SIX YEARS AGO TODAY, A LONG SAD SATURDAY

Today is the anniversary of one of the longest and saddest days of my life.

On August 6, 2016, I got up at the proverbial crack of dawn and drove to the Atlanta airport to catch a flight to Denver. Just before midnight, I caught a redeye flight from Denver to Atlanta. I think I was gone a total of about 26 or 27 hours.

It was my first time in Colorado — a state I truly love — in more than 20 years.

I was there to attend the funeral of one of the best friends I ever had.

I’ve written before about my friend Tom Kensler, who died six years ago just short of his 65th birthday from a brain aneurysm. If you knew Tom, anything I could say would be redundant and repetitive. If you didn’t know him, it would be meaningless.

We met in 1965. His family lived down the street from my family, and we spent a lot of time playing ball in one season or another. His father was in the Air Force and the family moved to Germany in 1968.

We wound up in the same profession — sportswriting. I had a healthy enough ego to believe that few of the people I worked with were better at it than I was, but I think Tom probably was. He won sportswriter of the year awards in three different states — Texas, Oklahoma and Colorado — and has been honored by selection to two different sportswriting Halls of Fame.

Of all my friends, I think Tom was probably the best person. I never heard him bad-mouth anyone and I never knew him to be anything other than positive. With a couple of exceptions in my own family, I think Tom was the nicest person I ever knew.

The last time I saw Tom alive was April 2013. He was in Atlanta for the NCAA Final Four and we got together for lunch the day he was going home to Denver. I don’t remember where we ate or much of what we talked about, but I know my friend seemed happy. He had been alone for the bulk of his adult life before meeting Pamela, the love of his life.

I never actually met her until Tom’s funeral.

Six years ago today was a very sad day. I hadn’t seen my friend Mick in nearly six years, and we met at the airport when he flew in from Los Angeles. We went to the service together and then spent a few hours wandering around Denver.

I found myself wondering why I had ever left Colorado in 1988, and one of the great ironies of it was if I had stayed, Tom’s life might have been affected as much as mine.

I went from Colorado to Reno, and Tom was visiting me at the exact time my boss was leaving to become sports editor of the Denver Post. Tom was aware of an opening there, and I introduced him to the person who would be hiring for the job. I would never say I got him the job, but at that level, getting your foot in the door and being noticed means an awful lot.

Tom got the job and spent the rest of his life — 27 years or so — in Colorado.

It’s strange. I didn’t cry at all when my parents died. I didn’t cry when my brother-in-law died of cancer.

But six years ago, I was sitting in a nearly deserted portion of the concourse at the Denver airport.

It was 10 p.m. on a Saturday evening and I was waiting to board a late-night flight home to Atlanta.

This is what I felt.

This is what I wrote.

“I took part today in a memorial service for my wonderful friend Tom Kensler, who I knew for half a century.

“It is nearly 10 p.m., nearly three hours till my flight, and for the first time all day, I am crying. Not a lot, but I am crying to think I will never see him again.

“At 66, maybe I should start getting used to this. Happy trails, Tom. I will miss you forever.”

True dat.