Late in November, back in the previous century and millennium, a callow young man just 18 months removed from his college days settled into a new job at Eagle Newspapers where the only responsibility was to work and write – in both cases, a lot.
Now, as another November turns into another December, the days are short, the nights long and the temperature rarely raising above the freezing mark, that same man, no longer young and far more calloused, still has that job.
Twenty-five years have passed.
Just writing those four words stirs deep, profound emotions.
First, the sheer length of time, which was never the original plan but has turned into my life’s work. Second, all the places I have gone, all the games covered, in everything from subzero chill to blazing heat, witnessing the full spectrum of life’s emotions, from ecstasy to despair, giddy smiles and bitter tears.
Life has brought a lot, too, from initial loneliness to marriage and family life and increased responsibilities that can certainly overwhelm me but never break my spirit.
So many colleagues, and more than a few friends, have entered and exited my rather closed circle, each of them leaving unique marks through their words and their examples. To them, and to so many others, I owe so much.
Others would use this space, and this opportunity, to recall famous names they covered or met, try to impress you by their brushes with fame, or point out the famous moments along the way.
All that is nice, but familiar. Gratitude need not involve self-glorification, especially if that glory was earned by others and your only real role was to witness it and, perhaps, write something about it that people remember.
It all comes back to an existential question which has always accompanied my journey. Why do this, when more attention, perhaps more recognition, certainly more of a fortune, may have existed elsewhere?
As always, the answer lies not in a few clever phrases, but in the hearts and souls of every single player, coach and fan I have encountered from my young adulthood to well into middle age.
Sure, many of them would gain college scholarships, some would turn into professionals and a few of them might achieve fame beyond their Central New York roots, but most of them would never play at a level of sports beyond high school and, as such, this would represent their pinnacle.
When they did achieve something great, the emotions they would display would not be forgotten, and even better, the way their families, their friends and their communities would line up behind them creates a magic that cannot be replicated at higher levels where sometimes the pressure is so great that a championship is something endured, not enjoyed.
Does it all get to be too much? Yes, the sheer volume of sports can prove exhausting, and by June a respite is a must, or complete burnout may have happened many year ago.
Somehow, it has never morphed into a complete desire to run away. As the years move on, though, I can sympathize more and more with those who do want to maintain their balance of life and make sure things like family and friends are not casualties.
At the same time, a sane, grounded perspective never allows me to get completely wrapped up in what takes place on a field or court or ice rink or any other sports surface. These are glorious games, but they are still games, reflecting our lives but never, ever taking them over.
Years back, at an early-season basketball tournament long forgotten to history, I was talking to an athletic director about whether I would return the following night, perhaps wishy-washy or just unsure. He promptly told me that of course I would be there, and he was right.
Try as this body might to steer clear of this wonderful scene and the (mostly) wonderful people within it, my heart, and soul, always returns, finds renewal and rejuvenation, and reminds me that this is exactly where I want to be and exactly what I want to do.
That was true in 1998. It’s still true now.
