Another beautiful day in the greatest city in the world and there I was staring at a pile of broken bricks, disfigured steel and a mass of dirt and dust. Beneath that lay probably a few thousand rats waiting to be unleashed on the city. Before me was the construction site of the future hub of the Boston University campus. While most students and administrators are excited about the Student Village project, I have mixed feelings on the undertaking, partly because I will never get to experience the final product as a student. Sure, as an alumnus I’ll return and watch games at the arena and get fruit smoothies at the new-fangled juice bar, but it just won’t be the same. It won’t be the same mostly because I love the low ceiling and obnoxious crowds at Walter Brown Arena and would hate to see the scarlet and white playing anywhere else. There was one other reason for my apprehension, something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Oh wait, I remember. I hate fruit smoothies.

With the imaginary taste of mango-passionfruit still on my tongue, I looked around at the trucks, cranes and overweight construction workers surrounding my field of vision and I began to wonder. Ideas and images quickly came into my brain, ranging from how Buckner could possibly forget all the baseball instruction he had received in his life during that one fateful moment in Game 6 to whether or not yellow hard hats would quickly overtake Abercrombie ‘ Fitch as one of the more noticeable fashion symbols on campus. While these thoughts streamed through my head, a funny sensation came over me. It was the sick-in-the stomach sort of feeling that I get only after special occasions such as Red Sox losses, basketball games against the Cincinnati Bearcats, and anytime I meet someone from Northeastern.

I passed out. When I woke, I was treated to a fantastic sight. The construction was gone, and where I had been standing was the entrance to what looked like the new student center. At the door was an elderly gentleman who seemed to be falling asleep, but as I approached he screamed, “Welcome to the grand opening of the Student Village Center! I’m Mike Eruzione, your guide!”

While confused by it all, I decided to go along anyway. I followed Mike inside where some people were waiting. I joined them, and while Mike introduced himself, few people seemed to know who he was, ignoring his little speech about the “Miracle on Ice.” Confused again, I looked at my surroundings and all around there were sparkling surfaces, clean counters, and a bunch of people walking about with amazement on their faces.

The tour of the facility began, and we made our way into what Mike called the “Hall of Heroes.” Along the walls were statues encased in glass. I expected to see big stars like Chris Drury, Harry Agganis, Deidre Enos, and maybe even a big statue of Tunji Awojobi. Instead, I came upon an unfamiliar face. This guy was not too easy on the eyes and I didn’t recognize the name on the inscription that read “Peter Fruey”. It didn’t mention what sport he played at BU, but beneath his name it said “Former John Hancock stockholder — leading contributor — total donations $12.3 million.” I made my way down the hallway past various visages that were foreign to me when I came upon the only familiar face in the joint. It was a picture of Rick Pitino, and beneath that a small paragraph about his life that was highlighted in bold by the amount of money he’d given to the construction.

Up ahead, a frail Dennis Wolff was explaining the virtues of the high-tech sound system that was in place. Apparently no one thought to ask him to about his basketball knowledge or the great teams he’d coached.

In the corner up ahead, was a disheveled unkempt man who was mumbling. He grabbed my arm and shook it, yelling, “They forgot me, they forgot all of us! The history is gone, it’s all gone!” Walking away I noticed the ring he wore: a 1995 NCAA Hockey Championship ring with the name “Parker” on it.

The tour was over and I was feeling sick again. I collapsed and the last thing I saw was the angry face of John Silber, serving drinks at the juice bar.

Woozy and hung over, I sat up in a bed at Health Services. Around me were Mike Eruzione, Dennis Wolff, and Jack Parker. Nancy Feldman and Margaret McKeon came in and explained that I had just passed out from fumes emanating from the depths of the Armory site. They were mentioning something about rat poison, but I didn’t understand it. Anyway, all the coaches saw how worried I was about my vision of the future, and to calm me down they said, “No matter how much we build, no matter how many changes are made, the memories and history of the great athletic achievements at BU will not be forgotten.”

The long sports tradition that exists here, from the current teams all the way back to Harry Agganis, Walter Brown, and Braves Field, can not and will not be overshadowed.

Their words made me feel quite relieved, but I still had a sinking feeling about those rats.