Josh Q. Public:  I know it's true, oh so true, 'cause I saw it on TV.  -John Fogherty

Public Service Announcement:  Ok, here we go!  I know.  I know.  A day late and a dollar short. But I have to do this.  Like I always knew this.  Like Carl Lewis.  Like Carl Lewis, Jim McKay was a mainstay at the Olympics.  Like everyone else, I'll always remember McKay for the 1972 Olympics.  I was young back then.  Real young.  Excitable boy they all said.  I stomped in place during the opening ceremonies when the American athletes entered to, When the Saints Go Marching In.  I did a jig along with the Mexicans to the Mexican Hat Dance.  I watched as the US Basketball team cruised to their sixty-second straight victory.  I watched Mark Spitz take seven Gold Medals.  I watched the legendary Jim Ryan finish his last race ever.  Finished his last race ever, collapsing to his knees.  I watched a fifteen-year old Olga Korbut storm back and capture the world's heart.  I watched the workmanlike Dan Gable take the podium, blood oozing from atop his eye.  I watched David Wattle in his white golf cap.  I watched all of it.  I also watched El Tiante pitch four straight shutouts in the middle of pennant race.  I watched a war rage on in Vietnam.  Yes, I watched it all.  But nothing could prepare me for what I was about to watch. 

There he was.  There was Jim McKay.  Jim McKay in all his glory.  In all his glory in his gold ABC sports jacket.  But something was amiss.  There was no Olympic revelry.  There was no hoopla.  No marches.  No jigs.  Just stark, solemn, eerie tones.  I knew at once there was something terribly awry.  Horribly wry.  Ghastly awry.  It was Jim McKay who told us what that was.  It was he who recounted the bloody events of the previous evening.  It was he was from whom we first heard of the horrors perpetrated by Black September.  It was he who told us Black September broke into the Olympic Village.  Black September.  Ski Masks.  Adidas sweat suits.  Snub nosed Kashelnikov sub machine guns.  McKay told us of the valiant struggle.  The valiant struggle in the middle of the night.  A two hundred and seventy-pound Israeli wrestling coach trying to save his team.  "Boys, get out!"  A handful of athletes escaped.  The coach was not so lucky.  Heroically, he blocked the door with his hulking frame.  Chaos.  Gunshots.  One dead coach.  More bravado.  Athletes wielding kitchen knives.  More chaos.  More gunshots.  Another dead athlete.  Nine Olympians bound and gagged.  Eight ugly men with Kashelnikov sub machine guns. 

Eight ugly men threw one dead coach's body down the steps.  Two bullets in his head.  One bullet in his chest.  One five-week old bouncing baby boy who will never know his father.  Eight ugly men.  One dead weightlifter.  Four bullets in his body.  One butter knife in his hand.  One wife and three daughters at home.  And there was Jim McKay.  The sanity amidst the madness.  Shining in his jacket of gold.  He revealed to us the thugs demands.  He revealed to us that if the demands were not met the remaining nine athletes in captivity would suffer the same fate as their brothers. I vaguely remember Duane Bobick going down like a ton of stiffs that night.  I clearly remember Jim McKay talking about deadlines.  I also remember Peter Jernnings talking about boarder guards coming in.  But it was Jim McKay that stays with me.  Ultimately it was these words that have stayed with me my entire life.  Jim McKay's words.  You've heard them all before.  "When I was a boy, my father told me that in life, our greatest ambitions and our worst fears are seldom realized.  Tonight, our worst fears have been realized.  Two of the hostages were killed in their rooms early this morning.  Nine others were killed at the airport tonight.  They're all gone."  Now it is Jim McKay who is all gone and he will be sorely missed. 

Peace out homies.  Six two and even!