The editors’ meeting has already started when he moseys in. He’s wearing a shirt with an oversize wolf on it, a well-worn plaid flannel, and a Florida Marlins hat, and he’s sorry he’s late but he forgot we had a meeting. He’s our lovable sports editor, Phil Morgan II, or Deuce, as we know him. And he’s graduating at the end of the semester.
In a way, he’s a prince of Hillsdale, with family roots in the county dating back to 1843. Deuce wanted to get out of Dodge for college, and after a semester at the college, he ditched town and spent a semester working in Jackson. But he came back. He majored in history, went on the Florida Keys trip, and had a brief and at times toxic love affair with rugby during his college years.
But even more memorable than the stuff he’s done is the kind of guy he is. Deuce has a natural calm about him, and whenever things get hectic, he reminds us to switch the hipster music out for some jam bands and just relax. He loves the outdoors and plans to be a redneck someday, shooting moose and drinking beer.
He’s content with what he has, and though he’s never adored academics, he may know more about the good life than the rest of us. He is always up for an adventure, whether it be spearfishing with nothing but a flashlight after driving through the woods in his 1970s Jeep or catching a live band at a jazz club for senior citizens.
Few students on campus are so beloved in so many social circles, but being a friend to everyone is just Deuce’s way. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, Bloods… they all adore him. They think he’s a righteous dude.
We know he’s not a saint – we caught a copy editing mistake on the sports page once or twice – but we’ve been the better for knowing him. His departure reminds us all of how fleeting our time during college is, and how fortunate we are to attend a school that fosters such close, valuable friendships.
His best friends say he’s the friend you can call in the middle of the night if you need something, and while we hope never to need help with the sports page at 3 a.m., we make no promises.
Farewell and cheers, Deuce.