There exists, tucked high above the ice rinks, gridirons, and ball diamonds of this city, a peculiar and noble brotherhood — the tribe of sports writers.

We play pranks, we trade barbs sharper than skate blades, and we share more truth than we’d ever admit aloud.

Love? We never speak that word — not among ink-stained cynics who measure time by deadlines and box scores — to each other.

But this weekend, I suggest we make an exception.

Because we lost someone who made those games fun. Thoughtful. Entertaining. Grateful.

Friday morning John Sexsmith passed away, ending a 13-year courageous cancer battle at age 63.

He was one of us — though “one of us” scarcely captures the warmth, mischief, and quiet grace John carried into every rink and press row, first with K-97, then 630 CHED and, p

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