And I’m Zach Dillard

If procrastination is a sign of ingenuity, then I might just have a chance in this world — perhaps as the next Ring Lardner. For those who don’t know Ring Lardner, do not fret, I just Googled it. The hope was that if I put this autobiography off long enough, that Joe would give me a call and tell me not to worry about it, either for fear of exposing a dark, criminal past or my blatant lack of a readable tale about my life.

And yet, no call came.

So here I am writing on a Friday afternoon as the sun tries its best to warm the air past 50 degrees and my roommates call me a loser for putting off playing basketball up at Ramsey for another 15 minutes. Yes, the athletic glories on the courts of Ramsey, where 3-pointers a

re miraculously worth the same amount of points as layups, are on hold at the moment.

But athletic glories have always been put on hold for myself, so the feeling is a usual one.

I was born and raised in the Carolinas, although I only officially latch onto North Carolina as my home state. A transfer brought my father, as well as the rest of our five-person family unit, down to Lawrenceville, Ga., just as the Olympics were slowly drifting away and Richard Jewell was still known as the Olympic bomber. Eric Rudolph was a no-name

in those days.

Yes, 1996 brought me to Atlanta along with the rest of the world. The only difference being that once Bob Costas and NBC packed up their equipment and left, I still had to stay. But I have always stayed true to my roots, clinging to the North Carolina Tar Heels, basketball and everything else that defines someone from North Carolina outside of inbreeding (which only takes place up in the mountains anyways).

I grew up a sports fanatic in a loving home, playing everything I could from the time I could walk with biased encouragement from my parents. I ended up graduating from Central Gwinnett High School with a few soccer scholarships, a lack of motivation, a shady academic track record and no real goal for what I wanted out of life.

Eventually, that surpassed — at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

After a brief stint at Georgia Southern where I got my grades and act together (who goes there to do that anymore?), I ended up here at Georgia, lost and confused on a huge campus, surrounded by good-looking girls who were much smarter than me and, most importantly, a hole in my wallet where a fake ID should rest. So I focused on my grades, got involved writing sports for The Red & Black and freelancing for other sports publications.

But honestly, I am just counting down the days to when I can write a book on the life and times of Kenny Mayne.

Big dreams.

After graduation, with that framed degree tucked under my arm stating my dominance over the world of undergraduate collegiate professors, the goal is to find a newspaper or magazine who could use a rambling sports writer without too much dedication to the serious side of life. Writing features would be a good plan if I were to discover a better writing acumen (see, that word doesn’t even go there), and writing about the business side of sports would work out if I actually knew anything about business.

But am I lost? No.

Someone out there is dumb enough to hire me after college. It’s all about finding the most gullible cookie in the jar. Until then, I’m just biding my time.