I’m a professional. I know how this is done. Game column on deadline when the local team wins the World Series? Did two of those. Game column on deadline when the local team blows a 25-point Super Bowl lead? Did one of those. Predictions? I’ve offered a zillion, two or three of which panned out. Reflections when a coach gets fired? Give me 45 minutes.
I know, or I thought I knew, how to write anything. After three days of trying, I’m ready to concede that I’ve made a mess of this.
I started Friday. I touched up what I’d written Saturday. I decided I hated it Sunday, so I wrote something else. I came home from Mass and declared Take 2 even worse. This is Take 3, which has some of Take 1 and none of Take 2. There’s a chance it’s likewise terrible.
In my defense, I’ve never retired before. This is my first — and surely last — farewell column.
I’ve spent my adult life trying to put things in perspective. This time I’m the subject. I have no idea how to put me in perspective. Here are the facts. Make of them what you will.
I planned none of this. I was headed for law school in Louisville until I realized I couldn’t leave Lexington and the person I’d been seeing. (Penny and I were married in 1982. We still are.) I took a job covering UK sports for a weekly publication. I got fired after four months. My availability coincided with the Lexington Herald-Leader needing someone to cover high schools. Thus commenced a career of stumbling upward.
I joined the AJC’s best-in-the-nation sports department in March 1984. I wasn’t sure I belonged. That I’m still here, 40-plus years later, remains a source of amazement.
I was on the high side of 60 before I considered retiring. I was 64 when I hit on an exit strategy. I stumbled over that, too. My plan was to get through the 2020 Final Four in Mercedes-Benz Stadium and call it a day — except there was no 2020 Final Four. COVID happened.
Our challenge was to fill a sports section with no games being played. Chris Vivlamore, the best of all the sports editors for whom I worked, kept throwing out ideas — Mount Rushmores, what-ifs, remember-whens. We writers offered notions of our own. Ken Sugiura’s were especially inspired. (He’s the reigning Georgia sportswriter of the year. His columns are a reason to keep reading the AJC.)
As scary as the pandemic was, I consider the lockdown our department’s finest hour. I got so caught up in the day-to-day that it wasn’t until midsummer that the thought occurred: “Weren’t you supposed to be retired by now?”
I kept going. I’m glad I did. Covering the Braves’ rise from mediocrity to 2021 World Series champs was the giddiest month of my time here. Producing a thrice-weekly newsletter these past 2½ years brought a fresh challenge. I’m not leaving because I love this job any less. I’m leaving because my next birthday will start with a 7.
Know all the things old folks tell you about getting old? That you don’t see as well at night? That you can’t stay awake after 11? That you creak whenever you stand up? Some of them are true. As Bobby Cox once told me: “Don’t wait too long to stop. If you do, you’ll be too old to do anything.” (Cox retired at 69, FYI.)
Those are the facts. I have no problem reciting them. Here’s the part I know I’ll botch.
To all those at the AJC over these many years: I can’t thank you enough, though I’ll continue to try.
To Penny, Rachel, Elizabeth and Allison: Thanks for overcoming my failings as spouse/dad/grandpa.
To all those who took the time to read these scribblings: Knowing someone out there was paying attention ... well, this is me getting choked up.
I got lucky. I stumbled into the world’s best job. Thanks for allowing me to become a small part of your life. Please know you were a huge part of mine.
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