It was 1968, at this time of year.

I was 13 and a new subscriber to Sports Illustrated. I looked forward to each new copy with something akin to lust -- and I'm not talking about the swimsuit issue.

My interest in sports was out of control.

Well, the delivery day for the magazine came and went. No Sports Illustrated. Same for the next day.

I lost my mind. In one of my all-time stupidest rants -- and I've had quite a few contenders for that honor -- I loudly accused the mail carrier of stealing my Sports Illustrated.

My mother heard about it. My father heard about it.

Yes, the conniving mail carrier had definitely done it. Oh, I had no evidence. And the motive, well, that was pretty iffy. (He wanted to deprive some kid of his weekly fix of literary musings on the world of athletics?)

Never mind logic. Outrage fueled my certainty.

Then, while reading the fine print of the publisher's boilerplate in the previous week's issue -- I must have been looking for a way to report our craven mail man to the Sports Illustrated executives in Chicago -- I noticed a declaration that indicated there was no issue the last week of the year.

Oh.

So the mail carrier did not steal it.

As I recall, my retraction of my slander was relatively muted, at least compared to my original histrionics.

Heh, heh, heh. Everybody makes mistakes.

Especially stupid 13-year-old boys.

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