This self-congratulation; it isn’t fun for me. First, let me set this straight. I didn’t ask for this. This, my final column as sports editor of The Daily Orange, is tradition. And who am I to tamper with it. So I’ll oblige and say the necessary thank-yous. But know deep down that this isn’t me. I never wanted to do this.

I always wanted to write about others – not myself. And for three years I’ve done that. That’s the fun part of the job. It’s what I do now, and it’s what I plan on doing in the future.

As a journalist, your job is to tell a story. And my mantra, since I’ve been here, is that everyone has one.

Like Diane Geppi-Aikens the women’s lacrosse coach at Loyola, whose story was cut unfortunately short because of a brain tumor. Or Maurice McClain, the former Syracuse football safety, whose only goal was to play in the NFL. That is, before he broke his leg in practice, essentially derailing his chance of playing professionally.

I’ve had the pleasure of writing these stories, and more. Like the one about Monica Joines, the SU women’s lacrosse player, whose grandparents travel from Maryland to almost every one of her games – home or away. Or a story about Adam Sahmel, a miniature golfer from Texas, whose cerebral palsy only allows him a one-handed putting stroke.

The stories are there, you just need to find them. I’m lucky. A pad, blue pen and notebook make it a little more socially acceptable to prod.

Without doing so, I never would have found Alice Helm, a staunch anti-smoking advocate who died of lung cancer at 75, tragically enough, from second-hand smoke. Or Deborah Boiardi, a loving mother whose son died on the lacrosse field last spring. We spoke for an hour last April. As the minutes on my cell phone ticked away, a good 50 cents per tick on overage charges, I was captivated.

This woman had just lost her son, a senior lacrosse player at Cornell, and I was amazed that she was so willing to talk to me – a 20-year-old sportswriter. Now, let me clarify one more thing: I don’t cry. I just don’t. Never. But by the end of our conversation, she had me on the verge of tears.

‘Michael,’ she said, in a soft, caring voice. ‘Do you have a mother and father?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Well, when you hang up the phone with me, I want you to pick up the phone and tell them you love them.’

I lost it. I thanked her for her time, hung up the phone, then balled my eyes out. Oh yeah, then I called my parents.

Without the title of journalist, I never would have gotten that opportunity. I’m thankful for that. It’s why, as much as I bemoan the everyday wear and tear of the profession, I’ve never left it.

And I don’t plan to. At least, not until I run out of stories. But since everyone has a story to tell, I guess I’m in it for the long haul.