First of all, I'd like to thank the Academy. What's that? The Oscars are over? I don't want to say they were too long, but when Canadian figure skaters Jamie Sale and David Pelletier came up to accept their honorary awards you knew things were getting ridiculous. I've seen World Series games move at a brisker pace.

But all things do eventually reach their end, and so it is here. This is my last sports column for the Sun-Sentinel. But hold those cartwheels and fireworks. To paraphrase new Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria: I'm not going anywhere, except one section forward. Fresh challenges await me as a Broward metro columnist in the Local section. Believe it or not, I'm trading in fun and games for the real world.

Some people think I'm crazy. Some friends, who make a lot more than I do, say they'd do anything to have my job. But you reach a point where all the games and seasons blur, where you've covered all the Olympics and Super Bowls you care to, where the thought of another trip to Buffalo or Foxboro to chronicle the latest Dolphins swoon becomes -- blasphemous to say -- boring. Then you know it's time.

In order to keep your fastball, sometimes you have to throw yourself a curve. I'm lucky. I get to change jobs without calling Mayflower, get to leave my comfort zone without giving up my January tan, and I get to write about a wacky place that has, after 13 years, become home.

What I'll miss, and what I won't, about being a sports writer ...

I'll miss April days in Augusta. My idea of heaven: Monday before the Masters, no column to write, re-enter Augusta National's pearly gates, walk down to Amen Corner, see if the azaleas are blooming, meander back to the clubhouse, catch up with old friends under the big oak tree, sip a vodka-and-lemonade on the veranda at sunset. I won't miss the gold-plated signs in parts of the clubhouse, enforced the other 51 weeks a year, that say "Gentlemen Only."

I'll miss fall Saturdays in Tallahassee and Gainesville. I'll miss the pregame routines, the burning spear thrown into the ground and the video of alligators slithering out of the swamp. I'll miss Bobby Bowden and his dadgummits and I'll miss the loud, sweaty atmosphere of Florida's open-air press box. I won't miss the 5 a.m. wake-up calls the next morning if I'm supposed to make it to a Dolphins game.

I'll miss the Hurricanes swaggering through the smoke at the Orange Bowl. I won't miss wondering what just dripped on me as I walked underneath the Orange Bowl.

I'll miss getting to watch Tiger Woods inside the ropes. I won't miss listening to him in the interview room.

I'll miss World Series games at Yankee Stadium. I won't miss getting to Yankee Stadium.

I'll miss Kevin Millar and Cliff Floyd in the clubhouse before Marlins games. I won't miss the never-ending move/fold/stadium watch surrounding the Marlins (and sorry, but I'll still have to write about these things in news).

I'll miss Zach Thomas riffing on just about everything after a Dolphins game. I won't miss waiting around an empty locker room for an hour during the team's alleged "media availability" on practice days.

I'll miss the Debbie Black-and-blue bandages posted at Sol games, for every time the scrappy point guard hit the floor. I won't miss the $20 parking at Heat games (yeah, I got reimbursed, but it's the principle).

I'll miss Pat Riley and his endless ability to fascinate and fill up a notebook. I won't miss his team's playoff flops.

I'll miss surprise teams going on dream runs, like the 1996 Panthers. I won't miss dog teams going nowhere, like the recent Panther editions.

I'll miss being at Churchill Downs the first week in May, up at dawn for the Derby workouts, done writing before the early double. I won't miss the Loverboy concerts at Gulfstream.

I'll miss Marriott points. I won't miss sharing a room with a snoring colleague for three weeks at the Salt Lake Shilo Inn (yes, Hyde, that means you).

I'll miss the Chik-Fil-A across from Gate A19 at Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta. I won't miss doing the Delta dash at Hartsfield, 10 minutes until your connecting flight two terminals away! Good luck and have a nice heart attack!

I'll miss 1 p.m. NFL kickoffs, 12:30 p.m. NBA tipoffs, and all the other games I can actually watch. I won't miss Monday Night Football, the NBA Finals or any other event that begins after 9 p.m. or ends after midnight.

I'll miss the adrenaline rush of being up against it at a big game. I won't miss pounding out five different leads in a span of 10 minutes, head buried in my laptop, only to look up when the crowd goes wild 20 seconds before deadline and yelp, "What just happened?" And then all us poor writers stare blankly and helplessly at the televisions overhead, waiting for the replay like the experts we are.

It's been a fun run.