Like it did with you, all these recent deaths - Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Alexis Arguello, Steve McNair and Best Damn Sports Show - got me to thinking about my own mortality. Today, the day I celebrate turning halfway to 90, I thought I'd dip my toe in the deep, dark water to see what it's going to feel like.
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Cue the music.
Richie Young Whitt, award-winning writer, very mediocre radio host and all-around sports dork, died today in the middle of a torrid lovemaking session just hours after the first hole-in-one of his golf career.
Whitt died on his birthday. He was 45.
Born in Dallas, raised in Duncanville and sorta educated at UT-Arlington, Whitt never left the Metroplex, working at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram for 18 years and the last five at the Dallas Observer. Ironically, one of his last published works was a post on his daily Sportatorium blog entitled "Whitt's End."
Whitt left this Earth without learning to Salsa dance, without ever winning that tip-the-beer-bottle-upright game at the State Fair of Texas and without realizing his dreams of attending the Australian Open or blogging from the summit of Mount Everest. He did, however, get to work in his boxers, attend sporting events for free and once played tennis with Anna Kournikova.
Call it a push.
A resident of McKinney since 2002, Whitt is survived by a father, mother, brother, wife, 12 -year-old son, two dogs, a lizard, the spirits of many a squirrel, the entire works of Prince and tons of yellowed newspapers and ratty T-shirts.
He is scheduled to be cremated, with his ashes sprinkled evenly in American Airlines Center, Rangers Ballpark, Cowboys Stadium and Blackie Sherrod's
coffee mugwhisky flask. Whitt's family asks that donations be put back in your pocket, saved for those rainy days he never loved or was never really prepared for.
Okay, I jest. I'm not dead. But ...
I am on the golf course.