I NEVER DREAMED of being a sports columnist.

I have been a sports fanatic now since I was about five. I remember when I first learned of football and the NFL. As a youngster,I got up one morning and poured Cocoa Puffs cereal into a bowl, when out of the box fell a clear cellophane wrapper holding a miniature plastic football helmet.

The vision of that Chicago Bears helmet in my cereal inspired me to react in a way any five-year-old boy would when he holds a small football figurine: I tried to swallow the helmet whole. Nearly choked on the damn thing.

That incident was a turning point in my life for three reasons:

1. I never ate Cocoa Puffs again.

2. I developed an extreme distaste for the Chicago Bears.

3. I was on my way to becoming an NFL and Dallas Cowboys fan.

But even bigger than those things, I started having dreams every other boy my age was experiencing.

I dreamt a dream that dominated my days and nights — a dream shared by 10-year-old males waltzing playgrounds around the world, a dream eternally resting in the minds of every young guy who hits his first baseball, throws his first football or shoots his first basketball. This dream kept me awake many a night.

That dream was to marry Cindy Crawford.

But secondly, I dreamt of becoming a professional athlete, specifically a professional baseball player.

I started out strong in little league, batting in the prestigious clean-up spot and making the Bettendorf Little League All Star teams. Still, when I got older and began playing baseball for the Bettendorf Bulldogs I learned one very important lesson that stayed with me to this day: I stunk at baseball.

Dreams now shattered and nearly forgotten, Cindy Crawford lost nightly spot to Sheryl Crow, and I have taken the route of so many other great sandlot heroes: I sit on the couch for hours on end with my roommates watching sporting event after sporting event.

I would say I am now very much an average football, basketball or baseball fan, in the sense that I believe my ability to second-guess professional athletic rivals and the coaching talents of a John Wooden or Bill Walsh.

On occasion my roommates and I, after downing a few beers and some Italian bratwursts, have taken football out of the living room and into the back yard to demonstrate just how the Dallas Cowboys could have beaten the Arizona Cardinals a few weeks ago.

We show this is easily done when we toss a tight spiral over the garage, through a pear tree and into the outstretched arms of a would-be Michael Irvin.

I love being a fan. I have dreamt of being a star, and someday I might just be a coach, but I never thought I would be a sports columnist.

I now have been given the brief opportunity to put my years of cultivated sports knowledge to work, something the great names Chris Berman, Dan Patrick and Marv Albert have been doing for years.

As a final thought, I have found that a sportswriter isn’t worth half his weight if he can’t successfully incorporate athletic jargon. For example, “execute better,” “stay focused” or “get that killer instinct.”

So in parting, I tell you how I will do just that. Saturday morning I will wake up to prepare for the Iowa vs. OSU game on ABC, I’m going to get focused, find that killer instinct and execute a few Miller Lites.

---

Aaron Senneff is a senior in computer engineering from Bettendorf.