In four years at Penn State (has it really been THAT long?) I've been taught by some fantastic professors. I've gone to some great parties and had more good times than I can count. I've got stories that will never see the light of day, but will be looked upon fondly by the people there for the experience. Suffice to say, this place has been a learning experience in every way possible. However, I never gained knowledge more valuable than the things I learned in a basketball class.

His name was Patrick, but we called him "The Man." Everyone knew from the start of class that Patrick was different, and as it happened later I found out that he had Down Syndrome. You might think that this would be a difficult burden for a person to overcome, especially in a class full of aggressive, competitive guys, most of whom had no problem beating the tar out of each other on a twice-weekly basis.

Not The Man, though, not by a long shot. Right from the start of class, The Man made his presence felt. Whether it was the fact that he was always the first person at class, bouncing around the gym just waiting to shoot, or the fact that he always had something funny to say at the end of class huddle, The Man was one of the guys.

He could shoot too. Oh, could he ever shoot. Sure, it took him an extra step and an extra second to get his shot off, but I wouldn't be surprised if he made about 50 percent of his jump shots. For comparison's sake, most of the other people in class made maybe two or three out of every 10 jump shots. When my team was shorthanded a player and had to play his team, the coach told us we could pick up one player from The Man's team for the game. Of course, we took The Man.

The thing about basketball class that was so special wasn't the fact that The Man would entertain us all class with his one-liners and jump shots. It was the effect he had on everyone else in the gym. Guys who were competing furiously one minute would immediately soften up a little bit and make sure The Man got an open shot. Before class started, everyone walked up to The Man to initiate conversation, not the other way around. It would not be a stretch to say that he was the most popular guy in class.

In an environment where macho posturing and general testosterone-fueled stupidity was usually the order of the day (and your author was just as guilty as anyone else) The Man made everyone else realize that it wasn't important to make sure you looked and acted like the toughest person around. The camaraderie in the gym was so much better with The Man around. People got along better, and with everyone less concerned about showing off, the amount of teamwork went up and up.

This might seem silly, but teamwork, camaraderie and being able to get along with the person next to you are in many ways far more valuable attributes for real life than the ability to compute derivatives of equations or conjugate verbs in Spanish. Ultimately, the ability to co-exist with your fellow man or woman is far more important than any book-learned skill.

The Man facilitated that kind of real-life learning more than any teacher I've ever had. His positive outlook no matter what endeared him more and more to the rest of the class as time went by. It got to the point that if he got knocked over in a collision, no one would help him up. This might seem counterintuitive, but it was indicative of how he'd gained everyone else's respect that no one treated him any differently than they would any of the other guys in the gym.

The Man had a great sense of comedic timing too. I've never seen a group of people laugh as hard as they did when he, upon beating a football player who was maybe four times his size in a one-on-one drill, skipped back into line and then, just as the cheering had died down, yelled out "I own you!" Even the teacher of the class had to stand back and laugh.

He had a flair for the dramatic, too. Remember the game where my team picked him up to play against his team? The Man had a little surprise for everyone at the end of the game. After rallying to within two points of the other team with about 20 seconds left in the game, I brought the ball up and looked at the rest of the guys on my team. Everyone knew where the ball had to go for the last shot. It had to be The Man.

We cleared out a side for him and I dribbled over his way. Handing the ball off to him, I watched as he caught the ball and took two dribbles.

The buzzer sounded just as he was cocking the ball, and he released the shot about a half second too late.

The Man didn't notice, however, and as he let fly from just behind the three-point line, we were all riveted as the ball flew on a perfect arc toward the hoop. Swish. Ballgame. The Man always did need that extra second to get his shot off.

It was in the aftermath of that shot, with The Man grinning from ear to ear, his smile matched by every single person in the gym, that I realized that no matter how much book learning a person does, moments like this are what college, and life, are all about.