"Hey Sweetie," I begin in a Sunday night call from the dorm payphone. "What's up this week?" "My mother says you can't call collect anymore," Karen cries, frantic we might not be able to talk regularly. "She says it costs too much, but I really think she doesn’t like me dating a college guy." “Tell her I’m still only seventeen,” I laugh to hide dismay at being cut off from my emotional lifeline back home. “I'm just a year older than you.” “They want me to apply to Renssalaer where Dad went," she decries as the sobs stop, "but I’m going to Louisville to be with you!” I was about to turn eighteen and was really two years older, but Karen Schindelar didn't have to be reminded in that moment of crisis. I also wasn't ready to tell her about my second thoughts on sports at the University of Louisville. We'd dated for a year and had been intimate for nearly that long, and we'd talked on the phone and wri...