It was coming up on 4:30 a.m. Even the owls had gone to bed.

My roommate and I had just finished trekking down a mountain from our campsite in the Michaux State Forest. We needed to get some sleep. We had to be moved out of our dorm -- one of three on the tiny Penn State Mont Alto campus -- by noon the next day.

We had just spent our last night at Fern Gully -- one of many campsites Mont Alto students frequented on Thursday and Friday nights. This was it. We were off to Main the next fall, the big time.

We stepped out of the tree line -- only about 60 feet from our dorm -- into the small parking lot behind the building. Our room was on the third floor, straight up from the building's dumpster. I made a mental note as we passed it -- it was still full.

The Boogie Man is on his way. You'll be ready this time.

We scaled the stairs to our room and stepped through our door, into the mini cubicle that we had called home for the previous two years. Our microwave clock read 4:45 a.m. Our window was cracked and we heard the rumbling diesel engine.

The Boogie Man is here.

Every Thursday or Friday night, the trash man would come to take care of the full dumpster that sat just a stone's throw below our window. We'd usually be asleep, but by slamming his garbage truck against the dumpster, he'd wake us up. I dubbed him the "Boogie Man" for the terrifying metallic noises he'd make as he used the arms of the machine to lift the dumpster, emptying its contents into his truck.

But this trash man was different than others. He'd use the lever on his control panel to shake the dumpster, making even more noise. It sounded like Godzilla rampaging down the backstretch at the Daytona 500.

So I vowed one night I would speak my mind to The Boogie Man. The night had come.

I ran to the window and threw it open. It was the first clear glimpse I had ever gotten of the man who had tortured my sleep for two semesters with his less-than-courteous garbage retrieving. He had a long, shaggy white beard and a bald head.

He was just lowering the arms of the truck.

"Hey! Hey!" I screamed down to him. "Shut the hell up!"

The old man looked up at me. His window was down. We made eye contact. He reached his arm out the window and popped up his middle finger.

Enraged, I turned and threw a stack of copies of The Fourth Wall -- the student newspaper I wrote for at Mont Alto -- off of my mini-fridge/microwave combo. Underneath was my snow globe. It was a decoration we had left over from Christmas. I briefly admired Santa, with his happy smile climbing from a chimney, then snatched it, gave it a shake and gunned a laser beam at The Boogie Man's driver's side window. It ricocheted around the window's edges, missing the old man. His smugness turned to utter shock as he quickly pulled his head and traffic finger back into the truck. Frantically, he wound up the window and sped off.

He didn't get the trash.

Good shot. Favre-esque.

Moments later, I was picking up my copies of The Fourth Wall. It was the first time I ever thought of The Daily Collegian and continuing my career in journalism. It was tough being a sports writer for the monthly publication at Mont Alto. I couldn't cover the stories game by game, and by the time the paper actually was printed, the storylines had changed. I wanted badly to cover the football team -- a real beat -- for a daily paper, but was skeptical The Daily Collegian would entrust an old-time brancher like myself with that job.

Two and a half years later, here I am, writing my last story for The Daily Collegian. I covered the Penn State Football Team. I did it.

You covered the 95th Rose Bowl, T.J.

But I don't want my résumé to end here. I want to continue in this field. Journalism is exciting and challenging. And I believe I have what it takes.

I'm accurate. You have to be accurate; it would be a great travesty to mislead or misinform your readers. While he may not know of my skills with a pen, ask The Boogie Man about my arm. I did nearly take his head off.

I'm fair. A few Ohio State fans might not think so, but I'll call it like I see it. I'll get all the sides of the story and I'll present it to you the best I can. OK, maybe my tango with The Boogie Man was my own brand of vigilante justice.

I'm hardworking. I might not be as talented as Gay Talese or Mark Bowden, but I will always vow to do my best. You -- the reader -- are one of the most important people in my life and I will always strive to inform, report and entertain. That's my job, to find the answers for you.

I'm confident in my abilities. I wasn't always, though. Halfway through the season I nearly had to bite back tears in front of my managing editor at my frustration over covering the Penn State football beat. I kept grinding, however, and I got better.

You're a storyteller, Travis.

Like I promised to get even with The Boogie Man, I'll promise now to keep on reporting, keep on writing and keep on working for you.

And if the day ever presents itself, instead of a Pulitzer Prize, I'd love to win a new snow globe.