“You’d better take one last good look….”

As I sit here in the top row of McGuirk Alumni Stadium I have a perfect view of the best university in America.

It’s 10:14 on an unusually brisk May evening and I’m writing this via the light of my cell phone, which turns off every five seconds, leaving me in a moment of complete darkness.

To my left are the twinkling lights of Southwest and the pulsating energy of my alma mater, to the right is the road leading away from campus … the road leading home.

Aside from the cars pulling in and out of Yellow Lot, I am the only semblance of life here. Yet, as the sounds of engines and far off music reverberate off the walls of this U-shaped stadium, it’s increasingly imminent that I am far from alone.

I have thought about this column since I was a sophomore and always wondered how I would write it. Yet, four years after packing my things, leaving Florida and heading north, it appears that it has already been written for me.

There are no cheers or youthful banter as I exit the north entrance of my football stadium. I leave with only the sound of my footsteps, grinding through the loose pebbles underneath me.

Just another Minuteman saying goodbye.

I made it through the parking lots that separate McGuirk from Southwest, yet with each step I wanted to stop and write. I knew I couldn’t though; writing everything that came to mind about this school would fill a novel that only a select few would want to read.

Now I’m sitting on the big pyramid in Southwest staring blankly at Washington Tower, my home for my first two years. Memories are shooting through my head so fast that I stop and try to grab one, but it’s gone before my pen can touch the paper.

Here are these giant stacks of lives, running parallel, shoulder-to-shoulder. Once in a while they collide with each other for an instant and if they are compatible they stick, if not, they simply continue on their respective journeys.

This is where I learned as a freshman and taught as a sophomore. It’s where I met my first roommate, Chris Puliafico, who introduced me to my best friend and roommate for the next three years, Mr. Jordan Quitko.

I am sure these names are foreign to most of you, but so many have a similar story. Everyone came here running alone in some respect and met people who, for one reason or another, stuck more than others. In the end, these clusters are what we remember and what some of us are afraid to leave behind.

A wet paper towel almost hits me as I walk past Kennedy Tower. Two kids are sitting in their window laughing as I dodge its path. I simply smirk, shake my head and warn the kid behind me, who is barely phased by the air-borne prank.

Now I’m sitting here in the tunnel that separates Southwest from campus, the division between blissful immaturity and educational reality.

In the distance I can hear the yells and laughter of those who are enjoying the waning days of this semester. Just the lingering calls of animals, not yet ready to leave the Zoo.

Standing at the gates of Garber Field, right next to the Curry Hicks Cage, I can feel a sense of this university’s tradition. As steam bellows from underneath UMass’ surface, it masks Garber’s entrance in a fine gray hue.

It’s hard to believe I watched UMass beat Syracuse here only days ago. Those boys are coming back again on Sunday, this time I won’t be sitting in the press box.

Before I pass Curry Hicks, I make sure I go around “the Circle of Bad Grades.” I made the mistake of walking right through the middle my sophomore year … never again.

I’m sitting in front of Bartlett Hall now, the house of the fine Journalism major. I can’t help but think of all I’ve learned here, the true educating outside the social education. Nick McBride, Norm Sims, Bill Israel, and Jim Hicks; thank you for showing me that the only thing objective about life is that nothing is ever truly objective.

From the 24th floor of the library I can see all of my campus. I am sitting at a desk near a window in the far corner, facing the practice fields. Engraved in the middle of the desk is “GO Minutemen!”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

As I look out I can see the faded facade of the Mullins Center, cracking through the darkness. Four years of concerts and athletics encapsulated as memories under one green roof.

I was here through the good and the bad. I saw coaching changes and athletic directors come and go. Through it all, it was well worth it as the two of us danced on December 9th 2004, a glimmering light in my college career.

Right behind the Mullins Center is my rugby pitch, where I learned how to be a man while never letting go of the child that plays within all of us.

Too many memories on this chilly May evening, I’ve tried to capture them, but I failed, just as I knew I would.

I guess my search has left me here for a reason, as I stare at my reflection in my library’s window. Maybe it’s too much and perhaps that’s why saying goodbye is so hard.

So with this I leave you with my final column for this incredible newspaper at this stellar establishment. My only hope is that through my writing over the past few years I was able to give you a piece of myself as I ventured to the heart of UMass athletics.

I never thought I’d be writing this, but then again it wasn’t really me. It was you, this school, and everything I’ve learned and experienced along the way.

And for that, UMass, I thank you.

Bob McGovern was a Collegian columnist.