Mourning David Halberstam I am saddened and also, for the following reasons, a little freaked out by the death of David Halberstam.

1) I saw Halberstam walking down the street a couple weeks ago, past the Cafe des Artistes on West 67th Street. He looked great—dapper, vigorous, elegant. I thought about introducing myself, then decided that I shouldn't bother him.

2) One of the reasons I thought about introducing myself is that I've been meaning to drop him a note; I recently read two of his baseball books, The Teammates and Summer of '49, and wanted to chat with him about baseball, the Red Sox, and the summer of '78. But I've been busy, and I put off writing the note. There's a lesson in that.

3) This paragraph, from Clyde Haberman's eloquent remembrance in the Times:

Mr. Halberstam was killed doing what he had done his entire adult life: reporting. He was on his way to interview Y. A. Tittle, the former New York Giants quarterback, for a book about the 1958 championship game between the Giants and the Baltimore Colts, considered by many to be the greatest football game ever played.

Halberstam and I were/are working on very similar projects.

My own feelings aside, this is a real loss. First Vonnegut, now Halberstam. Wherever you are, Norman Mailer, please look both ways.  ¶ 7:29 AM