Several of you have contacted me saying, "I can't wait to see what you will write."

I guess I owe you, my readers, a post, but the truth is I have been at a loss of words. Actually, it isn't a loss of words. It is a loss of words that won't get me in trouble or sued. Besides, there has been way too much judging already done in the Court of Public Opinion, where Lady Justice is too often blind.

I'd like to instead paint this canvas with a few personal reflections. There are times in your life where you will always remember where you were. Some are big, like the day President Kennedy was assassinated, or the night Martin Luther King was shot. Some are not that big in the scheme of mankind, but on a personal level are just as vivid and will stick in your inner core till you go to your grave. I have four such memories of Coach Tressel.

The first memory was a late afternoon on a gray day in January. I had just turned off Rt. 161, onto Busch Boulevard, heading to a soil and water conservation meeting at the Hilton Hotel. Word broke on 610 radio that a Jim Tressel had been hired. I frankly had never heard of Jim Tressel. It wasn't thirty seconds and the phones were open, with some armchair quarterback ripping the hire and the new coach. History has shown how much that caller knew, hasn't it.

The second memory was also a dark day, even though it was the following August. This time I was in my own study and it was 4:30 AM . I awoke early in the darkness, unable to sleep, because I was taking Jenny in that morning for a serious cancer surgery with an unknown outcome. I read the papers to pass time, and opened The-Ozone to read their transcript of Coach Tressel's "It's Not About The Ball" speech - the speech in which he talked about his mother battling cancer, about the recent death of Kory Stringer, and about what was important in the scheme of life and football. Those words moved me to tears that morning and I am not ashamed to say that alone in the darkness I wept. At the same time though, the process of reading Coach's words and doing that, gave me inner strength to face that day.

I wrote Coach Tressel that morning thanking him, and telling him what a source of comfort and inspiration his words were to me. Jenny's surgery was successful, but sadly, Coach's mother did not live to see him coach that first game in the stadium. The week before that opening game, I received in the mail a personal note of encouragement from Coach Tressel, a response to the letter I sent him. In the midst of burying his mother, and preparing for his first game, the guy who some now say was all about winning, had found time to write some words of encouragement to an ordinary small town guy, a guy he didn't know from any of the other 11 million Ohioan's.

The third memory I will carry to my grave was exactly one year ago today. It was June 2, 2010, and I was sitting in Coach's office for an interview for Myles Traveled. We started the interview at 1:00 PM., about 5 minutes late, because Bob Mansfield was in Coach's office. I happen to know Bob heads the crew of elder volunteers that Coach Tressel organized to mentor the young players - keep tabs on the player's class attendance, where they sit, if they are turning their assignments in, etc. Ironic isn't it that a guy accused of only focusing on wining would do something like that.

In any case, when we started the interview Coach told his secretary to remind him "he had a conference call at 1:30." Now I wasn't born yesterday and knew that was code for "rescue me from this guy." For the next 20 minutes, we talked about Coach Myles, the subject of Myles Traveled. We talked about themes in the book: leadership, service, role models, duty, honor, and responsibility. Coach Tressel shared his insight into why Bill Myles is an example of that. Every time I read an article cynical of Coach's sincerity, I will forever remember sitting there and hearing from Coach Tressel that wisdom about a man I deeply admire, and knowing it came unpretentious and straight from Jim's heart.

We finished Myles Traveled and Coach graciously agreed to switch gears and talk for this book about Ohio Stadium, and what it means to be a Buckeye. Ten minutes into that, his secretary dutifully opened the door and reminded him it was 1:30 and time for his conference call. He looked at her, looked at me, and then back at her, saying, "Tell you what. If those people call, tell them I need ten more minutes with this gentleman." I have accomplished some things in my life that I am proud of. One of them is going one on one with Jim Tressel and having him feel it was worthy of giving me more time. I will always remember that instant, but I will remember even more the wisdom, sincerity, and humility he showed me and shared with me that day.

The last memory of course is the painful one. I will forever remember Monday morning was a beautiful holiday day, and my two sons and I were sitting in my boat on Lake Erie. Life was good. The waves were gentle, the temperature balmy, and a light breeze was cooling the hot sun, when the marine radio crackled that Coach had resigned. Of course, at first we didn't believe it, thinking it was one of those smack talks that often goes on out there. But Curt's iphone all too soon confirmed it like a sucker punch in the gut.

A lot has been written and said in the days since - some of it true of course- but too much of it vile and evil, and symptomatic of the sad state of uncivilized discourse and communications in this society today. Despite all that is written, the truth is we don't yet know the ending of this story. That's for Father Time and the serious historians to write, and it will be distilled and sorted out long after all the tweeters, all the haters, and all headline grabbers in the print and broadcast media are on to the next circus.

As for me, I will always hold in my heart Where We Were, and choose the memories of The Way We Were. I predict that is what Father Time will do too eventually, and when the final chapter is written on Coach and his time, the historians of tomorrow, unlike many of the yahoos writing today, will acknowledge that with Jim Tressel It Never Was About The Ball.

In 20 years, you can check back and let me know if I am right.

In the meantime, God Speed and God Bless, Jim and Ellen Tressel.