The initial shock of the moment sank in as I was beginning my weekly Monday morning rounds for Bowlers Aid Pro Shops. I'm sure the guy in the BMW slowly passing me on the Kennedy Expressway could see my shock as I turned on some sort of internal automatic pilot to avoid hitting him. The news was bad, real bad. I knew deep down this day would come, but not this soon with this sudden of a jolt. At that moment, I flashed back to our last conversation some six months prior. Along with one of his three sons, I jokingly asked them if either had yet bought World Series tickets. Granted this was July, but the Cardinals were surging past the Cubs and looking like a sure thing for late October baseball. He said no, but thought about it considering he had season tickets when Busch Stadium opened nearly thirty summers earlier. He also talked about having those season tickets at Sportsman's Park in the early 60's upstairs behind first base and never getting bored watching some guy named Musial and his unique swing. He later gave them up after a year or two at the downtown park. The vantage point was from similiar view, but "just too far away."

     I then thought of another meeting, when he admonished me for addressing him as 'sir.' He didn't like to be singled out that way. But when addressing someone whom I respect, it just comes out and I wasn't afraid to tell him that. He never said anything more about it. Since then, I would always elongate the way I said 'sir.' He would have this twinkle in his eye after I said it a certain way, especially if I had not seen him in some time. Mission accomplished.

     I then thought of our first meeting all those years ago. I thanked him for tolerating a rookie and a lackluster performance. He said not to let it get me down and not give up. Strangely, I would see that meeting unfold for dozens of young competitors in their first try in this tournament format. Some gave up, others did not.

     Another meeting was just a few years ago when I had found a copy of book he had authored about the same time he liked to watch Stan Musial hit a baseball. The book's pages were yellowing, the cover was slightly torn. But he laughed when I asked him to autograph it. "Gosh, I didn't sell too many of these, you know, " he said with a smaller chuckle and that ever familiar twinkle in his eye. He then showed it to another son who did remember the book and had a look of "Oh Gosh, that thing?" That twinkle got me to think about why this man downplayed his accomplishments. He never seemed to take himself seriously, was nice to all who wanted and autograph or even just to say hello. Whether it was a seasoned veteran or a timid rookie, he always had a minute for you.

     I couldn't help but fall back into reporter mode for awhile on this particular Monday morning. I just went down my cell phone number list calling contacts hoping everyone had heard the news. Many already did saying they had heard as early as the night before. Most had heard by early the next morning from others who had called, but before official word made the rounds. Unfortunately, two of my friends first heard the news from me. One was sad and solemn, the other almost angry. It just wasn't time yet, he said, it just wasn't time.

     When this guy was at the top of his game, the sports world was a much different place. Fans came to see the best perform and did not care much about their personal lives. Oddly enough on this very day, the first radio notice of his passing was headlined by the first details of Jose Canseco's tell-all steroid-fest in book form.

     Television was growing up in the early 1960's. Familiar names on Saturday afternoon sports TV were Ernie, Hank, Mickey, Arnie and Jack. He would not humiliate or embarrass opponents, he simply beat them. For a generation watching the magic picture box at home, millions saw him perform, win, and exude his ever-sensible charm while describing his latest win to fellow Hoosier Chris Schenkel. He evolved into the first great bowler on that magic picture box. Even if you ask someone who has not seen PBA telecast in many years to name a bowler, even today, his is usually the first mentioned.

     What set him apart was his authenticy. This man was not hiding behind the curtain in the land of Oz, but the personality did indeed match the one we first saw on those snowy Saturday afternoons. I also take pride in knowing I could pass him on a bowling center concourse and he knew me by name. The living legend also called me on the phone a few times. I knew the voice, but part of you thinks it is someone pulling a prank. A second or two later, you realize it really is him. It's one thing to know the name, but when the living legend calls you by name, it takes awhile to get used to it.

     One of my favorite stories was about a 1994 appearance on "The Late Show with David Letterman." A lane was set up outside the studio. He rolled ball after ball into an egg filled aquarium, stacked glasses filled with champagne, and finally a live video camera. He nailed the camera dead on, a pretty good shot even for a man just months away from Medicare wearing a jacket to keep warm in a frigid New York street. Letterman was so impressed, he ran from his TV studio desk moments away from introducing Bill Cosby to plant a kiss on his forehead. The bowler was laughing the whole time, enjoying the moment. He later confided to me that egg yolk does not clean easily from bowling ball holes.

     Now the Monday rounds were over and it was time to head into the pro shop. Part of me didn't want to, but another part of me could hear him telling me to get in there. I did. I was also motivated to put together a simple sign, part of which said, "We mourn the loss of an American icon and bowling legend."

     Thank you, Sir.