Everyone Has a Story

Mark Messier

I had an interview for a temp (to maybe perm) position. The interview was in White Plains for a company located in lower Manhattan.

But first, I had enough time to go to WGCH and do some prep work. Greenwich and Norwalk were scheduled to play football that Saturday and I wanted to get the rosters, create the promos, and whatever else I needed to do.

It was, of course, Sep 11, 2001.

I was merging from NY route 139 onto NY 100, near the wonderful Muscoot Tavern (great food). I was listening to Imus in the Morning, when Warner Wolf -- who had a perfect view from his apartment -- of the Twin Towers phoned in with the first report. A short time later, while moving along on Interstate 684 and changing stations, did I hear that the other tower had been hit.

I've told these and other stories so many times. I checked on the pertinent people -- Mom, siblings, friends -- and did some things around the radio station.

I called the job agency about the position, who still considered having me come in for the interview, before heading back home on roads so empty and eerie that it felt like a Sunday morning.

Except it was a Tuesday afternoon.

Things changed. New terms were introduced ("Ground Zero," anyone?). Our world was rocked.

Our spirit was hurt and then quickly rebuilt.

We're so far removed from that.

Nothing is normal in 2020 of course. Basically every Sep 11, I would listen to a collection of audio files I assembled from that day and play an album that was meaningful about that time.

I eventually stopped playing the album. I don't think I can bring myself to listen to the sound bites.

Most years, I watched the footage all over again. MSNBC played the NBC Today show and eventual NBC coverage. I've watched and listened to so much of it, just as I have with the Kennedy assassination. Morbid? I don't think so. It's more about history for me.

It's also about remembering the sadness and anger of those horrible days.

I don't think I can do it. I also realize that's a product of this week. Like much of 2020, some traditions just might have to take a year off.

But I do remember. I paused at 8:46 a.m. I thought about that guy in the black Honda on route 139. I thought about the faces and the stories and lives lost. I thought about -- look away if you can't read this -- the jumpers who felt they had choice.

I thought about the missing persons flyers and the many tears and the many memorials. I thought about Mike Piazza and Tino Martinez and Derek Jeter and Scott Brosius.

What a different time it was. What a different life. Sean didn't exist yet.

Everything was just surreal.

I only met one or two of the many lost that day and have always considered myself to be fortunate.

Next year will be 20 trips around the sun since we last saw those faces that morning.

Greenwich never played that football game.

There was never another word about that temp job.

Those are just a few of my many stories. We all have them.

Maybe sharing them can get us to a common place again.

Because we should never forget.

I know I won't.