I think it all started in the fourth grade. We were learning about the U.S. colonies, and we had a homework assignment. Our task was to create a colony of our own. We had to come up with a name, landmarks, religious ideals, currency, etc.

My nine-year-old mind created “Sportstralia,” a sort of sports utopia. The landmarks were Mantle Mountain and Willis Reed River (Can you tell I’m from New York?). People, who were shaped like tennis rackets and baseball bats, naturally, worshipped at the altar of Babe Ruth, Overlord of Sportstralia. Baseball cards served as currency and children learned how to multiply by seven while watching football, which sadly enough, is how I learned to do the same.

Why am I telling you this? Because this was the first symptom I showed being a Sports Dork, an affliction that still haunts me to this day.

For the first, say, 20 years of my life, I thought I had an edge over those who didn’t like sports, or who liked sports but couldn’t talk about them ad nauseum like I can. Being a jock made you cool in the ’90s. Then I found myself watching Game 7 of the Yanks-Sox Series (The Grady Little one) by myself in my apartment at Rutgers. This was the biggest game in our lifetime, and nobody wanted to watch it. That’s the moment when I began rehashing my life, and came to the conclusion that sports has a stranglehold on me. I am a Sports Dork.

Here is a compilation of why I classify myself as such. If you have some similar experiences, consult your doctor, for you too may be infected.

1) For my writing placement exam at Rutgers, I wrote a three-page essay on Michael Jordan overcoming the Pistons to analyze a quote along the lines of overcoming challenges.

2) My friend Josh and I have gone on for hours naming numbers of players from any era. And that doesn’t just mean professional and college players. We could remember the numbers of our entire high school basketball and softball teams. By the way, he was 41, I was 23.