed the details of an evening of debauchery (or, more likely, reading Batman comics). College living certainly precludes a semblance of free time — jetting from soccer practice to a neighbor’s cookie-fest to working on the fixin’s at the Thresher to, I suppose, schoolwork. I’d say that, in four years, I’d learned to manage my time better, learned to shift my blocks so that I can take a nap, or watch some Judge Judy, or Swiffer the bathroom from a roommate’s vomit-fest. But it’s senior year, man.

Free time just won’t jive.

As such, I won’t — and probably can’t — commit to a blog in which the details of a weekend’s romp are expounded. Not merely from a time-commitment standpoint, either, but also from personal privacy reasons. (Really — who wants to hear about a certain somebody rattling a frying pan outside the door I’ve dead-bolted, even though it was the other Chris’s birthday? And did I just give away that guy’s identity?) Life, especially this final year of undergraduate schooling, is for living. Not reminiscing about. Not yet.

As such, I think I am going to point you guys in a different direction. Soon, I’ll be opening up shop on a different endeavor: A sports blog. A sports-only blog. Or, something like it. Maybe I’ll make some political commentary, but with its inherent divisiveness, let’s don’t get wrapped up in it. Maybe I’ll make some type of Portland-is-awesome post, as I’m wont to do, just so I don’t explode with pride.

But I want to write about sports. I want to write on this subject, and I want to get an outlet where I can do just that. I want something like Joe Posnanski, who has (rightfully) earned an intense, well-versed following. I hope I don’t come off as selfish, in some sense — I merely have that goal.

I want to write about Pete Rose’s dubious standing on the Hall of Fame debate. I want to discuss, in length, my thoughts on Michael Vick, vis-a-vis Dante Stallworth, Paul Tagliabue, and “the chain of being.” I want to why Yao’s return in the 2009-10 season could be, potentially, the worst move of his career.

I also want to discuss Rice athletics, but that may be coming in a different venue. (Close your eyes and think Thresher sports blog. Then, open your eyes in like two weeks, when it’s finally online and spittin’ fire.)

Now, this doesn’t mean it’s the end of RWDY. I just want to make it clear that the pictures of arts fairs, park benches, and New York scenery is hereby culled. (Not that the latter wasn’t already.) So here’s to a new direction, and a new, revamped RWDY.

So, let’s let the photos do the talking.

Here’s a culling of the best from the last couple weeks, followed by a rounded-out slideshow. Apologies for not putting these up earlier — I’m but a man, and thus full of sloth. Or maybe it’s just because I’ve been too busy living the life of dream-stuff that I couldn’t monkey my way through these photos. Or maybe I’m just averse to the idea of selection — I take the photos in bulk, yet can’t come to grips with the fact that I’ll eventually have to choose which ones to put up.

If only I didn’t have Facebook to distract me so much, my life would be that much simpler.

One last one — a baseball game that snuck out of the gallery photos:

Yes, the Mets won, the rarest event I've seen since, well, damn, that's really a sight you don't see very often. Oh! I've got one -- a sight rarer than Casey failing to come up with a scintillating metaphor. Right. Good. Glad we got that out of the way.

And here’s my route — I’m a bipedal man, damnit, and I’m going to show it — through the blaze:

Ten miles down the drain

Reminds me of a Death Cab song I once heard: “If I could span the length of the isle of Manhattan … then my legs would creak, my skin would burn, and man, what I wouldn’t give for a Segway.”

Once again, I’m in the throes of an experience you can only find in New York. I’m Tobey McGuire staring out at the Queens trains flitting past his window. I’m the wayward college student scraping by, hoping for my break, hoping to make it in a city of eight million dreamers and believers.

Only, I’m not. Because I’m no longer dreaming of what I want. I just spent eight weeks living it.

When I first picked up Sports Illustrated, eight years, I was smitten. It wasn’t my first true love – the Mariners held that claim – but it gave me another, more realistic (and less trite, tried-and-true) goal of staying as close to baseball as I wanted, needed.

I didn’t have a favorite writer. I didn’t have a favorite feature. It wasn’t the sum of the parts that added up to the whole – it was the whole that spun its parts into this umbrella of sports perfection. Like I said, I was smitten, and I had wanted to be around that for as long as possible.

It was like a drug. Every time I thought I was out, I relapsed, like Josh Hamilton and his booze, or Mark Twain and his mustache grease, or GI Joe and undiluted shittiness. Every time I thought it was over – whether because of schoolwork, newspaper work, or adolescent trivialities (and girls – oh, those girls) – I got wrapped right back in. It was a tornado, and this summer, I ran right into its eye.

For years, I would have given an arm and a leg to work for this magazine. Dan Shanoff recently wondered whether or not 20-year-old sports writers consider Sports Illustrated their “father’s (or grandfather’s) magazine.” I may be out of the mainstream, enraptured in Rice’s bubble and out of the glare of big-city journalism programs, but Shanoff can’t be right. He simply can’t. There are too many I know, too many I’ve talked with, too many impressed with SI’s weight — among my generation — who still see the magazine as the coup de grace of sports journalism. Perhaps Joe Posnanski, SI’s newest senior writer, wrote it best: “This is Broadway. This is Paris under a setting sun.”

And it doesn’t matter what age you are – it still is. I don’t want to be Rick Reilly of 2009. I don’t want to be Jim Rome, or Bill Simmons, or Michael Wilbon and write only on the side. I don’t want that TV camera shoved down my throat while my eyes redden from the powdered makeup. That’s not the route I choose.

I write. And I want to be the best writer I can, and I want to be true to the written word. And that’s what Sports Illustrated is – the truest written word out there.

When I first read the email of my hiring, sitting in the din of Shakespeare’s works while I dallied on my computer, it felt like a supernova burst in my gut, pushing up the corners of my mouth that I couldn’t have stopped had I wanted. I was in. I was there. I had made it.

Eight weeks ago, I landed in New York City, a city as big as the aspirations of those tunneling on the subway and dancing in Rockefeller Center. Eight weeks later, I still can’t turn down my smile. The arm and the leg I would have given up are not enough – I would readily become a paraplegic for another, perhaps more permanent, shot at working under the Sports Illustrated name. I understand the realities of the job market, and the journalism industry as a whole, so there is no time to waste. If I want to be let back in, I’m going to have to bust down the double-doors at the HR department and bleat and yell and demand until I’m let back in. Not literally, of course, but in the matter of writing my ass off, reporting like none other, expanding the Thresher into the world-class newspaper it has potential to be. I can’t short-change myself; nor can I short-change those I work with.

Eminem, the most eloquent of 21^st-century scribes, once rapped, “You only get one shot. … This opportunity comes once in a lifetime.” Concisely put, Mr. Mathers. And true. Too true. I was given an opportunity this summer. And I won’t know for nine months, or a year, or five years, if I capitalized in every area where I should have.

I have regrets: Not spending enough time getting to know the higher-ups, laughing too loudly when a fellow intern would send me an inappropriate email response, not getting my suit dry-cleaned every Monday afternoon. Those were things that, had my giddiness not overtaken me, I could have quelled.

But that was the workplace. I couldn’t help but laugh – I couldn’t help but be happy. I couldn’t help but admire everyone I met, everyone I talked with, everyone who promised me good things in life and made earnest promises of helping me succeed, no matter their rank.

I want to work there again. I want to be at Sports Illustrated for years, not just weeks. I want to write like them, work like them, change the world like them.

But if not, at least I have eight weeks of memories to stem the tide of age. Because this summer, unlike any other, has opened my eyes, and made me feel like the future that I always wanted could be had. For a price, a price of work and attitude, a price of instinct and depth. But it can be had.

That being said, if I only end up in New York for the rest of my life, or for the years of my professional life, I wouldn’t turn into Scrooge. Hell, I wouldn’t even turn into your typical “New York loneliness” kind of guy. I’d be quite content, quite content, if I found myself in New York in a years’ time. Granted, my wallet may carry different opinions – hello, $13 movies! – but it would be sacrilege if I said I was done with this city.

Still, how much I love a second go-round would be dependent on the quality of people I live with. For as blessed as I was with this internship, my summer’s holistic enjoyment was rounded out by a spectacular group of roommates, all with shared and varied interests, all with an ease of personality. Without them Columbia would have been a cold and lonely place. Without them, the sheen of the summer would have worn off long ago, dulled by the, well, dullness.

For that, I thank them, and miss them, and can’t wait to see them again. The same can be said of my coworkers, of whom I carry nothing but affection and admiration for. I know I’ll see them again, along with the rest of the country. I can’t wait for their talents to be shared.

Ok, done with my weepy effusiveness for the day. Time to get back to the New York life. A couple days left – I’ll let you know how it goes.

Cuz I hate to break it to you, mi amigo, ain’t none ’round these parts. You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, here. Nothin’ doin’. You seen the itinerary for the past week? You think I’ve got any of what you’re lookin’ for after what the slate’s held over the last ten days?

Man, check this:

– Citi Field. Twelve rows up, hot enough to make Todd Helton’s beard glisten as the New York Mets thumped the Colorado Rockies. (Beaut of a stadium, id’n-it? Retro-nostalgia, that there, not that whitewash, Stormtrooper look the Yanks went for over dere.)

– Avenue Q. Hell of a play. Puppets dere, yakkin’ about “English degrees” this and “sex’n'shit” that. Not for the faint of heart. Not for the faint of wallet. But certainly for the faint of, uh, ya know, not laughin’, and what-not. NEXT.

– Six Flags. Ne’er been on one o’ dem roller coastas. Never had the courage. Never had enough Dramamine. Never had the forcefulness of a threesome of dedicated interns, who put me in. Put me in, and strapped me down, and up, and up, and up we went. And den, at the top, without track in sight, at the front of dat car, we dropped. There’s a tear that came out of my eye, but not from terror — naw, man, it was from the air squeezin’ the eyeballs into the back of my head, lettin’ a few drops come out as I had the time of dis here life. Marvelous invention, dat roller coasta. Not to mention the Dark Knight- and Batman-themed roller coastas we went on. Tears o’ joy for dose. God is good. God is great. And de Batman is the greatest, ya know?

– The Roots. Nah, I hate callin’ dem the band that opens for Jimmy Prickish Fallon, but there’s those who still don’know about the massive hip-hop they producin’. Music unlike anythin’ else. Two-and-a-half-hour long jam session. Harminocas, horns, Def Jam, bongos, Senegalese rappers all guestin’. ?uestlove doin’ his thing. Legs’s tired, sure, but by the time we got back a’ 5 in the morning, we’d also seen: Homeless dude talk t’us for twenty ’bout how he’s'a screenplay writer, wildlife researcher, ‘n’ why baseball needs more balls (lit-rally); a gweedo, well, y’already read ’bout him; and damn, y’already read ’bout the snoring drunk-ass. Leave dat story ‘lone, I guess.

– Meatpacking District. Little Italy. Chinatown. Greenwich. FINALLY. ‘Xplored ‘em. Seen ‘em. Walked ‘em. Ate in ‘em. Drank in ‘em. Bathed in ‘em. (Naw, not lit-rally, man — get your figurative mind together!)

– Justin Young — the one, the only, the acerbic, the hilarious — out here in flesh, arrivin’ at midnight on a Friday, leavin’ on a Wednesday afternoon, not restin’ more’n'couple hours in that time. Up at day, out at night. Like an Asher Roth song, only less douche-y. City treated him well, I think.

– In the Heights. Nah, I had West Side Story as much’s the red-blooded American nex’to me, s’I didn’t have much hope for this play. But its rap soliloquys and salsa shuffles, man, they got me. Got me good. Got me dancin’ in the seat that only the Apollo knew how to do. Go see it, man, go see it now. (But yo, brush up on your espanol first,  man, or some of it might be a bit sky-high above your head.)

– Bowlin’. (Bowlin’, y’ask? Yeah, Bowlin’.) Did it, rocked those day-glo pins. Kicked roommate ass (‘cept for a first game I don’ wanna get into). Knocked 147 while bumpin’ to Rihanna. Good situation.

– Coworkers, roommates, ‘n’ Brian Lee — can’t say ‘nough ’bout ‘em. Can’t begin to describe how awesome they’ve made the summer, how they’ve turned a dream job into a dream summer. Sure, had’s up’n'downs, like all, but man. Felt like’n eight-week paid vacation.

Look at me now, buddy. ‘S 3 in the mornin’, I got a bed with no sheets, tumbling in the laundry right now. Had no free time. But, man, I guess I got some for you. So here you go — take care’f it, ‘s’only one I’m gonna give you. Time to rest up for a final day tomorrow, man. Goin’ to be good. Goin’ to be sad. Goin’ to be great.

B) Once on the subway — which couldn’t come soon enough — we waited for the doors to close when, to our left, a stream of water, followed by a bottle, smacked a wife-beater’d, $3,000-wristwatch’d “gweedo.” This flex-more-than-he-should guy proceeded to rant about the differences between races, why his buddy didn’t stand up for him, and, later, about how he had no idea which direction the train was going. (Don’t worry, we helped him out.)

C) As we walked up to our dorm’s security entrance, Justin pointed out a shape on the ground — a human shape. A dude was lying on the ground, one leg bent, on the cold cement and not moving. I pushed him once, twice before his snoring made it clear he was still alive, but it took five or six proddings for him to finally open his eyes. Sitting up slowly, groggily, blurrily, he stood … and proceeded to think gravity was pulling him backward. We caught him, fortunately, and made sure to escort him past the security entrance.

New York, I love you, but you certainly have your moments.

(Mind you, this entire night was sober for both me and Justin.)

My first Foster exposure was a piece on the religiosity of Roger Federer. Lauded as the most complete, most robust, and most staggering piece of modern sportswriting, I threw myself into it. (Conclusion? Long.)

Then I found this piece today. And now I know that modern sportswriting will never touch what the ghosts of the past (well, 1986) could accomplish with a typewriter and an angry old man.

Read them both. Digest them both. Then hit me up for a convo, ya dig.

According to Google, the answer is yes

So, in terms of finance, culture, and sports, all we can find is a definitive “maybe.” Too much down-the-line, too wishy-washy to be confident one way or another. So why am I so definitively in the “yes” camp? (Why am I such a “Yes Man?”)

Because it is the center from which all things emanate, the point from which the spokes of travel emerge. Or something like that. What I’m trying to say is that all roads (and airways, and railways, and ferry-ways …) lead to New York, which means that the city is surpassed by only Facebook in terms of reconnecting friends, new and old. Of course, sometimes finances get in the way (and an economy that’s lower than Lil Jon’s ho’s), and a pair of friends are forced to stay at home, biding their time until they can make it back.

Fortunately, there are those out there with flexible, well-paying jobs, who have both the time and the inclination to visit yours truly. In just eight weeks, I’ve had a Mom and brother laugh with me at raunchy puppets and dance in our seats at the Apollo; had a pair of high school friends visit and both help me shop (and give me the confidence to buy a fedora!) and remember why Rice was the right selection; had a high school friend (alongside Brian Lee, who was already here) spend a weekend of downtown exploration (and give me the second opinion that yes, a fedora should be bought!) and bar-hopping; and, hell, had a professor drop by to see how my job was going.

Although I’m 3,000 miles from home, I feel right at home.

I’m not going to raise a family here, not going to call this place my “home,” not going to spend any inordinate amount of time here. But I can definitely see this place turning into an in-between for a couple years.

So long as the Yankees don’t keep winning, that is. If that happens, I’m outta here quicker than Big Papi from the Hall of Fame.

BTW, I’ve always had a soft spot for Patsy Cline (which is about as far as anyone with my upbringing can feel about 1960′s country-pop), but this remix puts her fully into my “I hope I can hear her perform in heaven” category:

It’s actually a relatively warbled way that I found the aforementioned link. I found Bill James’s essay on steroids — his first dissertation on the matter — at the end of last week. I read it, disagreed (vehemently), and put pen to paper, or so the saying goes. I soon had 1,600 semi-manageable words in hand, and, suddenly, hoped SI.com would take it. (Unversed in the art of the pitch, I soon realized that this is not exactly the way to do it. The better way is  to not write it out beforehand. Although a rough draft might help convince your editor that there is meat on the calf.)

They didn’t take it, for obvious reasons (Bill James is a semi-regular columnist for the website), so I posted it on BlogCritics.org, where it was picked up by Baseball Think Factory … where the baseball editor read it. And told me about it.

What a tangled web the internet weaves.

(The creepiest thing about the whole linkage is the fact that someone linked to my photo. I’m a little weirded out right now. Thanks god my Facebook is private.)

Now, back to my story! Wait, nope, actually to bed. Story tomorrow!