Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/812511
I 've been on the move for the past couple of months. But when I landed back home yesterday evening, my March/April issue of Sporting Classics was waiting for me, and after dinner I sat down and opened it up to Mike Gaddis' column, First Light. Mike's work is always good—but this column is especially captivating. If you haven't yet read it, you really should. The man's a heck of a writer, and in this particular column, he has explored, if not the meaning of Life, then at least the essence and implications of Ramblings by michael altizeR Two of SporTing ClaSSiCS' more well SeaSoned wriTerS, boTh wiTh Their individual Take on deaTh and life. Death . . . just as I have found myself doing for the past three-and-a-half years. With good reason. You see, happened like this — I t was back in late summer of 2014 and I was diligently working away at my computer, when suddenly this fragment of a sentence surfaced from somewhere in my subconscious: "I died on a cool autumn evening . . ." It often happens this way. The best stuff sometimes just comes to you all on its own from that deep and sleepless place where all good things (and especially Writing) originate. Writing is a gift—not so much a gift of Creation, but a gift of Reception, and a writer must remain constantly attuned to receive that gift whenever it is offered. So I turned this newly arrived phrase over and over in my mind, contemplating its significance and pondering its ramification and wondering "What the heck was THAT all about?" before stopping what I was doing and opening up a brand new document on my travel-weary laptop and dutifully typing in the words exactly as they had come, before they had time to slip away. A couple more sentences immediately spun out of that original fragment of a phrase. But then the idea paused, as though surprised it had actually found footing and managed to take root in someone's soul, and was now hesitating for a moment to gather its forces before setting out anew to grow in earnest. Over the next few days and weeks, the story continued to build, from that first trickle of an idea, to a free-flowing river of thought, and finally a tempestuous torrent of unrestrained stream-of-consciousness, 58 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S