Mourning the passing of our friend Terez, who leaves us with so many loving memories
The moment that sticks with one of the best people I’ve ever known is just before we start recording a podcast together. Terez would walk in, and there were times that if you didn’t know him you’d think he was having the worst day.
Not much conversation, yes or no answers at best, and then he’d look around at us and tell us we needed to carry him that day.
“I’m sorry fellas,” he’d say. “I’ve got no juice.”
Then he’d hit “record.”
Ha-HAH! Yes-SIR! Welcome to the Kansas City Star’s Chiefs podcast everybody, I’m here with the A-Team, pumped for the show...
Terez always had the juice, even when he said he didn’t. He called us the A-Team. He was B.A. Baracus, of course, and he labeled us all with other characters from the show but we all knew it was more like he was Gladys Knight and we were the Pips.
Terez died Tuesday at the too-young age of 37. He came to the Star out of college, and the truth is he wasn’t a very good writer at first. His copy was raw, and choppy, but in a way that you knew he had the story. He wanted to be great. He was honest about what that would require. He attacked it with uncommon energy and focus.
Once, we sat in the Kauffman Stadium press box together before a game. This must’ve been around 2010, Terez working his way up from his first job covering high schools to five years covering the Chiefs. In this moment he was helping on our Royals coverage, which is why we sat next to each other at the ballpark. He was also the Sporting Kansas City beat writer, which is why he was on the phone with Peter Vermes.
“So is he ‘90 minutes fit’?” I remember Terez asking Vermes.
Later, I joked with Terez about the question: You’d never heard that term in your life 10 minutes ago. Terez laughed.
“I know, but it got Peter talking,” he said.
Terez was so damn smart, both intellectually and with people. He knew his writing was raw when he started here. We talked about that. He asked a million questions to a hundred writers. He studied. He worked. Before you knew it, he was excellent, pridefully planning and producing long features. He did that, with sweat.
Terez’s genius had nothing to do with turning a phrase, though. He knew football and the people who loved it. He built and executed a plan that quickly made him one of America’s best football beat writers — an enormously competitive field.
I don’t know how many people are so good at what they do, yet remain so eager to get better. I don’t know how many people can carry a confidence that could border on arrogance, and be the first to make fun of themselves. He had a confidence you could feel the first time you talked to him, and a gift to transfer that confidence to you.
Another Terez story: This must have been around 2014 or 2015. We’re in a press box somewhere together. San Diego, I think.
“Hey, does Andy not like me or something?” he asked.
He was talking about Andy McCullough, who was then our Royals beat writer.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“He doesn’t follow me on Twitter,” Terez said. “He used to, but then he stopped. What the hell, man?”
Terez was hurt. Probably at least a little pissed. He didn’t show this side often, but it was genuine. A few weeks later, I told Terez I talked to Andy about Twitter. I had the answer.
“Andy said you just like football too much for him,” I said.
Terez nodded his head a few times, slowly but certainly. Andy might as well have said Terez was too handsome.
“I’ll take that,” Terez said. “I can live with that.”
Terez is one of my favorite people in the world. I told him that many times, which now I’m so grateful for, but I never told him why.
It’s because Terez found something he loved — football — and made it his professional goal to pursue it with everything he had. He did a lot of stuff he had no real interest in, but did it anyway and did it terrifically, because he had personal pride and a long-term vision.
It’s because when Terez — like all of us lucky enough to achieve a dream — found out the goal he’d been working toward came with headaches and pains he hadn’t considered he worked through them without complaint.
It’s because he was one of the best journalists I’ve known, but constantly and without making a big deal of it wanted to see where he could help the person next to him.
Watching a football game with Terez was a joy. You’d be watching the quarterback, or maybe the receivers downfield, and then you’d hear it — this deep-toned laughter that would begin in his gut, shake his torso, and then finish with him putting his head on his hand and pointing to the TV.
“Watch 73 on this inside zone,” he’d say, and then you’d watch 73 pancake a man.
As I type these words I’m on a layover back from the Super Bowl. Terez didn’t come. Said he wanted to stay safe. The night after the game a few of us had dinner, and I can’t remember how but the conversation turned to Terez. We told old stories, laughing and marveling at the career of one of the sports world’s best journalists. We had no way of knowing Terez would die the next day, not even 40 years old.
I spent the flight crying and laughing and staring at the seat in front of me. It makes no sense. The world is a bit dimmer.
I’m grateful for having known Terez, for all the times he taught me something or made me laugh. He made me smarter, made me better. He challenged me. There are a lot of us who will spend the rest of our lives cherishing that friendship. I’m so glad I told him what he meant to me.
My heart breaks that I can’t tell him once more.
This story was originally published February 9, 2021 at 4:29 PM.