Recently I flew to London to cover Wimbledon, the world’s premier tennis competition and one of the few events I go to where the crowd never boos. Each morning I walked the tree-lined streets near the tennis courts, passing boisterous teenagers queued up for leftover passes. Outside the gate was a news-stand that sold British tabloids, featuring paparazzi photos of supermodels, celebrities and the royal family, horoscopes and a wee bit of actual news. Their top headline of the day was written on a chalkboard, and usually read something like ROYAL COUPLE IN TROUBLE! or GAZZA TO TEAM: GIVE ME MILLIONS!

People scooped up these tabloids, devoured their gossip, and on previous trips to England, I had always done the same. But now, with Morrie’s illness at the back of my mind, whenever I confronted anything silly or mindless, I kept picturing my friend in his tiny house with his loved ones, while I spent so many hours on things that meant absolutely nothing to me personally: movie stars, football players or the latest noise out of Prince Charles or Madonna. Back home, the O.J. Simpson trial was in full swing, and there were people who surrendered their entire lunch hour to follow it. I started to wonder why we bothered so much with the lives of strangers.

One particularly crazy day in Wimbledon, a crush of reporters had tried to chase down Andre Agassi and his famous girlfriend, Brooke Shields, and I had gotten knocked over by a British reporter who barely muttered “Sorry” before sweeping past. I thought of something Morrie had told me: “So many people walk around with meaningless lives. They seem half-asleep, even when they are busy doing things they think are important. This is because they are chasing the wrong things.”

When I returned to Detroit, I arrived late in the afternoon, dragged myself home and went to sleep. I awoke to a jolting piece of news: the unions at my newspaper had gone on strike. There were picketers at the front entrance and marchers chanting up and down the street. As a member of the union, I had no choice. I was suddenly out of a job, out of a paycheck, and pitted against my employers. Union leaders called my home and warned me against any contact with my former editors, many of whom were my friends. I was also told to hang up if they rang me up and tried to plead their case. I felt confused and depressed. Although the TV and radio work were nice supplements, the newspaper had been my lifeline, my oxygen. When I saw my stories in print each morning, I knew that I was alive. Now it was gone. And as the strike continued, there were phone calls and rumors that this could drag on. There were sporting events each night that I would have gone to cover. Instead, I stayed home and watched them on TV. I had grown used to thinking readers somehow needed my column, so I was stunned at how easily things went on without me. Suddenly, I thought of Morrie again and decided to call him.

adapted from Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom