This entry is written by Carl Ehrlich, a football student-athlete at Harvard. Check out Carl's previous blogs: Playing Under the Lights, Summer Dogs , R.I.C.E. and A tale of two lives

On every road trip that we take during the season, our first stop when getting into town (our regular lunch stop aside) is the opposing team's field. We have a team "walk-around" on the field the day before the game and it's a well-liked tradition because it combines an essential mental preparatory process with a much needed stretching of the legs.

We arrange our departure time from Harvard Stadium in order to arrive at the opposing field around two o'clock (all meticulously planned in our weekend schedule), and the entire experience has become almost as much of my game preparation as warm-ups themselves. No matter the stadium or length of the bus ride, this entire experience is very much the same each week.

I stir from my sleep in the aisle of the bus by the abrupt stops and exaggerated turns that let me know we are off the highway and approaching our destination. After convincing myself that we're just taking a detour and attempting to return to my sleep amongst the Gatorade bottles and backpacks on the floor, my suspicions are confirmed as Sean Hayes kicks me to let me know we are, in fact, pulling into the stadium. We all scramble to put our travel suits, sneakers and "game faces" back on in case any players from the other team are hanging around.

We briefly scope out the facilities, take a look into the locker room we will be changing in the next day and then head out to the field. I don't want to get too deep into travel game schedules because they deserve (and will be given) a blog of their own later this season, so I will instead talk about how walking into Princeton's stadium traditionally gives me a different feeling than any other place we play.

Last Friday was the fifth time I've walked into Powers Field. I was there the summer before my senior year in high school when I attended their camp, the fall of my senior year in high school when I went to one of their games, the winter of my senior year in high school on my official visit, my sophomore year at Harvard when we played there and this time made five.

Walking onto the field for my quinquennial Princeton anniversary, my attention was immediately drawn to press boxes on top of the stadium where I ate dinner on the last night of my recruiting visit (Note: In the movie of my season, "high school Carl" is looking back down at me, but for blog purposes I'll just remember I stood up there).

I've forgotten a lot of things about my football career and the recruiting process, but I'll never forget sitting at the top of that stadium and looking down at that field. I knew that in the coming weeks I would be pressed for a decision on which school I would be heading to (at that time I was down to Harvard, Princeton, Yale and USC. Well, not USC) and I took a minute to look down on the field and really think about if I could call this home. I couldn't.

Getting recruited is a very difficult process for all parties involved, because it's like the collegiate athletic version of "The Bachelor." The recruits are the contestants, constantly trying to convince the coaches that they are good enough. But, at a certain point the recruits have to take a step back and think about if they are really ready to commit to a school or not. The only thing worse than having a school not be interested in you would be to be accepted to that school and find out that you made the wrong decision (and dare I mention the Q-word).

At that point in the recruiting process, I was lucky enough to be in the driver's seat and having the interest of my top three choices of schools, it was now on me to decide where I felt most comfortable. But there will be no "locker room material" from me in this blog about why I didn't choose another school, as I chose Harvard because I liked it the most, not hated it the least.

The one disparaging thing I will say about my visit to Princeton that weekend, is that I got a weird feeling about the kids I was going to be surrounding myself with. This sentiment came directly from the other recruit that I was being hosted with. He wore beat up moccasins, with one of the most epic bowl-cuts I had ever seen in my life and the rest of him in between followed suit. (In all fairness, I was wearing muddy Timberland boots, my letterman jacket and, as my family will never let me forget, walked around with a toothpick in my mouth so I wasn't much better).

I don't know what started the problem, but I didn't hit it off very well with "Bowl Cut," as I less than endearingly called him to my friends back home, and was less than excited at the possibility of heading off to school with him for four years. I did make friends with a skinny tight end from Indiana (Jason Miller) and dread-locked fellow Maryland native (the now clean-cut Andrew Berry), but after talking to them it sounded like they were more interested in Harvard. After my visit to Cambridge, I was sold as well.

But, to my disappointment, the first person I saw when I arrived on Harvard campus my freshman year was "Bowl Cut." He had arrived a day early with a new hair cut and I had arrived with a new attitude, and ever since, Glen Dorris and I have gotten along very well.

Talking about this before practice one day last week, I felt like I had to confess to him that one of the biggest reasons I came to Harvard was because I hated him so much on our recruiting visit. He burst into laughter and yelled, "ME TOO!"