I have three things at my desk that have become permanent fixtures of my work life.

My computer background has something related to Chicago to remind me that home is truly where the heart is. Although my heart is inching further away — I’ve taken a job as a sports reporter at The Forum in Fargo, N.D. — I know Chicago will always be waiting for me.

I also have an e-mail from a person (let’s call her Kris), thanking me for the work I do and for “putting smiles on people’s faces.”

Finally, I have a renewal form for a Daily Globe subscription in which the person who renewed their subscription wrote, “Your Sports Section (Sucks).” Although — according to grammar rules — I technically don’t have to read what was in parentheses, I did and always will.

I used to think for every thank-you there were 10 complaints. The idiots always seem to win because they are louder, and there are more of them. But through my time in Worthington, I’ve learned it’s the quiet ones that will always keep me coming back.

For every parent that has no understanding that we use human beings and cars to cover things, not 24-hour working robots and hovercrafts, there’s WHS’s Angela Robinson or K.C. Riley asking with pure excitement, “Did you get that?” about a play, as I stand with a camera at their softball game.

For every parent who calls in to ask if I have a vendetta against their child, there’s E/E’s Devin Hulstein or SWC’s Zach Huisken, who have a good enough sense of humor to discuss their playoff facial hair to some creep with a recorder.

Parents, if I had a vendetta against your child, I’d publish what they put on Twitter or Facebook. I don’t because your annoyance isn’t worth me ruining their future. Plus, what they write is often times hilarious.

For every parent that calls in to say, for example, the gymnastics article wasn’t big enough, and then calls back to say there weren’t enough gymnastics pictures, and then calls back to say who we should and shouldn’t take pictures of, there’s the family of Ellsworth’s Casey Schilling, who, for some reason, felt the need to thank me for doing my job and coming to his signing.

As another side note, parents, do not attempt to campaign for a newspaper to not interview or take pictures of an athlete based on some kind of trouble they got into. I know your child is a perfect angel, but that doesn’t mean he/she is going to get enough playing time for us to get a picture of him/her or validate interviewing him/her after a game. Let the game decide who gets interviewed and who gets pictures in the paper.

For anyone who might e-mail me to remark on the three typos in a 1,500-word story, there’s WHS’s Mitch Weg, who might be the funniest athlete I’ve covered, WHS’s Jonah Oberloh, who might be the nicest athlete I’ve covered, and WHS’s Mubarik Musa, who … well, let’s face it, Mubarik is just awesome.

For anyone who might forget all sense of common decency and feel the need to come up to me to tell me how to do my job when I’m walking into a gym nine hours after finishing the previous night’s work on my 42nd straight day at the office, there’s WHS’s Mackenzie Gerber, who always smiles and asks how I’m doing when I’m at Hy-Vee getting caffeined up to stay awake for another day of work.

For a person who might call disguising demands as requests for things like baseball standings a day after there was an all-local sports section, there’s WHS’s Dan Wetering — unable to stand, barely able to talk, after a tennis match that lasted over two hours —  thanking me for staying for his whole match in Redwood Falls, WHS’s Kate Lesnar, who does more charity in one day than most do in a lifetime, or WHS’s Alex Purdy, who is the greatest bench commentator in all of prep sports.

From here on out, the notes from my Worthington desk will be taped up at whatever desk this career hands me. They remind me why prep sports will always be dear to my heart. The athletes, coaches, athletic directors and secretaries don’t want or need any recognition, but they deserve it. There are no scholarships or contracts, but, instead, an unmatched obsession and love for sports. It’s not for the raving idiots in the stands, who apparently know how to ref, coach and even, on occasion, put together a sports section, yet never touch a whistle, clipboard or pen.

They are the loud ones. They only win because they’re too busy yelling to pay attention to the scoreboard.

Thank you for putting up with me, southwest Minnesota. Thanks for giving me stories and a platform from which to write them. You gave me a team when I couldn’t get a tryout, and I’ll never be able to repay you for it. My heart may be moving on, but part of it will take you along.

Don’t ever thank me for doing my job. I thank you for giving me stories to justify having this job. I do what I love because you allow me to.

Finally, thanks to the subscriber I mentioned earlier who made the wise choice to renew. It’s safe to read the sports section now.

There is something about sports that makes it a perfect ying to music’s yang. Whether it’s the poetry in motion almost begging to have a background guitar chord shatter the rim along with a basketball player or throttle a running back alongside a linebacker or how the exact mixture of violin strings can mesh with a hockey player weaving through traffic. No matter what the taste in music, there’s just something about the two that make pure perfection.

Music was meant for sport, and sport was meant for music. We release ourselves in both. In both we use every bit of emotion we have at an attempt of perfection.
There’s a reason there are at least four athletes with headphones doing the pregame stare into space before any athletic event.  The music is motivation.

Even though AC/DC is one of the most overrated bands of all time, seeming to do nothing but yell some horrible rock cliché or a weather forecast, “Thunderstruck” can’t be listened to without wanting to knock the snot out of someone on a football field.

With fall sports upon us, here are some songs outside of the regular “Hero” by Foo Fighters to get jacked to. If any high schooler dares to call me old due to not knowing these, I may snap. You’re the ones allowing Justin Bieber to have a career, so back off. I’ll take responsibility for allowing Limp Bizkit to make money, but you should be ashamed of yourselves for Bieber.

“On to the Next One” by Jay-Z, “Summer Overture” by  Clint Mansell, “First Breath After A Coma” by Explosions in the Sky, “Everyday” by Carly Commando,  “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica, “Bulls on Parade” by Rage Against the Machine, “Til I Collapse” by Eminem and “List of Demands” by Saul Williams, “So Whatcha Want” by the Beastie Boys and “When the Levee Breaks” by Led Zeppelin do the trick. Enjoy.

We in sports talk a big game and act as though we have a toughness that comes with covering athletes pummeling one another. We write about hits as if we’re the ones taking them.

The truth is we cover sports to stay away from real life. The hardest thing that comes with the job description is the interview after a loss.

The difference between losing a game and losing in life is there is always another game to play. There’s always another at-bat, always another snap and always another shot to take. There is no scoreboard in life. There is no touchdown dance. There are ups and downs, and the final down is unavoidable.

Mike Greenburg, known for his sports radio show on ESPN, wrote a book titled “Why My Wife Thinks I’m an Idiot.” In it, he talked about how he wanted to be a “real” journalist until he stood outside the house of Andrew Donatelli.
Donatelli was headed to college on a football scholarship and was the valedictorian of his high school class. On prom night, Donatelli and some friends were drinking beer and allegedly smoking pot on the beach. Somehow, Donatelli’s girlfriend ended up in the water, and he drowned trying to save her. Greenburg, an intern reporter at the time, was sent to the house to interview Donatelli’s parents.

Greenburg wrote:
“I couldn’t ring the bell. I had all my questions written in my yellow reporter’s pad but I couldn’t ask them; I knew it was my job but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t ask a woman I’d never met how it felt to go to Malcolm and Brothers Funeral Home on Worth Avenue at five in the morning with a football uniform and a navy blue Brooks Brothers suit because she couldn’t decide which her son would have wanted to be buried in. I have all the respect in the world for people who ask that question, but I can’t.”

After that experience Greenburg wrote that his adviser asked him if he thought about covering sports, and the rest is history.

We cover games. We write about athletes. What we do is not life or death. We don’t plan on ever having our hands shake profusely as we look up whether or not to refer to dead 5-month old as an infant in the Associated Press stylebook or take a deep breath before calling someone whose 20-year-old best friend just died in a car accident.

It’s part of the job, and it’s disrespectful to the deceased to avoid the story. Their voices have ended, but their story can be told through friends and family.

Without them, there is no story.

Those friends and family members who have lost someone, however, have all the right in the world to hang up the phone or slam the door before a reporter can even begin to utter what media outlet they are from.

I was lucky enough to write a story about Worthington 2010 graduate Mitch Benson, who died in a car accident on Aug. 3,  thanks to Mitch Jensen, Kyle Hain, Gary Brandt and Dennis Hale not hanging up the phone on me.

They told the story. All I had to do was write it.
And I can never thank them enough.