It was a typical example of the man's modesty. When Bill Friday had to back out of a dinner with those of us participating in a statewide editorial writers and editors conference last week, he apologized but said he had to attend an awards ceremony for Duke University historian John Hope Franklin. He didn't mention that he was also being honored. But when he came to the conference the next morning, the fellow who led the University of North Carolina system with a quiet dignity for 30 years was breathing fire on a subject, college sports, that has occupied his energies for some years. It might even be said that his concerns go back nearly a half-century, to the early days of his tenure as president.

Mayberry, around 1962. A debate rages on the town council about how to dispose of an old cannon that has long been viewed as an eyesore. Consensus: Tote it away. Standing firm for keeping the cannon, one Deputy Sheriff Bernard Fife. In a heated discussion with his boss, Sheriff Andy Taylor, Barney is angry. Andy says at one point, "Barney, you don't like change, do you?" To which Barney says something like, "Well, I'm not crazy about it, if you must know."

He was one of the most amazing people you'd ever meet, and that's simply the way to put it. And that's only partially because Willie York, who died Tuesday, was one of the people who built the Raleigh we know today and was as skilled a businessman as we have seen and shall see in these parts. That's true. What's also true is that well into his old age, Willie York's mind was a blade so sharp you felt like his could carve the turkey and yours could cut the butter. In addition to being one of the smartest people I ever met, Mr. York -- who developed everything from shopping centers to hotels to apartments to industrial facilities -- was possessed of more than a single helping of common sense and compassion. He was also a man of uncommon candor. It was fascinating to talk to him about others of prominence or notoriety both positive and negative. He knew everybody, and did not hesitate, in private conversations at least, to tell you exactly what he thought.

A paid leave. An interim coach. Lots of talk about investigations and settlements. Hand-wringing. Defensiveness by other coaches who say, "Oh, this doesn't happen everywhere..." followed by stand-ups with players defending their guy. It seems like a lot of trouble to go to when there's an option that would set a good precedent that might get the attention of coaches, players and recruits everywhere in the world-of-its-own of college football. The option is: Shut down the University of Colorado's football program, and right now.

Let us not pronounce the end of civilization as we know it, though no one could be blamed for such a conclusion after the events of recent weeks. After all, if one is looking for signs that the end is upon us, one might consider: 1) The election of an action movie star as governor of California; 2) The untimely exposure of a rock star's sister at halftime of the Super Bowl while her brother awaited trial ... oh, let's just not talk about it; 3) An investigation of the drug purchases of America's most right-eous conservative talking head; 4) The indictment and trial of of the nation's foremost homemaker and perfectionist; 5) Well...

Someone send in the reinforcements, and be quick about it. Can you hear the thundering hooves? Can you see them in the distance, kicking up the dusty trail in front of South Building, hollering and waving their swords as they spread to the laboratories and classrooms? And there stands General James Moeser in the midst of it all, his skin burning from the sun, his saber above his head, his buckskins tattered from wear, his boots muddy from hours on the battlefield. (And he's not getting in any practice on the organ, either.) The enemy? Why, it's the hordes of deans and chancellors and university presidents around the country who are trying to kidnap the faculty of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Some say the devils are trying to clear out the halls at N.C. State, too.

So here's the thing. Am I the only one who thinks it's a bit peculiar -- a word chosen because it is more palatable than "looney" -- that every cable channel not showing "Cheers" reruns and every national TV blabbermouth still breathing spent a goodly chunk of January in Iowa? And that, after about 120,000 Iowa Democrats had coffee in schoolhouses and living rooms and participated in a voting system that is about as simple as a graduate course in calculus at M.I.T., those aforementioned blabberheads pronounced all sorts of profound conclusions as to the race for the Democratic presidential nomination? And that...I'm rolling here...the candidates followed their forays into Iowa by heading for New Hampshire, another place that is as cold as, well, Iowa, so as to participate in another few days of groveling and cooking pancakes for people they will never see again, except maybe in four years?

They were on the way to Selma, or maybe Montgomery or Birmingham. One of those places marked in the consciousness of those of us old enough to remember the late 1950s and early '60s. Their seating on the plane was by happenstance. One the young, hotshot reporter from what was then the Knight Publishing Company, the other an ever-more-famous preacher named Martin Luther King Jr. My father was the reporter. He and King had a long chat, and my Pop said many times over many years that King had been an affable, soft-spoken fellow. Charismatic, to be sure. But a very down-to-earth guy. They would encounter each other several times during the course of the civil rights movement. King's unsurpassed eloquence gave things a face and a voice. There were multitudes of others in the trenches, their names still known among those who participated in the movement, but not nearly as well-known as their courage deserves.

When I started, some years back, getting involved in youth baseball through a young fellow who's now moved on to high school and guitar and a multitude of other endeavors, one thing that struck me as constructive and kind of important was the way in which the kids were taught to play by the rules, to the letter. And how, at game's end, they marched onto the field to congratulate the other team, win or lose. And the way coaches and parents cheered for the triumphs of their opponents -- a good hit, an accomplished play in the field. Sportsmanship, they called it. Character. Respect. Right and wrong.

It is always a conundrum. You go on vacation, whereupon you can leave a sort of automatic response on your e-mail system. Your correspondent does not do this, for First Amendment as well as personal convenience reasons. The problem is, an automatic response means that in addition to replying to all those governors and senators and university presidents and other illustriousables who usually write daily for advice -- I mean, you don't want them to panic because they can't get you for a couple of weeks -- you'll also be responding to the multitude of individuals and businesses that engage in what we now call spam. (Which, by the way, is an outrageous insult in my opinion to a fine processed meat product with a capital letter that is excellent when scrambled with eggs, cheese and a hint of onions. What you have to to is saute the onions first, and then you brown the Spam and finally, toss the eggs in the pan. I recommend a full-bodied merlot, though some prefer a six-pack of Blue Ribbon and...oh, sorry about the digression.)