Nothing makes a man feel old like the death of a contemporary. I just got back from Gray Funeral Home. It's quiet time when Clinton, S.C., says farewell to one of her own.

Tim Mann played football with me. He was a year older, which meant he went out (in football) with a heartbreaking loss in the state football championship. I was heartbroken, too. In fact, one of the indelible scenes of my life is the feeling I had sitting in the locker room afterwards. The next year, when I was a senior, we won the state championship, but yet I remember the loss in 1974 more than the win in '75.

Tim was 53. He never left town. He worked at L&L Office Suppy for almost half his life ... and ran a successful karate school across the street. He lived an honorable life, was a credit to the community, affected countless young lives in a positive way and died far too soon.

The last time I saw him was the opening game of the 2009 Clinton High football season (which, by the way, ended in a state championship, too). We didn't speak. I just waved. I was struck by how much Tim had aged. A month later, I heard he had cancer. Last week, I heard the end was near. Tuesday morning, when I showed up to appear on a local radio show, I find out he had passed away.

We weren't friends, but we were friendly. I don't think an angry word passed between us since we stopped playing football. We weren't really ever friends, but we weren't ever enemies, either.

I lost my father when he wasn't that much older than Tim. I lost two of my very best friends within the past year. Significant losses are etched in memory. David Poole, April 28. Jeff Snipes, July 20.

I went to the funeral home tonight because it was what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to stand in line for 45 minutes, slowly shuffle toward other familiar faces and try like crazy to remember their names. I spoke with my old high school coach and his wife. I saw the parents of a high school friend, now a doctor, for the first time in probably 10 years.
Some wore coats and ties. I tried to be passable in jeans, a button-down shirt and a blazer. Some kids wore shorts and T-shirts. Two looked like they had the rest of their motorcycle gang outside.

Some were retired. Some came after work. Some don't have work.

The family? It looked like mine when my old man passed away. There wasn't much emotion. They had been numbed by the awful descent that cancer brings. They were relieved that Tim didn't have to suffer, and I expect they were proud of the dignity he showed as he stared into darkness, doomed but not defeated.

These losses, this sorrow, seem to match up with the times. Everybody's feeling mighty mortal these days