I hate losing my keys. I misplace them more than anything else I own and I always seem to do it at the worst times.
Take Monday night for example. As the Communicat i ons/Sports Journalism major was preparing for the arrival of the Boston Globe’s Bob Ryan, one of the nation’s best sports columnists, I was running around campus looking for my keys.
I had everything planned out for the day. I had class during the day, work until four in the afternoon, and then I was going to go back to my townhouse, shower and head over to the Union early to set up a camera for the event.
Then it happened.
I was walking down Alden Street heading back to my room and noticed my pockets were a little lighter than usual.
After a quick check, I realized I had left them at work and immediately called my boss to make sure they were there.
As my boss went to check for my keys, I knew something was wrong because of how long I had been waiting on the other end.
“I don’t see them anywhere, Corey,” said my boss.
The search was on.
I went back to work, looked around for myself and came up empty.
I checked the pathways I had walked on during work.
I went back to my car to see if I had somehow left them there.
I headed back to my house to get my recorder and then headed out the door sweating and defeated.
My plan was ruined. I didn’t get to shower and change into some nice clothes and I wasn’t going to get to the Union early to talk with Ryan before his presentation.
As I walked out the door with camera in hand, I saw someone standing near the townhouse parking lot.
It wasn’t a student and I couldn’t understand why a professor would be standing in this parking lot looking lost.
As I got closer to the parking lot, I started to realize just who it was.
Bob Ryan was standing there looking just as defeated as I was.
Before I got the chance to say anything, he said, “Can I borrow your phone to make a quick call? I’m supposed to be meeting someone here and my phone died.”
No, Bob Ryan, you can’t use my phone.
“Of course,” I replied.
I called Marty Dobrow, Associate Professor of Communications and the man Ryan was trying to reach.
Dobrow, my advisor and professor of four years who also used to write for the Globe, answered with as much shock as I did upon approaching Ryan.
“You just happened to bump into him there,” joked Dobrow. “Want to walk him over to the Union?”
No, Dobrow, I don’t want to walk with Bob Ryan across the campus.
“Of course,” I replied once more.
As we walked across and talked about sports, the missing sound of keys jingling in my pocket was music to my ears.
Corey Hanlon may be reached at email@example.com