At the moment, the question on my mind was simple: Could I make it to Belle Vernon in time?

Not whether I should go. Not if I was wasting six hours of my time driving to a football game -- played by women.

I was just a 20-year-old amazed that an actual newspaper would allow my stories to appear in print. Sacrificing a Friday night to watch a few Penn State alumnae play in a professional women's football league doomed to failure was an opportunity I wouldn't pass up.

I begged my roommate to let me use his car, and I spent the $20 on gas (those were the days) and knew it was all worth it when an editor proclaimed my story "decent" the following Sunday.

It was silly, it was dumb, it was lame, it was the height of youthful exuberance. And what could be a more wonderful thing than that.

Just about every college student has done something like that on a whim before. But until that semester -- the spring of, um, I guess my first sophomore year -- I don't know that I ever had. It's too bad it took me so long to figure it out.

We should have a spark at this age. We should have a spark of mischief or excitement in our eye and passion in our voice. We should drive to a Chipotle restaurant in Kent, Ohio, because we can, and across the state to see someone because we miss her.

I sit here now -- 16 days before I graduate and exactly 1,712 days after I arrived here as freshman on Aug. 18, 2001 -- having just done the responsible thing by spending more time than I cared to on an academic paper I won't remember a year from now. And lately, I've caught myself either laughing or cursing at the immaturity of freshmen, and I worry my spark will be put out by the "real world," a place that cares little for such foolishness. It's time to start worrying about thing that are "important."

I've always had a skewed perspective on that word anyway. While searching my brain for memories, so many others surface before the one that the average Penn Stater finds the most interesting: I once interviewed Joe Paterno for 20 minutes, something that isn't as thrilling you might expect.

But whether it's a living legend or female football players, it does not matter. So much more so I had lived for the teas at the Café and the lunches at the Skellar; for the road trips to Hartford, Michigan and everywhere in between; and for the late nights at the Collegian when delirium has set in and everything is funny.

For you, it might be the brother of your frat or the member of your team or the same six kids from your floor in Pinchot Hall freshman year that you still meet for lunch once a week. For me -- even though I've probably taken it too far inside the huddle already -- it is Lauren Adele, my football beat partners (here and in Pittsburgh) and all the other wonderful, lively people I've met at The Daily Collegian. I'm afraid they all have given me more than I've given them.

If you've bothered to read this far, the same can be said for you. So here's one last story of unbridled foolishness that can hopefully make my last column the least bit relevant.

In that very same spring I wrote about the women's football league, I enrolled in a chemical engineering class. (God knows why, I thought I'd give it a shot). Then I joined the Collegian and something lit up inside of me, and I knew I was never going to be an engineer.

But for reasons I still can't fully explain, I decided to take the first test without having studied. With the class period only 15 minutes old, I climbed out of my seat to turn in my test. Even though it was essentially a few useless scribbles short of completely blank piece of paper.

Even though I knew I would never set foot in that classroom again.

I handed to the professor my test. He gave me a scrutinizing look, unsure whether I was a genius or a complete idiot.

He was right about one thing. Which is more than what could be said about the answer sheet I just gave him.

The walk out of the room is one I remember well -- up one of those Penn State-patented, lecture-hall embankments.

Halfway up the ramp, I looked over my shoulder. The professor was shaking his head, expressing equal parts puzzlement and disdain.

Then, facing forward, I continued toward the exit that was really the entranceway leading to the greatest three years of my life. At that moment, I couldn't help but grin.

My spark has never been brighter. And I had never felt so free.