When I came to University Park in the fall of 1999, the future of sports was so bright.

I was a clueless freshman then, a little naïve but ready to begin my college journey at one of the top sports schools in the country. Being a Jersey kid, I wasn't born with blue and white in my veins like some of my classmates, but in my adolescence I knew that Penn State athletics was the "big time."

I traveled to State College, a copy of Sports Illustrated with LaVar Arrington on the cover tucked under my arm, pumped to watch the football team win a national championship in a blaze of glory. I even had this crazy thought in the back of my mind about becoming a sportswriter or editor someday.

At least one of those dreams came true.

Yes, I watched with wide-eyed joy as the Nittany Lions rattled off eight straight wins that year, pummeling opponents in superhero fashion. And I watched in pure horror as a Minnesota field goal sailed over the north endzone's uprights, ending that streak and the title hopes, sending Penn State football into an ugly downward spiral it only recently climbed out of. The innocence, unfortunately, was gone.

Since then, I've come to the realization that athletes are not gods or superheros. They're human just like you or I, and sometimes they even make mistakes.

Without their athletic ability, they'd be just like every Joe or Jane Student that sleeps next to you in math class -- some like to party and some like to study; some host keggers and some run youth groups; some walk around like they own State College and some feel privileged just to be here.

I've learned that in sports, like in life, there are good guys and bad guys, winners and losers, tragedies and happy endings. I've seen both sides, really -- the miraculous comebacks and inspirational stories, and the greed and corruption and the ugliness of it all.

Most of all, I think, I've learned that there are two ways of looking at sports. The first option (the one I was raised to believe in) is that sports are the ultimate escape. You can lose yourself in the glory, the heartbreak and the majesty of it all the way a naïve freshman did in 1999. You can put on your best blue and white duds and head to the old ballgame, scream your head off, and live and die with every play. You can put your faith in the players, the coaches and the history, falling deeper into the great American love affair with sports.

The other side of sports, the seedy underbelly, is one I've grown more accustomed to in my brief sports journalism career. It's the one where grown men and women in the media carve out a living by catering to the whims of a sports-hungry, sports-obsessed culture. It's the one where schools make millions off athletic teams that compete on their fields. It's the one where cynical fans dig for every personal detail, rumor or tidbit about athletes' personal lives, heralding them as saints or crucifying them as sinners, with no middle ground and no in-between.

The more you get immersed in this side of sports, the less you see the games for what they're supposed to be -- games.

I'd like to go back to the youthful exuberance of that freshman in 1999, watching his first Penn State game from the "S" zone in the warm August sun. But he's long gone now, replaced by an older, wiser, slightly more jaded graduating senior.

I know now that they're more than just games -- sports is a multi-billion dollar industry, and athletes are commodities that get scrutinized, examined, marketed, packaged and sold.

Some of the optimism will always be a part of me, and when I watch games in the future I'll get caught up in the people, the stories, the emotions. It'll be hard though, knowing what I know now, to go back to the pure, simple joy of those fall afternoons four years ago. That's kid stuff, and after all, when I get my diploma in a few weeks, it means I'm not a kid anymore.

But there's always homecoming.