No matter what profession you choose in life, if you like your job, at some point your co-workers start to feel less like the people whose desks abut yours and more like a part of your extended family. You share countless lunches, they get invited to your wedding, and they stand in your kitchen with a smile, a drink in hand, the first time you celebrate the fact that you scraped together enough money to buy your first house.
The Sun lost a member of its extended family last weekend, and though he was probably just a byline to many of you who follow the sports section, Christian Ewell will be remembered by many of us as one of the most genuine, kind, loyal and fun individuals most of us ever had the privilege to call a friend. A few years ago, Chris was diagnosed with a brain tumor. He fought courageously, but ultimately died Saturday in Kansas City, Mo., at age 33, surrounded by a family who loved him deeply.
Just a year ago this week, Chris, Sun reporter Brent Jones and I pooled some money, bought some chicken wings and pizza, and watched Floyd Mayweather Jr. pick apart Oscar de la Hoya from Chris' apartment in Baltimore. We spent countless evenings like that, watching sports and cracking jokes. In time, Baltimore felt less like a foreign country and more like a place we grew to call home.
And now Chris is gone. Few things in my life have ever seemed quite so unfair.
There are so many people who feel lucky to have called him a friend, and my wife and I are among them. He had such an awesome laugh. I can't tell you how much joy so many of us at The Sun derived from listening to Chris laugh. On the nights when all the under-40 Sun crowd would gather at someone's house for drinks, you could catch Chris' eye from across the room (because he was so tall) and he'd raise his glass and bust out a big wide grin and a nod that would instantly make you feel better about the world.
Our friends used to joke that we could never find a decent restaurant in Baltimore without Chris' assistance. He had an internal GPS that seemed to be connected to his refined palate, and he was always leading us to fabulous bistros or restaurants that were as hidden as Smurf Village. For many of us, Chris was the first person to extend a hand and offer it in friendship. We spent a lot of evenings, and dollars, in Baltimore bars dreaming of the journalists we hoped we might someday become.
