But I went. I watched. A kindly coach (Thanks, Len Cyterski) lingered after the game to chat me through it.
Back at the newspaper, I put five sheets of 8.5x11-inch newsprint, sandwiched around four pieces of carbon paper, into the manual typewriter, looked at it — and froze. My deadline was about 20 minutes away.
A kindly sportswriter (Thanks, Bill Shelley) told me what to do. “Just tell your mother about the game,” he said. “Or tell your dad, but if you use him as your audience, don’t cuss!”
I wrote it. They printed it. People read it. I got money. They would pay me money to TELL STORIES! This wasn’t work. This was fun. It ended as a full-time job this past March, but only because, at age 70, I had ossified enough to semi-retire.
“Would you want to write two or three editorials a week for awhile?” I was asked. We agreed on the compensation. I have been writing six, for no more money. It’s still fun.