Zeke III leaps to catch a frisbee inside Spartan Stadium (photo by Nick Robinson).

Crack Shot by NICK ROBINSON

Part of being a journalism student is experiencing the trials and tribulations of the profession, but sometimes things go so badly that all you can do is swear.

The alarm blares at 7 AM, on the dot. Still drunk after only 4 hours of sleep, I forget that I have a roommate. "GODDAMNSONOFAFUCKINGBITCH!" I yell to the world before closing my mouth and scurrying down my loft, trying not to wobble it too much, and run to the bathroom. Shower, teeth, contacts, and I'm out the door, pulling on my Michigan State hoodie and plugging my iPod into my ears to drown out the road noise. I've still got a long walk ahead, and time is against me.

In the twenty minutes to Wilson Hall, I remind myself I need to get to Matt's room to pick up the video camera, then back to the stadium by eight to meet up with Pam, find Jim and Terry Foley, and tape the new Zeke -- that is, Zeke the Wonder Dog III -- making his first appearance at a MSU football game. Zeke III is part of a tradition that dates back to 1977 when the first Zeke made his debut, followed by Zeke II (real name: Dexter), and now ZIII (whose name happens to be Boo Coo). I volunteered to film him for my online magazine, and the Foleys, the owners, invited me to watch him practice at 8 AM, before the game.

Five minutes from Wilson, I phone Matt -- apparently his first call of the morning as he tries to remember who I am -- who reluctantly agrees to meet me in the lobby. When I arrive, the building is still locked tight and I slam into the door, cracking my head hard against the glass. Matt comes out to meet me, still too groggy to laugh out loud at my stupidity. He hands me the camera, with a warning:

"Yeah, man, I don't know. I couldn't get it to work right for me last night, and I think the battery might be dying."

Are you fucking kidding me! I want to slap his hung-over ass square in the jaw, but I settle for gentlemanly restraint; I take the camera, say thanks, and walk over to the stadium. 7:45: I still need to hustle so I don't miss the Foleys.

I fiddle with the camera to see if I can actually work it, but Matt was right. The battery is essentially dead, its memory chip completely full. My camera chip isn't the same type, and there are no spares. I won't be able to get the video onto my computer, even if the battery holds up long enough. I might as well be stuck in the Stone Age, carving on a fucking tablet.

At the stadium, there's no sign of Zeke III, so I call Pam, who's actually writing the story. I had invited her to come along, meet the trainers, and pet Zeke, as I'm sure all Spartans dream of doing one day. She was very excited and, in fact, I was somewhat surprised she wasn't already there. Her phone rings, she finally picks up, also sounding sedated. I ask her if she is coming and she says no.

"I didn't get off work until one this morning, and I can't make it. I'll just talk about Zeke at the game. That should be enough. Sorry."

Well, that's just great. Not only do I have a malfunctioning camcorder, but the writer isn't going to show either. My head hurts and I'm still a little tipsy. It is now 8 AM, and no sign of the new Zeke or the Foleys. I manage to reach Terry.

"Oh, hi Nick. Yeah, we're running a bit late. We are still on the highway, and we should get there around 9 or so. Is that OK? I hope that's not a problem."

What can I say? I scream bloody-fucking-murder in my head, but I keep my anger under control -- gentlemanly restraint again. It isn't their fault; it is mine for being born. I tell her it would be fine, that my camcorder didn't work, but I could take pictures, and the girl writing the story won't be able to make it. I feel like a jackass, displaying just how shitty a young, inexperienced journalist could be.

I call my mom, trying to repress the drunkenness of my words, and vent. I wander over to a convenience store and buy a hot chocolate. I'm freezing, tired, and pissed off at the world. I've done so little for the magazine already, and if I do a shitty job of this, I feel I will be letting everyone down. I wrote a straight news story the previous year, the complete opposite of the magazine's goal to be alternative and cynical; I was mainstream and bland.

The Foleys show up around 9:30. I spot Boo Coo, I mean ZIII, a beautiful young Yellow Labrador, anxious and excited. I am struck by how grizzled Jim looks. He has a five-o'clock shadow, rough and gray, and a cigarette hangs loosely from his chapped lips. Terry is warm and inviting, shaking my hand. I thank them for letting me come out here with them, and they apologize for taking so long. I play it off like it is no big deal, and I think they believed me. At least, they probably want to believe me.

We walk onto the field, Terry carrying a small, black duffel filled with Frisbees. I have my camera ready, snapping whatever shots I can with a crappy zoom. Jim takes the leash off Zeke, grabbing a handful of discs, and walks onto the field, Zeke yapping and jumping at his feet.

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