I was 29. I was single. I had no kids. I had a crappy apartment; a five-floor walkup in New York City. I was engaged to be married. I was a different person; certainly more naive and innocent—even without being particularly naive or innocent.
On the morning on Sept. 11, I was in a car with there other Sports Illustrated staffers, driving to Jack McCallum’s golf outing in New Jersey. We were driving through the city, not listening to the radio, when we saw people lining the streets. At some point, we drove past the Trade Center, looked up and saw a big hole. We turned the radio on, and heard a plane had crashed into the side. We all assumed the same thing: Probably a prop plane. Maybe three or four dead.
As we headed toward the Lincoln Tunnel, I saw a plane in the distance flying toward the Twin Towers. I thought very little of it …