Saturday morning began with a plan. It would be a productive day off. And then I grabbed my phone and saw numerous missed calls and text messages.I was floored by the news that Michael Wagaman had passed away on Friday.
My heart sank. My plan vanished. The rest of the day, deep into evening, was lost to a daze.
Wagaman was a longtime friend who three years ago became a colleague as a freelance writer at NBC Sports Bay Area.
But Wags, as everybody called him, still was a friend. Of course. He was everyone’s friend. His entrance into a room could break any ice in a matter of seconds. If you met Wags at 7:30, he’d have you laughing by 7:33. He was silly in the best possible way. He was innately boisterous and routinely self-deprecating. He was wired to be curious, quirky, and excessively authentic. The zest Wags brought to his worst day at work was better than yours on your best day.
Which is why so many who were part of the Bay Area media at any time over the last 30 years spent Saturday in a trance. His son and doppelganger, Michael, “Young Wags” to me, discovered his dad Friday night and it was far too late to...