By the start of my senior year, I have taken so many sociology classes, I am only a few credits shy of a degree.
Morrie suggests I try an honors thesis. “Me?” I ask. “What would I write about?”
“What interests you?” he says. We bat it back and forth, until we finally settle on, of all things, sports.
I begin a year-long project on how football in America has become ritualistic, almost a religion, an opiate for the masses.
I have no idea that this is training for my future career. I only know it gives me another once-a-week session with Morrie.
And, with his help, by spring I have a 112 page thesis, researched, footnoted, documented, and neatly bound in black leather.
I show it to Morrie with the pride of a Little Leaguer rounding the bases on his first home run.
“Congratulations,” Morrie says. I grin as he leafs through it, and I glance around his office.
The shelves of books, the hardwood floor, the throw rug, the couch.
I think to myself that I have sat just about everywhere there is to sit in this room.
“I don’t know, Mitch,” Morrie muses, adjusting his glasses as he reads, “with work like this, we may have to get you back here for grad school.”
“Yeah, right,” I say. I snicker, but the idea is momentarily appealing.
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