It’s painful to watch the death of a loved one. C.S. Lewis once wrote, “The death of a beloved is an amputation,” and nowhere is this more true than in the slow, agonizing death of my childhood friend, ESPN.
I still remember the first night I spent at my dad’s apartment, stumbling upon this fledgling sports channel while mindlessly thumbing through the remote. It’s hard to recall a time before 24/7 sports coverage, but back then I could barely sleep from the feverish realization that I could wake up to morning coverage of athletic events. Forced to endure years of David Hartman’s ABC morning show “Good Morning, America,” it was as if I’d suddenly been paroled.