I got a call from Nemo this morning at about 9, and I assumed he was just returning my call from last night and firming up plans for the weekend. I had been out enjoying the beautiful morning, missed the call, and listened to the message on the way to work.

It sounded like the call was made from an elevator or a raquetball court, and I thought I heard him say, "I'm sure you've read the terrible news. It's a pretty sad day." And I hadn't read the news, and I didn't know what was terrible. So I thought the worst: A national disaster of some level; an attack, or an assassination or something like that. Couldn't be, though, though I hadn't really turned on a television or a radio this morning. Then I thought - sarcasm - and thought the best: The Cubs have fired Dusty, because he earned it.

So I put it out of my mind, sang along with the CD for the rest of the 15-minute drive to work, and greeted my coworkers as I arrived.

And I open my work email - subject line "Terrible Loss" from a previous coworker, and reference to the news. And then I open my personal email, and my dad sent one a message with the subject line "Randy Walker," and above that, Nemo's message, "Randy Walker - Dead at 52."

Shock. Sadness. Shock. Shock. Stunned. Intense, intense sadness. Sadness that can ruin a weekend, or a week. And I don't think that's an exaggeration.

- - - - -

For one four-month stretch, Randy Walker was a very big part of my life. It was a wild part of his life as well, as Northwestern football rose from afterthought or joke or "those cute little boys from Chicago" to one of the biggest stories in college football. At the start of the season, with no expectations, I had a half-hour appointment with him, every Friday morning. We were to record a 10-minute interview, and take off. Inevitably, this session would become a half-hour of small talk, a 10-minute interview ("Uh, coach, as we always do, we'll start by asking, How was this week of practice?"), and another 20 minutes of small talk. Small talk was sometimes football- or player-related, but it was mostly life-related. His philosophies on working hard and being persistent.

He was a man who practiced what he preached, never a man who would have to resort to the lame phrase, "Do as I say, not as I do."

Anyway, late summer turned into early fall, and Northwestern toppled number seven Wisconsin (you can still hear the sound of Nemo gasping, and of the Badger fan cursing in front of him), and then they destroyed number 17 Michigan State and then, as late fall hit, they won the greatest regular season football game the Big Ten has ever seen, 54-51 over Michigan. And suddenly, demands on our humble football coach from Central Ohio were greater. A national interview here, a TV interview there, but, always, without fail, a spare hour for the squeaky-voiced, arrogant college radio dweebs on Friday morning.

When you're a college student whose life pretty much centers around yourself, you don't realize what a burden you are on "real adults." When you're a "real adult," you realize how self-centered and arrogant most college students are. Randy Walker had time for the self-centered, arrogant college students, and that's reflective of his personality.

Northwestern University has lost - I'm sure - its best ambassador. A man who spouted every cliche in the book, and believed every one of them. He was never the most colorful or interesting, but he was the most engaging.

I'll miss Randy Walker for several reasons, and certainly the success of the football program is one of them. But I'll miss him because he was a true believer in collegiate athletics - he believed in the importance of Sport as an avenue to develop young people into better adults. He didn't just believe in the importance of victories; he believed in the importance of improving young people.

Mostly, I'll miss him because he was a great face for the football team, for the athletic department, for the Big Ten, and for Northwestern University. One of the most passionate, wonderful, engaging people I've ever had the chance to meet.

Thanks for your 52 years, Coach.