Round Two: That's all, folks

Retirement was always something that happened to other people.

When I was growing up, I would hear my mom and dad talking about how so-and-so at work was going to retire.

As the decades rolled by, my parents themselves began pondering the pros and cons of retiring. They eventually did retire, and their friends retired. My aunts and uncles retired. My friends’ parents retired, people I worked with retired, people my wife worked with retired, and even some of my friends and schoolmates retired. An endless stream of people walking out the door for the final time as time caught up with them.

I always wondered how they felt when the door closed behind them. Free at last, or now what? The world is my oyster, or I’m already bored and I haven’t even opened the car door yet? Time to search the cruise options, or time to search for a part-time job just to have something to do?

For me, it was kind of like the idea of life after death: You’ll only know when it happens to you. And when the clock strikes midnight July 1, it’ll happen to me – retirement, that is (hopefully it’ll be awhile before I find out about that other thing).

Because, somehow, 40 years of journalism have passed under my life’s bridge and now it’s my turn to retire. In some ways, it feels like I’ve just started my career. I can remember my days at the Barberton Herald like it was last week, and it was 35 years ago. In other ways, it feels like I’ve been in journalism since birth.

For perspective, since I started my career in 1986:

• There have been seven presidents
• The Cold War raged, ended, and started up again
• Cleveland finally won a major sports championship
• But it wasn’t the Browns, who still haven’t been to a Super Bowl
• We’ve taken a giant leap from rotary phones to smartphones, the internet and AI
• And we’ve gone back to the moon – the biggest leap of them all

In between, it’s been one heck of a ride. And the best part is, most of that ride took place right here in Portage County, where I was born and spent so much time in my formative years. I owe the fact that I spent 28 years at two different Portage County-based publications, the Record-Courier and The Portager, to Tim Houser and Roger Di Paolo of the R-C giving me a chance to prove myself at the daily newspaper level, and to Ben Wolford and his sister Natalie Wolford of The Portager giving me a chance to reinvent myself as a news writer after spending the first 35 years of my career in sports.

I thank them as well as countless others who guided and supported me through the years, most of all my wife Kim, who had to adjust to my journalist’s schedule of working nights, weekends and holidays. It’s a different way of living life, and it’s not for everyone.

But it was for me. I’m a night owl by nature, so staying up to all hours fits well with my internal clock. Ratcheting that back some will be my first challenge in retirement. While I’ll never be an early bird, watching the sunrise might be staying up a little too late – even Dracula has closed the lid for the night by then.

As for other challenges I’ve been told to be wary of – finding a “purpose,” boredom, too much time to sit around and think, etc. – I plan to combat those potential retirement pitfalls by diving into my hobbies, getting started on projects around the house that I’ve put off for years, traveling, and, of course, relaxing. There’s also a chance I’ll pop in here with the occasional column, which Ben has invited me to do.

So now, it’s my turn. Retirement is no longer something that happens to other people. It’s happening to me. After 40 years of sweating out deadlines, doing interviews, crafting stories and working odd hours; covering sporting events in the pouring rain, searing heat and bitter cold; laughing in the office with my co-workers (or else we’d cry); getting lost trying to find places that even cartographers didn’t know existed; and experiencing poignant, unforgettable moments like Ravenna football coach John Keegan trying to fight back tears after his Ravens lost to arch-rival Kent Roosevelt in the final minute at old Gilcrest Stadium in 1994, Aurora’s Gavin Sontag calmly burying a long jumper at the buzzer after a frantic last-second Greenmen push upcourt to beat Bedford Chanel in the boys basketball regional semifinals in 1995, and the awe-inspiring sight of Comet Hale-Bopp hanging high in the night sky over Roosevelt Stadium as I walked back to my car following a track meet in April 1997, that’s it. It’s over. Retirement is upon me.

But before I go, I’ll leave you with one final story from my career, probably my favorite. It goes like this:

In the late 1980s, I gained invaluable journalism experience during my time as a sports writer at the University of Akron’s campus newspaper, The Buchtelite. In fall 1988, I wrote feature stories on Zips football players; in the winter of 1988-89, I was the beat reporter for the Akron men’s basketball team coached by Bob Huggins.

The experience I gained provided a tremendous boost to my career. More importantly, it confirmed in my mind that choosing mass communications as my major was the right move – I enjoyed the work, which frankly didn’t feel like work at all. Covering games and interviewing players and coaches was too much fun for it to feel like work.

Then, in January 1989 in the middle of the Zips’ basketball season, another opportunity to grow my career came out of nowhere. Mike Perkins, The Buchtelite’s sports editor who had brought me on board the previous fall, came up to me one day and said he had secured two press passes to cover the Cleveland Indians Winter Press Tour at the Tangier restaurant in Akron. One of the passes was for him, and he asked me if I would like the other.

The history of the Cleveland Indians flashed before my eyes. World Series champions in 1920 and 1948. A laundry list of legends like Nap Lajoie, Lou Boudreau, Earl Averill, Larry Doby, Satchel Paige, Bob Feller, Early Wynn, Tris Speaker, Mike Garcia, Bob Lemon and Rocky Colavito. My favorite athlete of all time, Buddy Bell. Even the 1954 Indians, who won a then-American League record 111 games in the regular season only to be swept in four games in the World Series by the New York Giants.

All of that information raced through my brain in the milliseconds following Mike’s question, “Do you want the other press pass?”

I loved the Cleveland Indians. Up to that point in my life, they had not been very good. Some years, they were terrible. Other years, terrible would have been an improvement. But I didn’t care. The boys of summer in red, white and blue were my heroes, and I loved them win, lose or lose.

I could picture all the great Indians players of yesteryear in my mind’s eye, the old black-and-white photographs of them sporting baggy jerseys and pants, different logos on the cap depending on the era, and no batting helmets at the plate. They were all young and in top physical condition in these photos, frozen in time in the prime of their lives, as if time had not advanced past the Roaring ’20s, the Great Depression or World War II. I was well-versed in the lore of Larry Doby breaking the color barrier as the first African American player in the American League, “Rapid Robert” Bob Feller having his magnificent career interrupted by serving four years in the Navy in the Second World War, and, of course, The Curse of Rocky Colavito (hence the not-so-good 1970s and ’80s era that I grew up watching).

“Sure,” I told Mike. “I’d love to go.”

My plan was to interview the players that the organization was making available on the tour, then formulate it into a kind of hybrid look ahead/atmosphere story. The Tangier was packed when we walked in, and after Mike introduced me to a few Beacon Journal writers, I went off to interview some players. I found outfielder Dave Clark sitting by himself at the bar and proceeded to talk with him for 10 to 15 minutes; he was friendly and jovial, and I enjoyed our conversation. Admittedly, I had been nervous going into the gathering – interviewing big-league players was, well, the big leagues for me – but sitting on a bar stool talking one-on-one with Clark was an ice-breaker.

Next, I found a round table where several players were seated, with one open chair. I introduced myself, asked if I could sit and ask them some questions about the upcoming season for a few minutes, and they happily obliged. Catcher Andy Allanson, sharply dressed and sporting what looked like snakeskin boots, was seated immediately to my left, pitcher Greg Swindell sat a couple seats to Allanson’s left, and two or three other players were also seated at the table.

I posed most of my questions to Swindell and Allanson. Swindell seemed to be somewhat reserved while Allanson was gregarious, thoroughly enjoying the conversation and not holding back with his comments. Talking with Allanson felt more like two guys just shooting the breeze than it did an actual interview.

After about 15 minutes at the table, I thanked the players for their time and moved on, looking for more players to interview. Before doing that, though, I thought it was a good time to just sit down, organize (and clarify) my notes, and clear my head before setting out for more conversations with players.

I spied a small table with an older gentleman sitting by himself. He was probably in his late 60s or early 70s, and as I approached the table I could see he either had had surgery or some sort of leg injury because a pair of crutches were leaning against the table and his leg was propped up on one of the three empty chairs.

“Sir, is anyone sitting here?” I asked. “No, go right ahead and sit down,” he said pleasantly.

I sat in the chair directly across from him and introduced myself. He extended his arm and as we shook hands, he said, “I’m Bob. It’s nice to meet you, Tom.”

I proceeded to talk with Bob for 10 to 15 minutes, just casual conversation about the Indians’ prospects for the coming season and how he had to find somewhere to sit down and get off his leg for a while. He was intrigued that as a college student, I was getting a chance to interview Cleveland Indians players and what a thrill that must be for me.

He was pleasant and accommodating, and I was enjoying our conversation and soaking up the unique atmosphere around me when a waiter came by our table carrying a tray of beverages. He leaned down next to Bob and asked, “Would you like another drink, Mr. Feller?”

Bob. Mr. Feller. That’s right, I had been sitting there talking with the great Bob Feller and didn’t even know it. All I knew was that the person sitting across from me with the bad leg was an older gentleman named Bob. What I didn’t know was the rest of the story, that the older gentleman with the bad leg just happened to be one of the greatest and most feared pitchers in the history of baseball.

I would have recognized him in an Indians uniform from the ’40s and ’50s, but I didn’t recognize him out of uniform several decades later. He never let on who he was, only identifying himself as “Bob.”

Looking back, it makes perfect sense. Bob Feller didn’t see himself as Rapid Robert, baseball legend. He saw himself as Bob, everyman. That’s who I was talking with that day at the Tangier, and that’s exactly how he presented himself.

As we parted company, we shook hands and I said, “It was nice to meet you, Bob.” Since he had introduced himself as Bob, that’s how I was going to address him.

And that’s how I’ll always remember him.

Goodbye, all. ’Til we meet again.