When I was offered a job at The Dallas Morning News in the summer of 1999 , I knew that I was done moving around. I had somehow projected enough competence to get my foot in the door, and if I didn’t get thrown out, I planned to be there a long time. A long time turned out to be more than 18 years. As I finish my last week of work at the DMN, I’m thankful for all the people who have helped me along the way. It’s a long list of writers, editors, photographers, designers, readers, coaches, players, parents and a bunch of others I don't mean to leave out. There were also the occasional heroes who helped in unusual ways, such as helping me find an unlocked door or gate at a dark stadium. One time after a high school playoff game, I thought I might end up sleeping at Texas Stadium, the Cowboys’ old home, because I got stuck on a level where the elevator door wouldn’t open. It was on a level with stained gray carpet in the hallway, which I think described almost every level of T

As I walked out the door a final time, I tried to recall my earliest memories from my childhood home. Nothing really came to me.   I was only 5 years old when my family moved in, so my sketchy recollection is to be expected. Moving day is probably one of those shiny memories of my childhood that is covered in a muck of outdated passwords, old locker combinations and things like “negative b plus or minus radical b squared minus 4ac all over 2a.” That’s the quadratic formula. It has really come in handy over the years. The front yard. We once had a massive slip-and-slide out there that attracted kids from all over, and I'm not sure the grass ever recovered. Whatever the reason, I don’t remember a lot about my first few years at the house. But at least my last few days there are fresh memories. They’re from a few weeks ago, when I flew to Arizona to get a final look at the old digs and help my parents move into a retirement community. My parents don’t seem to fit i