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Are student-athletes masochists?

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Are student-athletes masochists?

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Somewhere just outside of Hoboken, N.J. on the night of Tuesday, Nov. 27, I reached an astonishing conclusion, one that nearly made me choke on my Wendy’s chicken sandwich and one that will surely break psychological ground in just a matter of weeks. I, Emma Carmichael, am what I hereafter classify an “athletic masochist.” Let me explain my reasoning and the specifics of this landmark term. That Tuesday, I found myself on a stuffy Coach bus at about 12:30 in the morning. Three hours earlier I had played 35 minutes in a basketball game against Stevens Institute of Technology, during which I had been thrown to the floor more times than I could count by players that could probably bench my body weight. I had dalmatian-like bruises dotting my upper arms, and a suspicious pain crawling up my left foot and into my calf. I was eating a barely-cooked piece of meat from Wendy’s (definitely not free-range chicken), and a large glob of the mysterious orange-tinted sauce had just dripped onto my u

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