At the start of my career, I sought out mentors. Most of them were old enough to be my father, which was a good thing. Given how and where I grew up, there was no one in my family who had any idea how to help me navigate Manhattan as a young journalist.
I was thinking of those early days this weekend when I drove into the city to see my oldest source, who has an aggressive form of Parkinson’s. Back then, he was running communications at a bank that was a huge player in the highly lucrative and very esoteric world of commercial mortgage-backed securities. I was the greenest of green reporters at an Institutional Investor newsletter. When he invited me to their conference to meet industry players, I thought this was a good way for me to get sources and flew me out there.
I remember only the entertainment – Sting, Stevie Wonder and The Eagles, who rode in on horseback.
I left that job after less than a year, but he and I kept in touch. I got to know his wife and he was invited to my wedding. Over the years, if he could help with a source, he did. We’d meet up several times a year regardless.
And then there was golf. We only played a handful of times, but we talked about it a lot. His brother is an accomplished club pro. He appreciated my later golf writing – and of course the stories around my interview with Tiger for my first book.
They’re moving to North Carolina this week, for his care. However great New York is, it is not great when it comes to being an ADA-compliant city. Ad hoc would be generous – plenty of curb cuts, but how many subways are accessible, let alone taxis?
For the past several weeks, his wife and I have been texting. Not for good-byes, not for help. For his golf clubs.
He wanted me to have them. Confined to a wheelchair, he knows he won’t swing them again. But like any true golfer, he couldn’t imagine them being tossed in the trash. (She tried to donate them, but they’re 40 years old – classic Ping Eye 2s, for the golf nerds.)
Organizing a way to get them was proving challenging. So, I asked my middle daughter if she wanted to go to lunch in the city with a stop to see an old friend. She was game.
After spending time in their apartment, I hoisted his clubs on my shoulder, and we headed out.
On the way down, a guy got on the elevator and said, “Wow, you’re a diehard.”
It was 40 degrees and raining. “He is!,” my daughter said.
I smiled. “I’m not playing today. A good friend of mine is sick, and he wanted me to have his sticks.”
The man nodded. He got it. Connection. Friendship. Personal history. These things matter.
