Super Sarah and Marvelous Marvin

The lake house is the kind for which a writer wishes.

You can find it at the end of a lane on a stretch of land in neighboring Union County. The screened-in back deck boasts views of birds and hues of yellow and orange and blue and green. Not to mention a landscape of a quiet cove in Norris Lake. Upstairs is a den designed to give a lifetime's worth of books a permanent place.

But the place isn't the point. The story is inside, where, as a sign reminds you as you enter, a fisherman lives with the biggest catch of his life.

Seventeen autumns or so ago, Marvin West called the Shopper asking the whereabouts of the column on Tennessee athletics that Jimmy Hyams then wrote for the paper. It happened to be one of the rare times I answered the phone. These moments remind you that not much, if anything, happens by chance.

I recited Marvin's lede from the day UT finally beat the Bear Bryant-coached losing streak to Bama. He told me he'd be in touch about a book he'd just written filled with Tennessee tales.

And a two-minute conversation led to a mountain of memories.

Marvin and I have gotten together every Opening Day, or somewhere near that actual beginning of the new year, for at least 16 seasons. We pretend we're there to watch baseball, but we both know better.

He tells me stories about Scripps-Howard, about the glory days of sports writing, about Gen. Neyland, about Mr. West going to Washington, about that World Series earthquake in California when he thought he might collapse along with Candlestick Park.  I learn something new every time.

I lately learned he sang bass in a gospel quartet. I also learned that's how he met wife Sarah, who he's always told me is "the real story" in the West's world.

Among my souvenirs are stories that I, too, can now tell.

One night I gave sudden birth to one of my 18 kidney stones while writhing around on their floor. Marvin got me upright, Sarah followed in the sports car, and Mom met us at Beaver Dam church.

Another night, I slipped off to sleep during the game and ended up leaving a tip of four bits that fell out of my pocket. What a pitiful payback.

Then there was the time I mistook a hummingbird's buzz for a wasp's warning, but we won't get into that.

One night we discovered my stepdad had played on Marvin's famous Little League baseball team that won 80-some games in a row. Walt Disney wasn't dumb. The world, you see, really is small after all. 

Mostly, I listen. And eat.

We watched the final game at old Yankee Stadium together a few years ago. That was an added bonus of Sarah's September -- the annual month-long celebration of her birthday. Thirty days is too few for what she deserves.

I like the tale about the time Sarah darn near brokered peace between North and South Korea. She's that kind of kind soul.

Marvin helped teach me how to write better. He'd call when I'd hit something close to a home run. He'd call when he thought I needed to adjust my swing.

He and Sarah were there when my universe collapsed. They were there when I got better.

I always feel inadequate when I write about them. Somehow I've managed to be blessed on this journey called life with friends that make Fort Knox look like "F Troop." In other words, the riches can't be monetarily counted.  Not a chance. No way.

All I know is I'm sure glad I answered the phone that afternoon. The memories are magic, the stories are super, and the friendship is forever. 

Marvin and Sarah

It has become a tradition once a year, one I hold dear, dinner and baseball with Marvin and Sarah West.

I knew all about Marvin long before I met him. Yes, it was partially because he covered UT sports for the Knoxville News Sentinel. But he also coached my stepdad, Mike McConkey, on a legendary Powell little league team that won 50-some games in a row.

I think I sealed the deal when I first talked to Marvin on the phone in 2000. I quoted his lead from his Oct. 17, 1982, column on Tennessee's first win over Alabama in 11 tries.

"What a strange and wonderful yo-yo is Tennessee football."

Maybe he just felt sorry for me.

Anyway, we got together to talk about his book "Tales of the Tennessee Vols" and fostered a friendship. He told me that wife Sarah is "the real story" and said again tonight that everybody likes Sarah more than they like him. I've never seen such a devoted couple.

Memories. Moments. Magic.

I once became so, uh, relaxed while watching a game with Marvin that I drifted off to dream. He woke me up and told me to go home.

I once left a dime and three pennies behind. I told Marvin it was a meager tip for Sarah's delicious dinner, all I could afford on a scribe's salary.

I once gave birth to a kidney stone in their living room. Marvin had to drive me home. Sarah followed in their car.

But mostly, I have listened.

Marvin told me about the time he printed a story about a UT football coaching change before John Majors had told the assistant who was getting axed. He said Majors called him long distance (Marvin was in Lexington, Ky., on a basketball assignment) seven times. Majors would say something, hang up, think of something else to say, and call back.

"To his credit," Marvin said, "John didn't hold a grudge and never mentioned it again."

He told me about the time Bill Battle was certain Marvin had planted a bug in the coach's offices. Battle made his assistants search under the table. They found some gum.

He talked about Big John Tate, about covering several Olympics, about being escorted along the border between North and South Korea. (Yep, the South Koreans liked Sarah best, too.)

He has given me advice, laughed at my bad jokes, even invited me to sing at one of his high school class reunions.

Of course, I'll never forget the day I thought he was dead. Long story made short, the daily paper posted a story on its website saying that Marvin had passed away in Lexington, Ky. It turned out to be another man named Marvin West.

When I called their lake house and Marvin answered the phone, I cried. Marvin told me to go back to work.

"See you on a bounce."

Marvin and Sarah are my friends. No, scratch that. They are family. And I love them very much.