That love is one of the first gifts my parents gave me. My father used to drive me to school every morning when I was a teenager, and on the way we would stop to pick up breakfast and a copy of the New York Times. We would sit together in the car, just a block from Hudson Junior High School, and read until the sound of the first bell.
He would have the op-ed section. I'd have the sports. It wasn't long before I was addicted to the feel of newsprint against my fingers every morning. I wasn't even in high school yet when I decided I wanted to spend my life working as a sportswriter for a daily newspaper.The Record-Courier gave me that chance. In the last 18 years, I've lived some dreams that teenager sitting in a car in Hudson never could have imagined.
I covered the World Series. I filed stories from every NFL city while covering the Cleveland Browns. I walked Augusta National and carried a notepad around St. Andrews, following Jack Nicklaus' every step in 2005 in the final round of his career. I watched young athletes like Ben Curtis, Joshua Cribbs, Antonio Gates and James Harrison cut their teeth at Kent State long before they became household names.
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