A Valentine's Day ode to my true love

Valentine's Day is here, and I'm girlfriendless once again (shocking, I know).

But I have a valentine nonetheless, the same valentine I've had every year for as long as I can remember, the same Valentine I'll have every year for as long as I live.

My valentine has everything I could ask for in a relationship. My valentine is always there for me, whether in the quad outside my window, on television or online. My valentine helps me relax, helps me stay in shape, helps me make friends — helps me enjoy life. My valentine is low maintenance, never asking for chocolate or expensive dinners.

Oh, how I love my valentine.

I love spending a lazy summer day at Wrigley Field — smelling the popcorn and beer, singing the seventh inning stretch like Harry Carry is still leading the way.

I love shooting baskets in my driveway, all alone except for the neighbor's barking dog, counting down the seconds in my head and sinking the game-winning shot over and over and over.

I love watching college basketball in a crowded gym, listening to painted students cheer their hearts out for their school.

I love cozying up to the fire on a cold New Year's Day and watching the Rose Bowl from sunny Pasadena, cheering for Michigan and reminding myself that spring is on the way.

I love sitting around with friends and tossing out impossible trivia questions, each of us filled with pride that we possess the knowledge that Mel Ott hit 511 home runs and that Jay Berwanger won the first Heisman trophy.

I love skipping class to practice my putting stroke in the hallway of my dorm room, waiting for that gratifying click of a sunk putt being sent back to me.

I love flipping to ESPN Classic on a random Wednesday afternoon and watching, for the 10th time, a young Michael Jordan drop 63 points on the stunned Boston Celtics.

I love meticulously keeping score at a baseball game, making sure to write down a backwards K when the batter strikes out looking.

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I love the instant bond of two guys wearing Cubs hats in New Jersey, knowing that we'll understand the other's hopes and dreams despite having just met.

I love playing wiffle ball on the grass as spring turns to summer, belting a pitch as hard as I can and watching as the ball flutters a whole 20 feet.

I love poring over an empty NCAA tournament bracket and imagining the possibilities, convincing myself it's possible that this will finally be the magical year that I pick every game right.

I love suddenly caring deeply about the luge, cheering my heart out for a guy I'd never heard of until five minutes before, just because it's the Olympics and he's an American.

I love the subway ride to Yankee Stadium, watching as the pinstripe-clad fans trade knowing, superior glances.

I love watching Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon yell at each other about anything and everything on PTI, and then having the same debates with my friends later that night.

I love playing football in the snow until I can't feel my hands or toes or face.

I love finding a ball and some open space and making up a sport on the spot — and then competing like it's the seventh game of the World Series.

I love serving and volleying with reckless abandon, not caring that my best days on the tennis court came in the eleventh grade.

I love the infinite wisdom of statistics, the way they tell you everything and nothing at all.

I love the warm sunshine of Spring Training, the leisurely pace of players practicing hitting the cutoff man, the eternal promise that this could finally be the year for the Cubs.

Sports, thank you for all the joy you've brought to me. I'm not ashamed to say it: I love you.