MY CONTACT with Ernie Salvatore began at about 4:45 a.m. on some morning, any morning - indeed, just about every morning - in the late 1970s.

Yes, I was one of those teenagers the newspaper's circulation department prayed were at least dependable enough not to sink the entire operation. For nearly four years, I patrolled part or all of four streets in the hilly southeast part of Huntington.

You would get out of bed well before dawn, walk over to a drop-off spot at the end of somebody's driveway, pop the seal on one of the bundles and get to work. Unless you were a geek like me, who just had to read the product first.

Helped only by a weak little streetlamp, I'd scan the front page for breaking news and every so often, it was big - the Beverly Hills Supper Club fire and the death of Marshall basketball coach Stu Aberdeen stick out in my mind. And then there was the continuing story of the winters of 1977 and '78, which put us all in the deep freeze.

But more often than not, I was quickly off to the sports page. And when Salvatore wrote one of his "Down in Front" columns, I often read it to the end - especially those Saturday "Sportin' Life" columns, which stuck to a simple yet effective formula.

At some point, often after reading Ernie, I figured out I'd better quit reading the stinkin' paper and start delivering it, lest I miss the paper's 6:30 deadline.

I'd knock out Locust Court and the top of Locust Street, then zip through the Zbans' driveway to North Queens Court. After taking care of about eight houses there, I'd shoot through another customer's yard to Green Oak Drive.

Five or six customers later, I'd be in the ironic situation of plopping a paper on the columnist's porch. Just in case the guy had forgotten what he wrote the night before, right?

(Being in that situation today, I must admit to a twinge of anxiety when I crack open my own paper. Those typos and other gaffes that sneak into your copy have a bad tendency to remain in print forever, you know.)

Salvatore was a pretty easy customer. His unassuming, well-kept home had a small porch which wasn't elevated, on a rare flat piece of land, and close to the street. That easy delivery saved my throwing arm for other challenges. And with him being a newspaper employee, I didn't have to collect from him; I simply received a credit on my bill.

I took care of him, as I tried to take care of the other 80 customers. I can say for certain he missed his Herald-Dispatch only once in that time - Jan. 20, 1978 or thereabouts, when Huntington was buried under 2 feet of snow and newspaper trucks didn't even try to climb those hills.

Salvatore always got a charge out of his ex-paperboy turning into a Marshall beat writer. He'd let me know he was paying attention to my work, too - particularly funny was the time I had to admit I missed one of his columns, which drew a "Hey, I always read your crap!" rebuke, delivered with a smile.

I never directly worked with him. My part-time days at The Herald-Dispatch came after his retirement from full-time writing. But his influence is there, believe me.

Yes, I was one of those teenagers the newspaper's circulation department prayed were at least dependable enough not to sink the entire operation. For nearly four years, I patrolled part or all of four streets in the hilly southeast part of Huntington.

You would get out of bed well before dawn, walk over to a drop-off spot at the end of somebody's driveway, pop the seal on one of the bundles and get to work. Unless you were a geek like me, who just had to read the product first.

Helped only by a weak little streetlamp, I'd scan the front page for breaking news and every so often, it was big - the Beverly Hills Supper Club fire and the death of Marshall basketball coach Stu Aberdeen stick out in my mind. And then there was the continuing story of the winters of 1977 and '78, which put us all in the deep freeze.

But more often than not, I was quickly off to the sports page. And when Salvatore wrote one of his "Down in Front" columns, I often read it to the end - especially those Saturday "Sportin' Life" columns, which stuck to a simple yet effective formula.

At some point, often after reading Ernie, I figured out I'd better quit reading the stinkin' paper and start delivering it, lest I miss the paper's 6:30 deadline.

I'd knock out Locust Court and the top of Locust Street, then zip through the Zbans' driveway to North Queens Court. After taking care of about eight houses there, I'd shoot through another customer's yard to Green Oak Drive.

Five or six customers later, I'd be in the ironic situation of plopping a paper on the columnist's porch. Just in case the guy had forgotten what he wrote the night before, right?

(Being in that situation today, I must admit to a twinge of anxiety when I crack open my own paper. Those typos and other gaffes that sneak into your copy have a bad tendency to remain in print forever, you know.)

Salvatore was a pretty easy customer. His unassuming, well-kept home had a small porch which wasn't elevated, on a rare flat piece of land, and close to the street. That easy delivery saved my throwing arm for other challenges. And with him being a newspaper employee, I didn't have to collect from him; I simply received a credit on my bill.

I took care of him, as I tried to take care of the other 80 customers. I can say for certain he missed his Herald-Dispatch only once in that time - Jan. 20, 1978 or thereabouts, when Huntington was buried under 2 feet of snow and newspaper trucks didn't even try to climb those hills.

Salvatore always got a charge out of his ex-paperboy turning into a Marshall beat writer. He'd let me know he was paying attention to my work, too - particularly funny was the time I had to admit I missed one of his columns, which drew a "Hey, I always read your crap!" rebuke, delivered with a smile.

I never directly worked with him. My part-time days at The Herald-Dispatch came after his retirement from full-time writing. But his influence is there, believe me.

It goes back to those early mornings on my paper route. He helped make the sports page, and indeed the entire newspaper, a little more fun, and those experiences helped steer me into the field after I completely lost interest in my first major (accounting, if you care).

His ability to play it straight always struck a chord with me. If something's not going right, you have to tell your readers, even if you know they're not going to like it. He can pat you on the back or kick you in the rear, and that's pretty much how I try to operate.

He didn't back down from a good battle. While he criticized Marshall University officials when appropriate, he also was a consistent warrior in the fight for university status, the medical school and, yes, that decades-long battle for a decent football stadium. It is most appropriate that the pressbox is named in his honor.

He absorbed some shots along the way. Back in my student journalist days, he once told me that one positive response to your work is equal to 20 negatives. (In this day of Internet message boards, I figure he would have revised that figure upwards.)

About that time, he was at odds with basketball coach Rick Huckabay, who was deified in a manner that could best be described as unhealthy. He pointed out some of Huckabay's character flaws while the Thundering Herd was in an upswing, and Huckabay didn't like it one bit. Neither did the fans, who expressed such displeasure loudly in certain settings.

One fan called me up at The Parthenon and suggested I blast Salvatore in print over his treatment of the coach. Another came up to me one day and said, "You know, Doug, they're going to run Ernie out of town!"

My response was simply, "No one's going to run anybody out of town. Ernie will be here long after Huck's gone."

And so it was. Salvatore was ever patient during those times, figuring the Huckabay era would not end well. As it turned out, it ended even more poorly than anyone could have guessed.

If Salvatore gloated over that, I surely don't remember it. It was another chapter of adversity for a school that had seen its share, and then some. Deep down inside, he was heartbroken, just as he was that November night in 1970.

He was 87 when he passed away Friday, and it doesn't seem real. He was a step slower, obviously, but those tales of his sharp recall aren't exaggerated. He was still full of life during the past basketball and football seasons.

Rest in peace, Ernie. May Heaven come equipped with a good paperboy.

Reach Doug Smock at 304-348-5130 or dougsm...@wvgazette.com.