Three years later, I still can’t pin down the exact low point. I remember the tears. I remember feeling helpless. I remember the empty cans of Keystone Light and the constant worry that someone may find out how I was feeling. But what I can’t remember is when the whole world felt most overbearing and I wondered how to escape it all.

It’s hard to find the lowest point in a hole.

There are things I do remember from my second semester of college, though. Like the first time I interviewed someone for 30 minutes. I proudly bragged to my mentors. Or the time I wrote my first long feature. I sent that one to my family. The rung on the ladder that brings me the biggest smile today is “Sergio’s Pleasure.”

A small nugget in an otherwise meaningless story came together on an old torn couch that hosts more memories for others than anyone would care to admit. In the visuals room of The Daily Orange at 744 Ostrom Ave., Matthew Gutierrez read the story with me for hours and sent feedback after.

Sam Fortier instructed us to look up the ingredients. Maybe the details about the triple-decker corn beef sandwich didn’t really matter. But hey, shooters shoot.

Sports editor Tomer Langer was nice enough to put it on the Internet. All of them, without knowing it, helped pull me out of the most depressive rut of my life. Following years of committing myself to sports and other community-centric activities, I was lost as a freshman at Syracuse University. I didn’t know what I wanted out of college, let alone the rest of my life.

The Daily Orange and the friends I made within the thin walls of 744 Ostrom Ave. changed all of that for me. It took the articles to stop and a building torn down for me to realize what it all really meant. It wasn’t about the stories we wrote or the media opportunities we missed. The D.O. taught me that place doesn’t define community, people do.

I’ll never forget the first person I met at The D.O. Paul Schwedelson, or Mr.Schwedelson as I probably thought he was called at the time. A short fella with glasses that can’t weigh more than an eighth grade Josh Schafer, didn’t look like many of my friends from high school. I remember telling my dad I was weary of The D.O. being my place to fit in on campus. The kids were “nerdy.”

In the coming weeks, I’d learn that my macho wannabe-athlete attitude toward Schwed was a crock of sh*t. He’d take more of an interest in my work than most people I’d ever met and proved to me that writing was a craft. His long phone calls three years later show he wasn’t faking it.

Through four years at The D.O. I’d meet countless other people like Schwed, each bringing me further entrenched into the community. The summer after freshman year, when I started as a copy editor, several ignored emails from the beach taught me The D.O. doesn’t only operate when we’re all in the same room.

We geeked out on journalism together through Google Docs, phone calls and eventually far too long-winded car rides. On the road we traveled all over the Atlantic Coast Conference, usually south down I-81 or west on I-90. The D.O. brought me to the foot of Touchdown Jesus, within striking distance of Howard’s Rock and into more college locker rooms than I could’ve ever imagined.

But a story I’ll always tell happened somewhere in Orlando, Florida, far away from any stadium. I arrived at an apartment complex with Andrew Graham and Matt Liberman just before 11 p.m. Immediately we wondered why there was only one big bed in the middle of the room, flanked by different colored lights and a giant movie screen. We gawked at the giant film-esque light equipment in the corner and the collections of Lilo and Stitch dolls. How strange?

We laughed it off, ordered pizza and enjoyed the massage chair in the corner. I still can’t believe we didn’t think twice about that damn chair.

I suppose that’s why the road trips weren’t as fun when I went alone. An old Days Inn in Tallahassee, Florida isn’t a good story when there’s no one else with you. It just smells musty and makes you wonder why you didn’t stay home.

On my final drive up I-81 North to Syracuse, the tears from years ago nearly came back. I had just handed Nick Alvarez off to his ride home and knew it would be my last time with a D.O. staffer.

An epidemic prevented me from closure, but I didn’t need it this time. I’d learned that when things enter the ether of uncertainty, our people will always be there. There’s always another team. Another purpose.

So I guess this is really all just to say thank you. Thank you to the people of 744 Ostrom Ave., not the place. You all didn’t just teach a freshman from Day Hall how to college, you taught me how to life.

Josh Schafer was a senior staff writer at The Daily Orange, where his column will no longer appear. He can be reached at jlschafe@syr.edu or on Twitter @Schafer_44.

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Published on April 26, 2020 at 12:17 am