“HI I’VE JOINED THE NINETIES!” it began. He wrote a few little stories, what he’d been doing that week, a couple of jokes.
At the end, he signed off this way: I HAVE HEARTBURN AND DIARRHEA AT THE MOMENT—LIFE’S A BITCH.
CHAT LATER? [signed] SORE TUSH. I laughed until there were tears in my eyes.
This book was largely Morrie’s idea. He called it our “final thesis.”
Like the best of work projects, it brought us closer together, and Morrie was delighted when several publishers expressed interest,
even though he died before meeting any of them. The advance money helped pay Morrie’s enormous medical bills, and for that we were both grateful.
The title, by the way, we came up with one day in Morrie’s office. He liked naming things.
He had several ideas. But when I said, “How about Tuesdays with Morrie?” he smiled in an almost blushing way, and I knew that was it.
After Morrie died, I went through boxes of old college material. And I discovered a final paper I had written for one of his classes.
It was twenty years old now. On the front page were my penciled comments scribbled to Morrie, and beneath them were his comments scribbled back.
Mine began, “Dear Coach...” His began, “Dear Player...” For some reason, each time I read that, I miss him more.
Have you ever really had a teacher? One who saw you as a raw but precious thing, a jewel that, with wisdom, could be polished to a proud shine?
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