Serving the GW Community since 1904

The GW Hatchet


The GW Hatchet

Serving the GW Community since 1904

The GW Hatchet

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Waiting for next year

I’ve always thought it odd that there’s never been a movie made about the Boston Red Sox winning the World Series. It’s just a reoccurring reflection, obviously not so consuming a contemplation that I actually take matters into my own hands and write one myself.

It’s just something that nags me every time I sit through a movie like, oh, I don’t know, Armageddon. Do you mean to tell me that the idea of a few slobs miraculously learning to become astronauts in a matter of days and saving the planet from imminent death by landing on an asteroid and blasting it in half is more believable than Pedro finally getting a championship ring on that double-jointed ring finger of his?

That’s depressing. Be that as it may, the situation stopped nagging me today. And thank God, too. I was wondering how long it would be before I could watch another Air Bud movie in peace without thinking, “A dog. Playing point guard. That’s more believable than a ticker tape parade down Kenmore Square?” But I digress.

Two hours after my original deadline for this chronicle, I still had a computer screen full of crap that I wouldn’t have printed if my job depended on it (oh wait, it did). Confused and frustrated, I did what I always do when I don’t know how to handle a situation – whined and called Cynthia.

“Screw it,” she said perfunctorily providing our favorite solution to any sticky situation. Then, seeing I wasn’t satisfied, she said simply, “Sounds hard. Why don’t you just write about how you don’t know what to say?”

Then it dawned on me. That’s why no one’s paying $8.50 to see the fantasy Red Sox win the World Series. You see, Boston fans have adopted the old Dodger saying, “wait ’til next year.” Those four words carry with them the eternal hope that the season will always start over again and there will always be another chance.

Everyone in Boston knows what to say while waiting for next year. But what if it finally came? There’s no formulaic response for a win. What would sports columnists, radio personalities and bar patrons complain about? Half the city would be out of a job and nearly everyone would be out of a purpose. Try save Beantown from that Armageddon, Bruce.

What does this have to do with me? A native Bostonian, I’m a big believer in next year and a big fan of consistency. So working at The Hatchet was perfect for me. There was always the next issue, the next production night, the next chance. But now “next year” has arrived. It’s over and, for once, I don’t know what to say.

Except this: how do BoSox fans survive eight decades of the same old story? The characters they meet along the way – Ted Williams, Carlton Fisk and even Roger Clemens made an inevitable outcome interesting along the way. And all the players inside the brick townhouse at 21st and G did the same for me.

Like Brian, the kid who will never have to wait for next year, and not just ’cause he’s a Yankees fan. It amazes me how indecisive you can be about an ice cream flavor or DVD title, yet so determined in everything you do. With you in the office I was a better editor. With you in my life, I’m a better person.

Step, you’re the only other person who truly understands the third state of cheese, the relief of finally handing in that paper and the frustration of the question, “so what are you gonna do?” You brought the paper to greatness, but your finest accomplishment was keeping it up all year. Weathering whitewater will be cake compared to controlling our egos on a biweekly basis. Send me a postcard, hippie.

Mosheh, I’ll be honest with you. When I first met you, I didn’t think two people who craved attention as much as we did could become friends. Never underestimate the power of seven-hour happy hours and Austin Powers. You’re demanding, but you make everyone strive to be the best. It will show in next year’s paper. Congrats, EIC-elect.

Snow, with you’re Cali style and raunchy humor, I knew we’d have fun working together, but I never expected we’d become such good friends. You have the ability to look at a situation and see the humor in it and can make it all better with nine simple words: “Screw ’em if they can’t take a joke.” You make The Hatchet pretty. Keep it up next year, dick.

Kings. Who would have thought an erudite like you and a JAP like me could coexist? Thank God we’re both such elitists who nut over the intricacies of “The Sopranos.” That’s sweet. Your knowledge of everything never ceases to amaze me. Columbia is lucky to have you.

EA, you were the backbone of this paper and, more importantly, a worthy adversary on a sticky subject. Julie, with your tireless determination, I’m sure you’ll carry her torch. Riezman, you’re not as lazy as you want everyone to think you are, and you took the Opinions section to a whole new level this year. Stay on your dogs, homey. Philips, thanks for letting me slide on my deadlines. Good luck in your new endeavors and keep on pushing the envelope. Derby, I forgive you for abandoning me and yelling ’cause you can take it. Liz, thanks for saving the paper all those times, and especially for getting the paper clip out of the door. Oh yeah, and Janice, wrap it up.

Prospects Barnett, Bauminator and Jeff Nelson. You started as a breath of fresh air for you’re respective sections and became rocks for that whole paper. Don’t lose that enthusiasm. And to veteran Sean Lee, thanks for teaching me to be a editor as well as a writer, you’re kindness and patience were a welcomed rarity.

And to the crowd. Mom, I know you like to think it was you hovering via phone, nagging me to “send my clips to the sports editor” that finally got me into The Hatchet. It wasn’t. It was Patty Thornton and our desire to interview basketball players. To Patty, Tova, Kelly, Andy, Neil and Dave, thanks for hovering when my mom wasn’t around to do it.

Cynthia and Meg. Even my parents would call on a Sunday and ask why I was distracted. You would know it was just The Hatchy. You’d ask me how the paper was even though you couldn’t possibly care. Then you’d call me shady and leave me an IM to come home to at 3 a.m. Thank you for always being a celly call away.

Jane-O, I like to think you’ll read one of my articles before I graduate. Thanks for keeping me grounded. Gramma and Papa, you think everything I write should be in The Globe. Hopefully some day it will be, and I can start sending you “cards.”

Mom, while your physical appearances at GW are few and far between, your spirit is intrinsic in everything I do. You gave me my love of writing and you gave me the confidence to be good at it. Thanks for the encouragement, the support and the great ideas. Daddy. I’m not gonna lie, weekly articles in The Hatchet started out as a nice way to distract you from the unauthorized purchases. But seeing how proud you were of that stack of newspapers on your night table drove me to excel. You taught me the beauty of baseball, and I’m glad I could give something back.

Well, that wasn’t as bad as I thought. Thirty inches down, one screenplay to go.

-Lauren Silva has been

an editor since fall 2001.


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