They're retired now, but the first thing they mentioned after all these years was how lucky I've been to be doing what I'd dreamed about as a kid in Broomall.
They were right.
Such an ambition might seem modest in retrospect. Not many parents nudge their kids to be sportswriters. Not many of us get rich. We don't heal the sick or feed the hungry. And most of our shirts have ink stains on the pockets.
But I wish I could tell you what it feels like to be sitting in a press box on deadline when, with caffeine and adrenaline pumping through your veins, with phones ringing and tempers flaring and keyboards clacking, you somehow find just the right words.
If you don't know what I mean, read that new collection of Bill Lyon's columns.
Of course, sportswriting has been devalued. Everybody does it now. All you need is a laptop, an opinion, and a pallor. You throw some words together, slap them on the Internet, and hope the world beats a path to your blog.
More power to you.
But it's just not the same.
Those people will never know how tough it is when a player you criticized is waiting, offending article in hand, to jump down your throat as you enter a locker room.
They won't know how breathtaking it is to be sitting two rows back from the field during an Olympics opening ceremony in Beijing.
They won't know the thrill of that first time you saw your name through the window of an honor box.
Sure, you need a strong stomach, a good pair of shoes, a tolerance for travel, and a love of both sports and words. It's not for everybody. And, with more and more newspapers cutting back, it might soon be for nobody.
During our reunion, my old friends asked why they seldom saw me on TV. Logical question.
Many of my former Inquirer sports colleagues have managed to unmoor themselves from the rickety old pier that is newspapering and sailed off toward bluer seas.
