Almost every night, for almost a decade, I got a phone call between 7:00 and 7:01 p.m. ET. I didn't have to look at the three letters on my phone screen to know who was ringing. It was the old man we called Pop, or more like "The Old Man of the Mountain," as he called himself when we had our grandchildren. Sometimes I tired of the words, but I always took a breath before I hit hello, lest he hear the fatigue in my voice for something I know I would miss dearly one day. "Jamesy," he would say, "the best one yet." Always, "the best one yet." If I have a regret, it's that I never tape recorded it because I would like to play it between 7:00 and 7:01 p.m. now, every night. But I didn't. So, call me intrigued, when I saw on my schedule that I would soon be interviewed by two gentlemen, Jack Cri

See Full Page