In 1966, when the Journal was just a 3 year old baby, I met a young Irish tennis playing plumber at the Howard Johnson restaurant in Dorchester just off the expressway. It was seven in the morning and while I don't remember who picked up the check, I do recall Mr. Tom Flatley drawing an ad on a paper napkin that I ran in the next issue. That meeting began a very nice relationship with Tom building shopping centers, hotels and office buildings all around the state of Massachusetts and me writing about them and advertising them.
Tom eventually made the Fortune 500.

Wherever you are Tom, my fondest wishes go with you, and my main regret is that while I fancied myself as a pretty fair tennis player, I never could get on the court with you because you hit the ball too hard.