From 2001-02, I shared a cubicle with Steve Byrnes. He was the host and I was the producer of a nightly show called "Totally NASCAR" on Fox Sports Net. We'd known each other as racetrack acquaintances but were employed by opposing TV networks and had never actually worked together.

But over those two years of sharing office space he became one of my "two hand friends." You know, that closest group of friends that's so small you can only fit them on the fingers of two hands.

That little show we did, produced out of double-wide trailer in a production house parking lot, was the hardest I've ever worked and the most professional fun I've ever had. Hell, we even earned an Emmy nomination. I still can't believe they let us do some of the stuff we did. We aired segments where Steve, a hardcore football man, would wing footballs at the studio crew. He once did a lead-in to a story about celebratory burnouts while we had a smoke machine blast fog into his face. We reconstructed a fan scaffold so he could act like he was tailgating in the infield. Each week Sterling Marlin, a huge Tennessee Volunteers fan, would give his college football picks for the weekend and Steve would respond with his spot-on Marlin impersonation ("Well ... uh ... Steve ... someone stuck a stick in my spoke, backed us up ...")

But my personal favorite recurring bit involved a weekly, somewhat awkward segment sponsored by Outback Steakhouse. Steve was required to read a graphic with the standings of this weird, made-up contingency points thing ... and he was to do it while wearing a safari hat with a big Outback Steakhouse logo on the front. The first night, on live TV, he said, "Some sales guy in Los Angeles is like: 'He should wear the hat! This will be great!'" Then he said, "No," yanked the lid off his head and threw it like a Frisbee, nailing the camera. For the next two years, that became the routine. His tosses became harder and harder. When he hit the camera lens, it was hilarious. When he missed, it was even funnier. The Outback people loved it, so much so they sent us a box of extra hats.

Steve Byrnes was known for his professionalism, but also loved a good laugh, as seen here with Will Farrell at Talladega in 2006. Rusty Jarrett/Getty Images for NASCAR

At the end of every such off-the-wall segment Steve would joke "We are trained broadcast professionals." But he was also quick to remind me -- and this is something that I preach to this day -- "We can only do the goofy stuff as long as we get the serious stuff right."

There was plenty of serious.

Our first week working together ended with the death of Dale Earnhardt. I marveled at Steve's ability to maintain his composure night after night following the loss of such a close friend, even as the inevitable nasty lawsuits and crash investigation forced him to sift through the unspeakable details of Earnhardt's accident.

Later that year was the Sept. 11 attacks. In fact, Steve was the first person who called to let me know that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. He was home and I was home. I was oblivious, already busy putting in that night's show rundown into the computer system and clueless as to what was happening in New York and back in Steve's home area of Washington, D.C. I turned on the television and we were in the middle of talking when the second plane hit, live on CNN. We simultaneously and instinctively hung up and drove straight to the office.

From that year and that day forward, we lived by a mantra there in our cubicle that carried out into our lives, even long after our time as co-workers had ended. Steve said it first and I have shamelessly written it and shared with countless people ever since. I even used it in a graduation speech at his beloved Appalachian State University.

"This isn't so bad. It could be much worse. We could be under 130 million tons of rubble right now."

That's about perspective. About living in the moment. Appreciating the moment. And understanding exactly what "having a bad day" really means.

The day Steve first learned he had had cancer was Aug. 7, 2013. I know that because our families just happened to be together that day. We had, of all things, just ridden in a monster truck school bus in the Charlotte Motor Speedway's Parade of Power. Just as we'd arrived at the track, he'd gotten the call with the test results that no one wants to hear. The Byrnes family left in a hurry and he said he'd call me the next day. He did and told me the news. Then he said: "This isn't so bad. It could be much worse. We could be under 130 million tons of rubble right now."

The second time he learned he had cancer was Oct. 1, 2014. I know that because he called me as I was driving up the Billy Graham Parkway to the Charlotte airport, headed to Kansas Speedway for the race weekend. I pulled over on the side of the road and tried to sound like I wasn't crying when he said to me "130 million tons of rubble, brother."

Last Thursday, just before the Food City 500 in Support of Steve Byrnes race weekend, I spent the morning with Steve at the hospital. We recalled that 9/11 story and the rubble mantra. He talked about his birthday earlier in the week, offered me a leftover cupcake and said: "I am so glad I was here to see my birthday. To see the age of 56. And I am so glad I have today and that I have right now."

We texted all weekend. We texted during the race renamed in his honor, the one that started with greetings from his NASCAR on FOX coworkers, drivers, his son Bryson, and a racetrack full of #ByrnesStrong T-shirts, stickers and signs. I texted him, "I only wish I had the Outback Steakhouse hat to fling out the press box."

He responded "my fav".

I spent Tuesday evening in mourning by watching old episodes of "Totally NASCAR." I laughed out loud. I sobbed. And then I hit the last segment of the last episode I could find. It was a sort of "greatest hits" montage and there he was, holding a baby. It was his son, Bryson, and the kid was only a couple of hours old. We sent a camera crew to the maternity ward (his wife, Karen, wasn't too thrilled about that) and we had proud dad and his brand new baby on national television that night.

Two years ago, I had breakfast with the Byrnes boys at the Martinsville Speedway. Bryson was 10 years old and said he was impressed that I knew his age without having to ask. I told him that I'd always know exactly how old he was because I'd always remember that he was our "Totally NASCAR" baby.

Now Bryson's 12. His daddy's gone. And I hope that all of us -- from the garage to the media center to anyone out there who was moved by Steve's fight -- do everything we can to make sure his family is looked after. The darkest time after loss doesn't come in the days right after. The pain is sharper, but it's the emptiness, the aching of a new reality that doesn't arrive until weeks later, that hurts the most. It feels like being under 130 million tons of rubble. But, as Steve would tell us, it's not. So let's grab a shovel and start digging.

That's what he'd do. That's Byrnes Strong.