Sept. 15 -- THANKS, JACK

BY SCOTT LAUBER

Ordinarily, we stay focused on baseball around here. And, with the Phillies moving into a tie for the wild-card lead last night and the reeling Brewers firing Ned Yost today, there is plenty to tide us over until tomorrow night's game at Turner Field.

Please excuse this digression, though. I'm a bit distracted today.

You see, during the third inning of the doubleheader-opener yesterday, I got the gut-punching news that Jack Falla passed away after a sudden heart attack. He was spending the weekend in Maine with his wife, daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren. He was 64.

Jack was a former Sports Illustrated senior writer, covering the NHL in the '80s when Wayne Gretzky was at his peak. And, by the time I got to Boston University in 1994, he was a professor of journalism there. I'll never forget COM 101, the introduction to communications class that was mandatory for every freshman. There were sections on journalism, film, advertising, public relations -- every major offered by the college -- and most of the lectures, to be honest, were boring. Then came the day that Jack spoke to the class. He told us about the time he skated with Gretzky during an Edmonton Oilers practice and wrote about the experience for SI. I had wanted to be a sports writer since the 8th grade, but that was the clincher. I was hooked.

Two years later, I took Jack's sports journalism course. In four years at BU, it was the only reason I ever had for waking up at 7:30 a.m. Jack preached the importance of thorough reporting ("mucking and grinding in the reportorial corners," he'd call it), shared stories from his career, and told us to never, ever, miss a deadline. During my senior year, Jack helped me land a freelance job with SI, writing a feature on BU hockey coach Jack Parker. I still remember reading a profile he wrote on Parker from earlier that year and thinking, "How on earth can I top this?"

Of course, I couldn't. Jack's eloquent writing was unparalleled.

We kept in touch over the years. Jack became a mentor and a friend. He cared about his students, and often, he'd forward my e-mail address to his graduating seniors, hoping that I could help them find jobs. He cared deeply for his family. He was married to his wife, Barb, for more than 40 years, and couldn't have been more proud of his son, daughter and grandkids. To Jack, nothing was more sacred than time with his family on their backyard hockey rink in Natick, Mass. Jack even wrote about it in a collection of essays called "Home Ice," and the companion book, "Open Ice," that was released last month.

For sportswriters like me, reading Jack's words is like watching Gretzky skate or Jordan dunk. It's an art form at its very finest.

I'll always remember Jack for his encouragement (when I wrote a story for the student paper about a player getting kicked off the BU hockey team, Jack crossed out the name on my assigned press-box seat and scribbled "Woodward" in its place), his wit, his charm and his insatiable appetite for life.

Most of all, though, he would hate the fact that I've spent so much time today writing about him instead of doing my job. So, I'll simply say this before getting back to "mucking and grinding": Thanks, Jack, for everything. You'll be missed.