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Amy Bass

  • Commencement this year felt a little extra. To be sure, riding alongside students as they journey their way through college is an honor and a privilege; it is, I often say, my “why.” But it is also a lot of work -- exhausting, painstaking, work. By the time the actual graduation ceremony rolls around, I’ve been grading nonstop for days and working closely with marvelous and meticulous colleagues in the dean’s office to make sure every last box is checked and each student’s pathway across the stage before family and friends, degree in hand, is assured.
  • When Brittney Griner took to the stage in Phoenix last week for her first official presser since her return to the United States in December, having spent nearly 10-months detained in Russia for drug allegations the U.S. State Department deemed “wrongful,” it was clear it was not going to be any ordinary media event. Griner, who wore a black shirt that represented her new partnership with the advocacy group “Bring Our Families Home,” laughed when she saw the number of reporters assembled.
  • I launched a new seminar last spring entitled Sport Stories — a course devoted to how we make meaning, tell stories, about sport. Some of the stories we studied, like John Branch’s epic Pulitzer Prize winning piece “Snowfall” — a multimedia telling of the avalanche at Tunnel Creek in 2012 — changed the way we think about how to convey the answer to the question “what happened,” with aerial video, interactive graphics, and moving images accompanying Branch’s always affecting prose. Others, like Buzz Bissinger’s classic Friday Night Lights, gave us the opportunity to talk across mediums — narrative nonfiction writing, television, film — alongside themes of education, racism, and poverty.
  • If I’m really being honest about the last year in sport, I would have to put procuring tickets to Taylor Swift’s upcoming “Eras” tour at the top of the pile. From failed verified fan registration links to a complete meltdown by Ticketmaster that took you out of the virtual line just as you thought you were stepping up to the window, the rodeo to get those seats had as much drama, tension, corruption, and excitement as anything FIFA could ever hallucinate.
  • As the soccer haters climbed onto their “penalty kicks are stupid” soapboxes after the conclusion of the 2022 World Cup men’s final (and let’s be clear – that final was the greatest single sport anything to have ever occurred anywhere ever) something truly bizarre happened just hours later: the conclusion of the Patriots’ game, in which the Las Vegas Raiders kept their playoff hopes and dreams alive with just three seconds left on the clock because of, well, honestly, there is no real explanation for what happened, other than deeming it the most inexplicable play in any sport, ever.
  • I love being a fan. As a lifelong Red Sox supporter, this means the kind of heartbreak and devotion that rivals any of the world’s major religions. As the mother of a Harry Styles and Taylor Swift fan, this means equal amounts of frustration and patience – and I’m looking at you, Ticketmaster – to get the kid to the shows.
  • So many of our great and famous moments in sport revolve around records being broken – I see you Aaron Judge – inspirational come-from-behind victories, or underdogs in some kind of Cinderella story scenario. Sport is, after all, about competition, about being a little bit faster, a little bit stronger, than the person next to you.
  • I didn’t shed any tears for Queen Elizabeth II until the moment I saw David Beckham enter Westminster Abbey after spending some 12 hours in line with the masses who wanted to pay final respects. I don’t know -- there was something about the way Bex looked, his emotions in full display across his face, an athlete who had sung “God Save the Queen” uncountable times while wearing a kit adorned with the three lions. It moved me.
  • Tennis for me started at Goodwood, an 18th century estate considered to be an exemplar of late-Georgian/early-Federalist architecture, a standout house in my small hometown of Richmond, Massachusetts. The property included a red clay court set on a grand field, far enough away from the house that Mrs. Buell, who lived in the manse, let the small community tennis group use it for lessons and tournaments. My earliest days at Goodwood, I sat on the sidelines watching my brother and sister battle in singles and my parents volunteer for what we called “mixed up doubles” – male/female teams composed of an adult and a child.
  • Every morning for the last several months, I have reached for a small orange and black pin from the top of my bureau and attached it to whatever I’m wearing that day – a dress, a blouse, a tee, a sweatshirt. “We Are BG,” reads the pin, and every day that I wear it, at least one person asks me what it means, making at least one more person who knows about the detainment of basketball legend Brittney Griner in a Russian prison.