An empty football stadium is one of the most beautiful things on the planet. Of all the things I will remember about my two years covering Penn State football, long after I have left this place, the quiet of an empty stadium is one of the things I think will stay with me the longest.

I have seen Beaver Stadium literally shake when thousands of white-clad, joy-drunks bounced in unison after a Calvin Lowry interception against Ohio State. I'll remember the sights, sounds and swaying of that night for a long time, but I'll remember leaning against the south goalposts two hours later, all alone, more.

See, my press pass took something away from me. It took something away from being part of the crowd. It took something away from being a Penn State student. The 2005 season was fun for me. The players were interesting, the story lines intriguing. But, damn, it must have been unbelievable for all of you.

While you all had the time of your life that night against Ohio State, I could only watch while I worked from five stories above.

But my press pass gave back other things. It gave me direction in life. It gave me an unparalleled perspective inside Penn State sports. It gave me so many friends here at the Collegian, but most of all, it gave me a few precious moments of solitude in a few incredible stadiums.

It completely humbled me the first time I walked into an empty Beaver Stadium and felt so small. It's amazing, but when you're alone, the stadium embraces you. It towers over you and you feel oddly cozy.

It gave me chills when it allowed me walk across the turf at Michigan Stadium, knowing that I had just witnessed one of the best final quarters in college football history. Penn State fans always hated Michigan and will forever hate the Wolverines even more for that game, but standing on the 50-yard line of the Big House takes your breath away.

It was my press pass that allowed me to be locked inside Notre Dame Stadium. I crept back down onto the field after I had filed my story, and when the door from the lobby clicked behind me I was stuck inside with the memories of Paul Hornung and Joe Montana. I had to walk the whole way around the guts of the stadium to find a way out, but it was an irreplaceable 20 minutes.

It allowed me to be sitting on the home bench at the Horseshoe, the angry red seats seemingly rising straight up all around me, when they turned the lights out in the stadium.

An empty stadium is a great place to think, and over the last two years I've done a lot of thinking on football fields. Every time I have been able to steal a few quiet moments on one, I have leapt at the chance hungrily, never knowing if I'd have the opportunity again.

There was a time when I would have given anything, and traveled anywhere to get the best possible job in sports writing, but it was on that 20 minute walk around Notre Dame stadium that I realized that there were more important things in life.

Sports journalism is not a career that is conducive to having a family. Writers skip from job to job all across the country, always trying to move up the ladder, rarely working hours that allow them to be home.

I realized on a football field that as much as I treasured moments like that one, there were other things I treasured more. I want to someday settle down with my girlfriend without working horrendous hours, never getting comfortable because we always had to be ready to move.

I don't want to move far away from my family just to get a good job. Spending time with them is too important. As much as I love what I do, I never want to let vanity force me to take a position that would hurt the people who love me.

I have cherished the time I got to spend alone of these fields, and no matter what happens, I'll always carry those memories with me. The memories might have to be enough.