This one's for Harold Bechard. And for me, too.

I saw Harold on Saturday in the press box at KU. He's covered the Jayhawks and K-State Wildcats for over 30 years at the Salina Journal and Hutchinson News. He's covered Final Fours and 0-11 seasons in football and every sort of coaching search you can imagine. He's driven a lot of miles in the dark after games, eaten a lot of good and bad press box food, interviewed just about everyone who wore blue or purple the last four decades.

And on Saturday, he comes up and says, "This is my last game." Bechard is leaving the press box to help run the Kansas Sports Hall of Fame.

I don't know why, but this one hit home for me. I've known Harold since 1982, and we're not that close but I've known him for so long he feels like family. These are people I've covered many games with, ridden on Skywriters tours with, shared this crazy life we lead in the press box.

There aren't many guys like that left. There are fewer and fewer of us old Big Eight warhorses left. And I know fewer and fewer faces in the press box these days.

I know, I know. It just means I'm getting old. But I really felt it the other night, saying goodbye to another survivor of this business, a guy who went out his way.

Just hearing Harold reminisce about how he started in newspapers in 1974, how we used to punch stories out on typewriters back then and either read the copy back to the desk or send it by a contraption called a telecopier, which was like a prehistoric fax machine. All the history he's seen, we've seen, it all came back the other night.

I've never considered this a job. For me, sports writing is like a fantasy, a perpetual summer camp. But it is a job, a grind, and its takes it toll on families, on people's lives. All the stuff you miss. There aren't many lifers anymore. I've always said I wanted to go forever, or to 70, whichever comes first. I always want to spend my Saturday in a press box. That's my passion. What else would I do?

As I drove home the other day, I found myself thinking about this. Do I still want to be Oscar Madison forever? The answer is yes. But the older I get, the older I get, and the lonelier the press box seems to get.

Anybody else out there who's my age (51) going through this or gone through this in your job? I'm sure it happens all the time.

Anyway, somebody very smart, not long ago, mentioned that they thought I had changed, that they thought I was more introspective, or maybe mellowing or something. I don't know about that. But I do know, the more I do this, the less the results mean to me and the more the games, the people and the silly things like visiting old stadiums mean. I'm more into the experience now and hopefully channeling some of that through my column.

That doesn't mean I'm freaking out. If Shawn Watson or Bo Pelini forget to call the right play, I'll be there for you, too.

I've thought about all these things the last few days. Mostly, I can't escape that image of Harold, as he said goodbye to myself and Blair Kerkhoff of the KC Star. He picked up his computer bag and walked down the press box to the elevator. I don't know why, but I couldn't stop watching him walk away from this life he led, we led. It's not like I was going to yell, "Come back, Shane, come back." But I kept watching.

Finally, the elevator arrived, the door opened and Harold stepped in.

And then he was gone.

Thanks for letting me grow old in this blog. Now, back to Nebraska's special teams.

« Blog - Tom Shatel

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