For those that are not aware, after 24 years of crafting baseball (and other) columns at the Star, I am leaving the newspaper business to take on a new challenge as Director, Baseball Media with the Blue Jays. Suffice it to say, in my mind there have been no more than a handful of times when I did not wake up looking forward to going to work. It’s been a wonderful ride.

There are too many memories sweeping over me from those 24 years, but I’ll go with the flow, starting that first spring training in 1995, with replacement players on the menu and the baseball industry in shambles.

I remember beginning my Star career alone at spring training in 1995, tracking down Jays players in public parks and on high school diamonds, stumbling upon a small group of Jays players in shorts and T-shirts, no uniforms or lockers for ID, convincing myself as we spoke that Mike Timlin was Pat Hentgen. The next day Hentgen showed up and I went “oops!”

Later that spring I remember typing a column in my room at The Inn on the Bay in Dunedin and watching coverage of the Oklahoma City bombing. The real world doesn’t wait.

The baseball strike was thankfully ordered over by arbitrator Judge Sonia Sotomayor on the eve of opening day. She is now Supreme Court Justice.

At the ’95 home opener, the desk called during the game and asked me to focus on the attendance crisis. I looked around at 35,000 people at the SkyDome and shook my head. Didn’t they realize that I had come in from Montreal, where for many years crowds like this were cause for a champagne celebration.

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Other make-me-smile memories:

I remember the deciding game in the 2015 AL division series against Texas, when Russell Martin’s throw back to the mound deflected off Shin Soo Choo’s bat, giving Texas the lead. I turned to my seatmate, superstar columnist Rosie DiManno, and told her calmly and with certainty “the baseball gods will not allow that to be the deciding run.” Soon after, Jose Bautista’s bat flip was felt around the world.

I recall goosebumps as George W. Bush strode to the mound to perform the ceremonial first pitch at Yankee Stadium in the World Series post-9/11 to a continuing and truly patriotic standing ovation. And I remember, five games later, sitting in my seat in the centre-field press box in Phoenix as Diamondbacks slugger Luis Gonzalez sliced a line drive over second to beat the great Mariano Rivera and the Yankees in Game 7. Magical.

I remember sitting under the floorboards in manager Tim Johnson’s beautiful home on the banks of the Missouri River in Great Falls, Montana, drinking beer in the quiet dampness as he emotionally described regrets about training and sending young men to Vietnam, then having them never return and how he never went.

I laugh about driving with manager John Gibbons in his hometown of San Antonio as he made wrong turn after wrong turn looking for the Alamo. Hey dude, there is a wall to keep Mexicans out in your backyard and you can’t find it?

I remember watching in awe as Carlos Delgado drove a baseball past the light tower out of Tiger Stadium over the right-field stands, then strolling out of the park to try and retrieve the ball for a column. “Yeah, I saw it go that way,” said an elderly parking lot attendant slumped back in his chair as if it was a daily occurrence.

I recall being introduced by Yankees executive and an old PR friend, the late Arthur Richman, to a young Derek Jeter — perhaps spring training of ’97 — and being addressed as Mr. Griffin all the way through our conversation.

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I recall fondly the epic Canada Day ’97 game at the SkyDome against the Expos, with journeyman Jeff Juden outdueling Roger Clemens for a 2-1 win in front of 50,000 patriotic fans in a sea of red. Oh Canada!

I remember Clemens striking out his 16th batter of the game in July ’98 in a return to Boston, and walking off the mound at Fenway Park and glaring up at GM Dan Duquette in the owner’s box all the way to the dugout.

I remember standing with old Expos friend Moises Alou at Wrigley Field during batting practice before Game 7 of the 2003 NLCS against the Marlins, suggesting to the still-angry Cubs left fielder it might help everyone get over what happened a night earlier if, should they win the series, he invited that Bartman guy to be his guest for World Series Game 1.

And it wasn’t just a career covering baseball.

I remember flying to San Francisco for the playoff game between the Packers and Niners that made Terrell Owens famous. I approached the car rental counter and was convinced to upgrade to a special on Mustang convertibles for the next three days. As I happily headed for my sweet ride I pulled out of the parking lot and the rain storm started and didn’t stop till I was in the air coming home.

I recall Super Bowl XXX in Phoenix, writing early in the week about the Navajo Code Talkers of World War II, driving to Sedona to sit in the still intact cliff dwellings from a century earlier. There was a quiet spirituality and a sense of calm. Then came the actual game, featuring a Cowboys team that arrived from Dallas in a convoy of white stretch limousines and a halftime show with Diana Ross at Sun Devil Stadium, buckled in and hanging out of a helicopter as it landed.

There was always room for personal creativity. One of those assignments came in the final game of the 2007 season as the Patriots visited the Meadowlands in Game 16, looking to complete a perfect season. New York hotels were $400-plus, so I flew to Newark in the afternoon, cabbed to the stadium, covered the night game, cabbed to Times Square at midnight, hung out at the Irish Pub on Seventh Ave. until sunrise, took a cab to Newark Airport and flew home. Problem solved.

I remember with tremendous fondness the baseball beat writers with whom I worked — Allan Ryan, Jim Byers, Mark Zwolinski, Geoff Baker, Cathal Kelly, Morgan Campbell, Brendan Kennedy, Laura Armstrong — and baseball columnists Dave Perkins (who hired me in his time as sports editor), Rosie DiManno, Jim Proudfoot and others I hope I don’t offend. I thank the sports editors who put up with and sometimes were amused by my newness and the deskmen who understood my weaknesses and somehow made it all look acceptable when it got to print.

It’s been a 24-year run of learning with a growing appreciation of the craft and the passion of journalism and journalists while never forgetting Expos president John McHale’s advice for longevity given to me in a quiet moment in the early ’80s: “Always love the game and respect the people who work in it.”

Thank you readers for your constant feedback, positive or negative. It means you were paying attention and that you cared. That’s forever preferable to apathy. I’m guessing that after 22 seasons with the Expos and 24 seasons at the Star, it was time for a change and a new challenge.

Thank you.