For years, he would call at any time of the day or night. In the last few months, however, after the heart attack that nearly killed him, his calls took on a steadier, saner routine, usually coming just after noon. Finally, I figured out why. He had finished his day’s work and was ready for some conversation. In the past, a day’s work for him had been seven or eight hours of relentless reading or steady writing, but during his recuperation and recovery, three or four was about all he could manage.

No matter where we happened to be, David Halberstam and I talked almost every single day for the last thirty-five years—and that Monday in April was no exception. He happened to be in a hotel room in northern California, having lectured at Berkeley over the weekend, and I happened to be in Rye, New York, playing in a charity golf tournament on a course where cell phones are strictly forbidden. Nevertheless, at just a few minutes past noon, mine began to chirp, and after putting some distance between my partners and me at the third tee, I pushed the button and heard his unmistakably familiar voice.

“Hey, uh, it’s David,” he growled. “Where are you?”

I told him. The Westchester Country Club.

“Ah, yes,” he chuckled, “where those of, shall we say, the Hebrew persuasion are no doubt warmly welcomed and lovingly embraced.”

“I suppose so,” I answered brusquely and explained my problem with the phone. “Can we talk later?”

He promised to call that evening from Los Angeles, but insisted on telling me he had an interview scheduled that afternoon with Y.A. Tittle, the Hall of Fame quarterback who’d become a successful insurance broker in Silicon Valley after his retirement. “You know what...

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