Two months ago I agreed, with much hesitation, to be the sports editor of the Mirror. English majors don’t normally equal sports editors, and we all know it.

I’ll admit that I was nervous about the transition between not liking sports and pretending to like sports for money, but I had no idea that the reaction from readers would be so hostile.

They gave me wrong directions in the Elmen, stuffed crudely drawn football plays into my mailbox, and generally avoided me by taking strides I couldn’t keep up with.

Look, I get it. It’s hard to accept someone who hails from way across campus and doesn’t have a standing reach of 12 feet. I’d be wary of someone two feet shorter than me, too.

But boy have I proved you wrong. If I hadn’t made a big to-do about my upgrade to sports editor, you never would have known, would you?

Not a single time have I mixed up the difference between a touchdown and a first down. Totally different sports. Duh.

I’ve taken great pains to learn all the little nuances of athletics. For example, a turnover is when a soccer player gets too close to another person, flops on the ground, then turns over onto his back so everyone can witness his excruciating pain.

And when was the last time that I cheered for the wrong team while taking notes for my section? If you don’t count last week (I don’t think I should be penalized for just clapping), then it was the week before that. Two whole weeks. Count ‘em.

So here’s the deal. All you athletic, sports-savvy readers have had your fun. I think my initiation is complete. I’m the [insert athlete of your choice here] of sports editing, so you’d better just get used to me.