After a Jazz game on a dark winter night, after the crowd had departed, after his column had been written and his deadline met, he was traversing a street corner outside the Vivint Arena, firmly in a crosswalk, moving toward his parked car. I sped around a corner and nearly planted the badge on my SUV hood into his midsection.
That would have made for one helluva headline: “Tribune columnist kills Deseret News columnist after Jazz game.”
We laughed about that later, but it wasn’t all that funny at the time.
Rock and I laughed together a lot — before, during and after a thousand games.