Going to ballgames has been fun, but the time has come to leave on a high note

My grandmother hated that I became a sportswriter.

Hated it so much that she would occasionally offer to pay my way through law school or any other kind of graduate program that might lead to my getting what she considered to be a “real” job.

She never understood my career choice, probably because from a perspective forged in the Old Country, she believed that attending ballgames was something you did in your spare time. Not as a full-time vocation.

It also didn’t help that my job gave her little to come back with during her weekly mahjong games when her friends began bragging about their grandchildren who were doctors, lawyers and accountants.

And things only got worse when both of my younger brothers followed in my misguided footsteps and became sportswriters, too. Even the one with a computer science degree from Georgia Tech.

Four-plus decades later, I still feel a twinge of guilt that I let poor Grandma Ethel down. But I have never once regretted my decision to do what I’ve done for a living.

I’ve never really worked a day in my adult life.

I’ve had the good fortune to interview some of the most iconic personalities in popular culture, attend games and events others have paid top dollar to see and had a front-row seat, sometimes literally, to history.

I was in the stands at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium when Hank Aaron hit his 715th home run and was courtside when both Dean Smith and Mike Krzyzewski became the winningest coach in college basketball history.

I’ve heard a roar so loud you could actually feel it as I watched in disbelief from the top row of bleachers adjacent to the 16th green at Augusta as Tiger Woods’ famous chip shot hung on the lip, then finally dropped in to clinch his third Masters title. 

I’ve had my laptop crushed by Grayson Allen, experienced the joy of seeing the Stanley Cup and the Lombardi Trophy presented, and felt the heartbreak of reporting on Len Bias’s demise from the hospital where he died 2 days after becoming a first-round NBA Draft pick.

And yet for all those Forest Gump-like brushes with greatness, they’re not what I remember best as I look back at my body of work. Rather, it’s the fascinating stories I’ve had the privilege of telling about athletes whose names you’ve never heard.

People like Phil Shirey, a recovering addict who resumed his football career at a Maryland community college and used the self-belief he gained in rehab to convince his coach he could make a game-winning 45-yard field goal as time expired. Then did. Even though he’d never attempted one in a game before and never made another one after.

Or brothers Terrence and Curtis Hunt, who still found the time and energy to pursue their passion for playing high school football despite having to spend 14 exhausting hours a day in the sun cropping tobacco on their family’s rural North Carolina farm.

It used to bother me that I was never able to fulfill my goal of writing for my hometown paper, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, or any other major publication that would have given me the national exposure I craved until finally hooking on with Saturday Road and Saturday Down South 3 years ago. 

Unfortunately, I sometimes vented that frustration in ways for which I’m not proud. I didn’t always enjoy the journey as much as I should have now that I’ve reached the destination.

But thanks to people who never stopped believing in me (you know who you are) and with the gift of retrospect, I now realize how important local journalism is to the communities it serves. And how fortunate I’ve been to play a role in helping those in Beaufort, S.C., Annapolis, Md., Fayetteville, Wilmington and other places around North Carolina stay informed and entertained.

It’s a reward far greater than any of the plaques and honors I’ve received.

Now it’s time to say goodbye. 

I’ve spent too many holidays working and too many anniversaries on the road covering Final Fours than at home where I should have been. Although I will continue to do some freelance work and begin work on another book, I am stepping away from the daily grind and retiring.

I’ve always heard athletes say that they know when it’s time to call it quits. That either their mind or their body – or both – tell them that they’ve had enough. My moment came at the ACC Tournament in March when I received the Skeeter Francis Award for lifetime contributions to coverage of the conference.

It felt like the perfect opportunity to leave on a high note, as that noted philosopher George Constanza once said.

It’s been a heck of a run, one for which I think even Grandma Ethel would be proud to brag about to her friends.

Begrudgingly, of course.

–30–

Brett Friedlander

Award-winning columnist Brett Friedlander has covered the ACC and college basketball since the 1980s.