I don't have a golf story, as I was volunteering that day at my son's school.
But I do have a sports story, that I always think about, when the anniversary of that awful day comes around.
In college, many moons ago, I was part of a remarkable group of young men -- an intramural basketball team. Our starting line-up consisted of my good buddie Paul, who was our 5'8" point guard, another 5'8" shooting guard, myself (a 5'9" 145 lb power forward), and our shooting forward (also 5' 9", but skinnier than me). Our first guy off the bench was my best college buddie, Jonathan, all of 5'6".
Paul, one of those gifted athletes accomplished at any sport he attempted, recognized our deficiencies, and went out and recruited Dave, who had the virture of being 6' 1" but the vice of never really having played much basketball. He couldn't dribble, couldn't really shoot, and we avoided giving him the ball too much for fear that he'd drop it and turn it over. But, he had amazingly nimble feet, arms the length of a 6'5" guy, and turned out to be a natural defender -- a guy who frustrated every single player he defended, because he was much quicker than any big guy he guarded (he guarded ALL the big guys when we played), and found ways to interrupt and bother shots without fouling anyone. And he was in great shape, hustled all over the court, and rebounded like a demon, mainly by getting to balls sooner than the bigger guys he played against.
Our strategy was pretty simple -- run everyone off the court, get as many fast-breaks points as we could, and when those were stymied, shoot from outside (we took a lot of outside shots...) and hope they went in. Oh, and defend all over the court, knowing that Dave would be our backstop (kind of like those old UCLA 2-2-1 presses), having that rare ability to defend two guys at once because of his quickness and hustle.
We got pounded in some games, but we won our share, too, and when the playoffs came around, we began an amazing streak of performances -- everything we shot went in, no one could figure out our hustling and pressing defense, and Dave somehow emerged as this force, a guy opponents started backing away from because he'd gotten so good at defending the hoop. We made it all the way to the title game, matched up against what turned out to be the dominant team in the league, and matched them basket for basket.
With 10 seconds left to play, Paul sank two free throws to put us up by one (to massive cheers; we had the entire crowd on our side). All we needed was one more stop. The opposing team struggled to get the ball upcourt, and with a turnover looming, their big center moved to the top of the key to receive a pass from a harried guard. Panic-stricken, having never touched the ball outside of the lane, he faced further problems because Dave had alertly moved up to cover him, all arms and legs harassing him to the nth degree. The center looked one way, looked another, and just before Paul and I converged on him, turned and threw up a shot at the basket.
It banked off the backboard and went in, just as the buzzer sounded. Game over. We lost.
As we were walking off the court, Paul's girlfriend Gretchen, who was also my writing buddie at the college newspaper, put her arms around each of us and said: "That's alright, guys. You made it really close." Paul and I, probably the two most competitive guys on the team, each nearly slugged her right then and there.
But Dave walked off with a bemused look on his face. Not a sports guy by any means, he just picked up doing something he'd never done much of before -- basketball -- and enjoyed the ride for what it was -- a fun three-month stretch playing games during a harsh Minnesota winter. He defended the shot perfectly, and never got upset at what I still regard as the sloppiest, ugliest, most awful basketball shot I've ever seen go in. "Oh well," he said. "He got lucky."
We all went our separate ways -- Paul's a dentist in North Dakota, Gretchen a college professor in Maine, Jonathan a business advisor in Chicago, me here in Wisconsin. David, to the surprise of many of us, went into the financial sector, and made his way to New York City. He was working on the 101st story of one of the Twin Towers on that day. He's no longer with us.
I suppose there are many ways to remember that horrific day. But I always think of Dave, and that crazy, goofy, remarkable time when we played hoops together, in our youth, the future bright and unending.