Editor's note: This is the traditional goodbye column, submitted by the outgoing editor in chief of the Arizona Daily Wildcat.
Some places give gold watches when people retire. The Arizona Daily Wildcat gives 15 column inches.
This is my farewell column because, well, this is my last day. The editor in chief position is only a semester long, and then it's done. It's like an employment log ride, really. Once you get to the top, there is only one place to go - straight down.
In my case, the drop to the bottom takes roughly 15 column inches. In that space, I'm supposed to tell a story, be poignant and wrap it up with a nice bow.
That's what journalism is, really. True-story telling. At it's most basic form, good writing - whether it is the Daily Wildcat, the Arizona Daily Star or The New York Times - is good storytelling. I can do that just fine.
I could start with the tiny, cramped locker room at Arizona Stadium, where I saw former University of Arizona football coach Dick Tomey - tired because the media wouldn't leave him alone - quit. It was a sad tale, one that had those in the local media feeling pretty guilty, until a few weeks later when I got a hold of the agreement UA athletic director Jim Livengood and Tomey signed prior to the game. The fax I received showed that Tomey was contractually bound to quit if the Wildcats lost to Arizona State. So much for that.
I could tell about watching Lute Olson tearfully recount the life of his late wife, Bobbi, after coming back from his self-imposed mourning period in a sterile media room in the basement of McKale Center. After his interviews were over, a strange thing happened. Members of the media - types that would make even the most bitter person seem idealistic - applauded Olson and offered him words of condolence.
Or I could talk about the time I received a phone call from a UA student's father who was angered because his daughter's name appeared in Police Beat, one of the Wildcat's daily features. I could mention the names he called me, the numerous times he threatened to sue me, or the fact he told me that he was - get this - going to hire Johnnie Cochran to sue the paper for all it was worth. Neither he nor Johnnie ever called back.
I could talk about the time the Tucson Police Department served us with a subpoena - on my first day at work, no less - demanding all the film our photographers used while filming the Fourth Avenue riots.
Maybe I could tell about sitting in a sticky plastic folding chair on the UA Mall on Sept. 11, when I saw UA President Peter Likins admit that he was angry with the terrorists who attacked the United States. I could tell about the hundreds, if not thousands, of people who choked back tears as members of the campus community bared their souls, some of them still in mourning over the family members, friends and acquaintances who perished in the attacks.
I could tell about the pain, uncertainty and fear - the raw, nightmarish kind - that haunt all of us today. Or the fact that I check CNN and MSNBC every night before I fall asleep and every morning as I'm waking up because I'm afraid it's happened again and I've slept through it.
But I won't. The story I want to leave you with is far simpler - because it's my own. After three years of being yelled at, corrected, edited, changed and molded, I'm still a kid who loves to tell stories. True stories.
