If I carried around rabbits’ feet and crystal balls, patterned my day around the future that prophetically awaits me in horoscopes, avoided black cats, ladders and shakers of salt, I would’ve never made it to The Democrat’s front door.

The tire that ran across the Canal Street asphalt that contained the rock that said tire rolled over that popped the rock that delivered a gaping hole in my radiator could all have been considered an omen’s chain of events.

But I’m sane. OK so that’s debatable. I guess even being a transplanted Natchezian, I’m a Garden Club gourmet fry short of a happy meal.

I never let the car maintenance hiccup deter me that late September weekend in 2002.

I made it to the interview unscathed and got my first taste of Miss-Lou sports with a cardiac arrest Ferriday-Peabody football game and a pleasant indoctrination to Alcorn and the wickety, wickety SWAC.

In a little more than a year and a half I’ve witnessed teenagers reaching precipices with state championships in baseball, cross country, track and tennis.

I’ve seen them stumble an eyelash short of pinnacle achievements with runner-up finishes in football, baseball and basketball, and countless more times cap seasons with gutsy performances during the playoffs.

Hallmark doesn’t have a &uot;missed it by that much&uot; card.

Kleenex can’t sponge up the mason jars of tears, both joyous and sorrowful, children of all ages have shed following all the wins and losses.

Parents have watched their wispy-haired and bouncing-curled, angelic-faced babies go from running to third instead of first base during those formative T-ball years to mastering the art of the pop-up slide, an out pattern, the no-look pass or a riseball.

I’m in the business of entertaining. If I wanted to make a futile attempt at swaying your beliefs, I would’ve become a Mormon or Jehovah’s witness.

That being said, know what I’ve chosen to do with my life is my passion, my heartlight. I wouldn’t trade in my hand for pocket aces or a winning Powerball ticket.

For me, this is the juice. Writing, reporting, sticking my nose where sometimes it doesn’t belong &045;&045; that’s where I get my state championship, my ring, my letter jacket.

All this leads into me informing you that my voyage in this port town is coming to an end and I’ll soon be shipping out to a new harbor.

I found myself in a heated debate the other night with someone who said the only reason I wrote sports was because I was a sportsaholic. That it was impossible to make sports more than statistics.

First of all, I don’t mind being labeled as a sports junkie. However, I chose writing about athletics because I’ve found it gives me the most leash to be creative with, and my No. 1 goal is to make sports &uot;sexy,&uot; so you can get past the stats.

I hope I’ve been able to do that with my pop culture quips, imagery and characters.

Supply the canvas, I’ll provide the rest &045;&045; horoscopes and busted radiators be damned.

Chuck Corder

is a sports writer for The Natchez Democrat. Reach him at (601) 445-3633 or by e-mail at

chuck.corder@natchezdemocrat.com.