best games of all occurred after a heavy snowfall. The southern shoreline of Lake Erie was occasionally buffeted by a winter storm that might dump two or three feet of snow, and if the snowfall coincided with a free afternoon, the most fanatical among us would bundle up and race out for a game of tackle football. This was brilliant, floundering through deep snow, piling into the mass of players, chasing the icy ball when it squirted loose from snow-caked mittens, not really caring who won or lost. We were playing a game in its purest sense, enjoying huge good fun and laughing companionship.
All this roaring around with sports eventually resulted in my first published writing. I was given a column in the school newspaper, a glossy little tabloid produced, I think, four times a year and distributed to parents and other friends of the seminary. My column was, rather unpromisingly, called “The Pogo Stick,” the idea being that I should hop from topic to topic in a breezy and entertaining manner, like a sporty Walter Winchell. I suspect my offerings were quite dreadful, but they launched my career in print, and so I shan’t disown them.
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