Great friend, gone

For years, the night after a horrible Yankee loss, an embarrassing A-Rod gaffe, or any sighting of Carl Pavano, the phone would ring, and I would scream to my family, "DON'T ANSWER! IT'S GLAVIN!"

Soon, my wife would be chatting up an animated 10-minute phone conversation, lowering my security shields. She would wander over and thrust the phone into my face, and a voice would boom: "You and George must really be so proud! $20 million for a pitcher who gets hurt in the shower."

Bill Glavin.

Thin guy, terrible beard, forehead the size of a supermodel's back. (He's above, wearing the hat.) He taught magazine journalism at Syracuse University. A legendary professor. I would fire back about Manny, or Wade Boggs, or whatever Redsock -- short of Mr. Buckner himself -- currently rented the woodshed. We would talk all night. Somehow, the Yankees, Kei Igawa, George W., whatever -- everything took on a new perspective. And Bill always got the final word.

God, I shall cherish those talks to the day I die.

Literally, I suspect.

Because Friday, Bill passed away, and this is the truth: I can say I dogged him to his final day with critical musings about Rico Petrocelli, Tony C and Oil Can Boyd. I dogged him on his deathbed. It was all I had to give.

Last winter, I began wondering why Bill hadn't called in a while. Then came the word of lung cancer. The chemo didn't touch it. After that, everything happened fast.

Thursday, I saw him for the last time. He was in hospice, drugged up, no pain, in and out. I rattled off names, debates, memories -- he had called me to concede defeat after Game Three of the 2004 Yankee-Redsock playoffs; as a result, I had never formally recognized Boston's victory -- he gave little smiles. He knew.

I will never get another Glavin call, never absorb another Glavin rant, never hear that voice again.

Listen: There is no Yankee-Redsock rivalry. It's a fraud, a hoax, a scam. The players exchange Christmas gifts. Their kids attend the same schools. There is no war, no feud, no nothing of consequence on the playing field.

There is only a bond between us fans. There is only our friendships. There is only us.

All that Yankee-Redsock crap -- it only exists in the hearts of those that matter to us.

God, I will miss this guy forever. I do already.

But folks, when my turn comes, nobody holds back, OK? Igawa, Pavano, bring them, bring whatever it takes. Because to friends, the bad is just the same as the good. And when it's over -- heaven or hell, damned if I know -- St. Peter or some guy with horns will thrust a phone in my face, and a booming voice will accuse George and me of messing up Joba's arm, or something worse. Knowing Bill, he'll pull it off. He always got the final word. Why stop now?