Goodbye Palm Coast, I hardly knew ye

Palm Coast Observer
Opinion

I rifled through the sea of clothes on the floor of my third-floor room at the Holiday Inn off State Road 100. It was March 28, and I was headed to the home of Executive Editor Brian McMillan — my new boss. He’d invited me over to catch some March Madness on T.V. I located the top I was looking for, pulled it over my head and hit the road.

Roughly 20 minutes later, as bugs worshipped the glow of a nearby porch light, I pushed the McMillan’s doorbell wearing my Crimson and Black, No. 7 Mike Vick jersey. It was early in the game, but Brian needed to know what he was getting himself into. Like Vick in 2001, I arrived in Palm Coast with a tantalizing amount of natural ability, flash, and a penchant to improvise and scramble when things break down. Rounding out the comparison, a case can be made I’ve got my own issues with discipline and being a good team player.

Half a year later, I’m heading home — having landed an expanded opportunity on the sports desk at The Washington Post. I haven’t been here long, but I’ll never forget this community, the athletes, the coaches and administrators — the people I’ve met.

So, this column’s dedicated to you. It’s for all-star coach and dad Raul Hernandez, who let me into his living room at 9 p.m. on a workday and ran five-on-five with me at Wadsworth Park (sorry I missed three open layups, man). It’s for Jordan Butler, who let me toss with him and coach his travel team (I bailed on him after one practice). It’s for FSU recruit A.J. Westbrook, who can truthfully list “media relations” experience on his résumé after hooking me up with half a dozen of his Mainland football teammates for interviews. It’s for Charlie Truglia, who bowled home the point that age is really just a number.

And finally, it’s for Jonathan, Shanna, Ximena, Maureen, Kait, John, Emily, Wayne, Randi and Brian. My luck in coming here is your continued good fortune, Palm Coast — the Observer is the epitome of a family newspaper.

Last month, I returned to Brian’s house on a Sunday afternoon. The occasion was a “gender reveal party,” (don’t judge me, Dad) for the McMillan’s fourth child. Everyone from our company was there, and why not? Our big, blended, interfaith, Observer family was growing bigger by one (It’s a girl, in case you’ve been under a rock).

For me, Palm Coast was never really home. I’ll always think of you all as the friend who let me bed on his couch for a few weeks while I was in a bad way. And, when I think of you, I’ll geek out smiling.