Maybe it’s my Southern upbringing. Maybe I’m a softie for that first-day-of-classes mentality. Maybe I’m breaking all the rules.

But I cannot start my first column here at Mr. Jefferson’s University without telling you a little bit about myself. That way, when you want to tell me I’m an idiot, you have a wealth of knowledge to use against me.

Now, before you stop reading, I’m not here to tell you that I like sunsets and dolphins or that my 23-year-old brother and I still watch “ThunderCats” whenever possible. These things may or may not be true, but they do not belong on the sports page. They pay me the big bucks — $0 — to wash eloquently about sports and all that entails.

So here it goes: I love sports. Huge fan. Love ‘em. And I want my love of sports to give you a sense of where I am coming from when I write. Whether I am playing, watching or writing about sports, I am always involved and entranced. I will defend sports’ value and worth to those who think they are just a bunch of games — especially when times get tough.

I love sports writing — whether it’s my local Charlotte paper or espn.com. I believe sports writing serves a purpose that has been somewhat lost in today’s oversaturated media market. It is supposed to add to the overall enjoyment of following a team or sport; we are not here to merely report the facts of the local teams and games. On the flip side of that, I do not believe in sports writing as noise, as a forum to antagonize fans and stir up rumors in the name of ratings and attention.

I love watching sports with one eye keenly looking for the comedy of it all. If you take sports too seriously or make a point to hash out all of today’s athletes’ flaws, you are sorely missing out on the bigger picture. Yes, sports can be important, and some subjects are worthy of discussion, but sports are far more valuable if you can step back, laugh and be entertained. Take Rafael Palmeiro and his steroid saga. Instead of getting worked up over the possibility that he lied, it’s a lot more entertaining when you realize we should have never trusted a guy with a porn mustache like that in the first place.

I love good, solid sport names and nicknames –- they put a hop in my step. Marques “Biscuit” Hagans: I’ll follow him. CoCo Crisp: scintillating name for an outfielder. Deuce McAllister: just sounds like 1,400 rushing yards. Roy Hobbs: greatest ball player who ever lived. I mean, I’m seriously pumped up about the UNC-Virginia football game just because the Tar Heels might start a freshman tailback named Cooter Arnold. Imagine the possibilities.

I love sports done right: a Little League game with no screaming parents. A transition bucket in basketball where the ball never touches the ground. A Keith Jackson- called Saturday afternoon college football game. These things give me a sense of peace the way my mom’s spaghetti does. They indicate good quality of life.

But what I love most about sports is the worlds into which it can take you. As a fan, brazen emotions spill forth, and you maintain little control over yourself. As a participant, sports can take you to imaginative places with absolute freedoms. For example, this summer, at the beach, three friends and I made up the most awesome Wiffleball game ever. The four of us are in varying stages of our twenties –- ranging from 20- to 28-years-old –- and we were collectively well past our athletic prime. But using only an Official Wiffle bat and ball, the tides and our imagination, we created a game that provided competition and entertainment for hours. We weren’t merely hitting a feather-weight ball around in the sand. We were taking heroic games into extra innings in front of record crowds. We were in another world.

Hopefully this year, I can help provide insight, spark debate and guide us through what should prove to be a great year in the Virginia sports world and beyond.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to convince my brother to buy the ThunderCats DVD.