Forty-three years ago this month I drove my 1966 Mustang into the parking lot of the late, great Contra Costa Times. It was my first day as a summer intern. I was excited, nervous, apprehensive. Mostly nervous.
I was between my junior and senior years at San Jose State. It dawned on me that the following summer I would be looking for work as a journalist, and that my relevant body of work consisted of a half-dozen letters published in the San Francisco Chronicle Sporting Green.
“I hope I like this,” I thought.