Not a friend, but a fine man

I don't know if I ever really liked David Poole.

We were colleagues for a year and a half in Gastonia, N.C., my second job in journalism back in 1982-83. He was the city editor of the Gazette and I was the assistant sports editor. He didn't like the way I wrote -- he said I buried my leads -- and said he would cure me of that if he was ever my boss.

He said something back then that shocked me as a writer. He said it was the job of the reporter to get the facts and it was the editor's job to make it into a story.

With that in mind, I told him I would dig ditches before I would ever work for him.

I almost had to. When our sports editor moved on, I was the logical choice to replace him. But Poole, a local boy, had been promised the job before I ever got there. I wound up leaving for Anderson, S.C., and points west.

Dave stayed.

I knew him better than just work. Along with a third staff member, we shared a three-bedroom townhouse for nearly a year. We watched a lot of television together and spent a lot of time eating dinner in local restaurants.

He was a big guy even then. I had been fighting a losing battle with my weight for years, but I was nowhere near as heavy as he was and I thanked God for it. I wound up ditching a sleeper sofa when I moved; there was a permanent indentation in the middle of it.

We didn't get along all that well. He loved the North Carolina Tar Heels and I was a big Virginia fan. I grew up on the Washington Redskins and he hated them with the passion only a Dallas Cowboys fan can muster.

One moment I remember to this day was watching Super Bowl XVII with him. Miami led most of the way, but I'll never forget David's reaction when John Riggins broke free on his game-clinching touchdown run.

"Oh hell!" he shouted, jumping up off the sofa.

I never saw him again after I left North Carolina in August 1983, but I was certainly aware of the name he made for himself as the top NASCAR reporter in the country. It didn't surprise me a bit, even though he didn't follow the sport when I knew him. David was, after all, a Southern man, and Southern men love NASCAR.

We hooked up again this year through Facebook, and I was pleased to see David had gotten married and had fathered children. There's nothing that gives more meaning to a man's life than being a dad.

I loved it that he said his best friend was his little grandson Eli.

I remember the last note I sent to him on Facebook. I told him that he had really turned out to be a fine man. I hope it meant something to him.

Oh, yeah. I buried the lead again.

David Poole died yesterday, at age 50, of an apparent heart attack. He was still overweight, and if there's one lesson a lot of us ought to take away from that, it's that you can't get away with neglecting your health forever.

As I said, I don't think David and I were friends. Still, I was proud to know him.

Rest in peace, Poole.