A Farewell to Words

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

We were introduced via a rolled up, well-traveled newspaper.  Our meetings were frequent.  He did all the talking.  His opinions would occasionally cause me to mumble a reply or blurt out a passionate counterpoint, but he never heard a word I said.  On any day.  Ever.  The one-way interactions weren’t bothersome; we had a lot in common – music, righteousness, an appreciation for writing and the press, and, most importantly, an insatiable appetite for sports. 

For my entire childhood, my dad was out the door long before my alarm rang for school.  Accompanying him, on a road to some Southern Maryland jobsite, was that day’s edition of The Washington Post.  He would return home long after my school day ended with a folded and tightly rolled Sports section with him, looking as used and abused as his work boots.  To me, it was perfect.  Pure gold. 

Within this daily masterpiece was a window into one of the few worlds that made sense and provided comfort during adolescence: sports.  I poured through box scores, monitored individual player statistics and religiously read the literary works of talented columnists.  Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon were my go-tos.  I loved Kornheiser’s humor and Wilbon’s directness.  But there were others.  Thomas Boswell.  Sally Jenkins.  David Aldridge.  Even an infrequent piece by the legendary Shirely Povich.  Think about that list.  Extraordinary talents, many of whom transcended the pages of The Post to find greater fame. 

The Post’s Sport section is where I “met” another of my favorite writers: John Feinstein.  Feinstein, author of numerous sports and children’s book, may have been the most prolific writer of them all.  His book, “A Season on the Brink” about the 1985-86 Indiana Hoosiers men’s basketball team and Bob Knight, its combative head coach, is regarded as one of the best sports books of all time.  (“Where Nobody Knows Your Name: Life in the Minor Leagues of Baseball” is a recommended read for distraction seekers - and who isn’t?)  Like many Post colleagues, Feinstein also grew beyond print media, doing stints on ESPN’s classic show “The Sports Reporters” and a long-running weekly appearance on the The Sports Junkies radio show. 

John Feinstein died suddenly last week.  He was 69.  Fittingly, given his prolific writing career, his last Post column was published on the day he passed.  The tone is routine Feinstein and the subject, the longevity of Michigan State men’s basketball Head Coach Tom Izzo, is benign.  But the near future that would be realized soon after Feinstein created this piece made it a heavy read; to borrow a title from a classic Ernest Hemingway novel, it is a farewell to the author, the words he produced and those left unwritten, at least in this dimension. 

Life is full of farewells, “final columns”, if you will.  The last day of formal schooling.  The last day of work.  The last time you fish with a childhood friend.  The last time you hike that intense summit trail in Shenandoah.  The last time you see a favorite athlete play.  The last birthday.  The last Christmas.  The last beer.  The last hug.  The last kiss.  The last day.

Some “lasts” are predictable, most are not.  At the confluence of ego and foolishness, one will often find the human brain sorting through such milestones, filtering on the most undesirable ones and setting an estimated arrival date based on an assumed general order of life events.  The illusion of control is powerful, indeed.  Meanwhile, another little voice in our heads, one often dismissed because its truth is terribly uncomfortable, points to the folly, even to the tragedy, of such thinking.  I’ll hike that trail next spring.  I’ll schedule that round of golf with my old roommates in a few months.  I’ll tell my wife and kids I love them tomorrow.

Tomorrow.  Next week.  Next month.  Assumptions. 

John Feinstein’s end of life perspective is unknown, but I’ll take this from his parting bow: By leaving us with a posthumous article and a new book just published last November, he was writing it hard - living his craft and his life - to the very end.