Earlier this month the famed Boston radio station WBCN went off the air.  WBCN was one of those things that was just always there, and I never stopped to think too much about it.  Over the last few days that they were broadcasting, people started to pay more attention in a “I can’t believe this is really happening way.”

I think the first time I really became aware of WBCN was when I was in high school, and living in Connecticut.  I had started to become intrigued by this band from Burlington, VT that I was hearing a lot about—Phish.  Back then, in order to get news updates and tour dates, you had to call into an telephone hotline, which was basically just an answering machine where they would read off the latest info.  I found out that Phish would soon be playing a radio show for the “Rock Of Boston, WBCN.”  I talked my parents into driving me and a friend up for the night and we saw the show.  I remember thinking that if Phish was playing a show for them, they must be pretty cool.  WBCN was now on my radar.

Within a few years I was living in Boston and going to school.  WBCN became an immediate pre-set on my car radio.  You just knew they were a big deal.  You’d pass Fenway Park and see the old, black building out on the far side with the huge, white WBCN logo scrawled across the front.  It was part of the fabric of the area.

When I was in college, I started taking a bunch of classes on writing, and American literature; The Beats and the Vietnam War—your basic liberal arts education.  One of my favorite professors was a life-long Boston resident.  She’d tell us tales of what Boston was like in the heady times of the late Sixties and Seventies.  She talked about how WBCN was always on—an ever-present soundtrack to that bygone era that was so easy for me to romanticize.  And I could still go home, tune the radio to 104.1 and, in a way, tie into that history.

Towards the end of college I started interning for the local radio rep at the Boston Virgin Records office (a position that, incidentally, lead to the job I have today, in a roundabout way).  I have tons of great memories of this time, but I’ll never forget the feeling of excitement when my old boss Howard would stick his head out the door of his office and announce something like “‘BCN added Lenny!”  The whole office would cheer.  It was a big deal.  A big fish in a pretty big pond.

Years later, back in the music business after a few detours, I stood in the BCN studio near Fenway and had one of my all-time musical idols hand me a glass of champagne that had just been poured from a bottle presented to him as a gift from Oedipus, a local legend in his own right.  In hindsight, it made some sort of cosmic sense that that was where we were.  I still have the cork from that bottle.

Over the past few years WBCN changed a lot.  Like a lot of stations, they constantly tweaked the format of music they played.  They seemed to lose a bit of identity, and along the way my listening faded.  Still, I work in the music industry, and even with all the ups and downs, ‘BCN was still ‘BCN.  Having a single added there was still a big deal.

So a few weeks ago, on the night that they were to sign off for good, I knew I had to listen for one last time.  I sat at my computer and listened to them play one last set of great music, and share stories.  Something else cool happened as well.  I started looking on Facebook (a site that I’ve had more negative feelings towards than positive of late), and it seemed like everyone I knew that had any connection whatsoever to Boston was talking about ‘BCN going off of the air.  It was a nice moment, and it reminded me that I’m happy to have a central place to share those thoughts.  The internet may have diluted the community effect that radio has these days, but it also brought a diverse group of people together to share their thoughts on it.

I sat there with my headphones on, listening to them play Pink Floyd’s “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” one last time.  As the song ended, they played a montage of highlights from the long and wild life of the station.  As it ended, the call letters of the new station were spoken, and then it cut to static.  I listened to that static for a long time without even realizing it.  WBCN going off the air was never a “my life will never be the same” moment.  It wasn’t something I thought about on a regular basis.  But sitting there, listening to that static, gave a me a chance to reflect on that thread that has been woven through all my years living in Boston.  It’s strange to think that it’s gone.

Take a listen for yourself:

When I was in high school I played soccer.  For a small town in Connecticut, we had a good team.  I loved playing, but I hated training; especially running the hills behind our field—a punishment that I avoided as much as possible.

Last weekend I got the chance to go to Ohio for the launch of LeBron James’ newest Nike signature shoe.  The actual launch took place at the local Akron community center where James played basketball in when he was growing up.  It was an Event: Keenan Thompson from SNL was the MC; Nike webcast the event globally; national ESPN reporters were filing reports on location.  And of course, James himself was there to answer questions.

The trip, however, wasn’t all about flashing the newest shoes for the camera.  It was, as much as anything, a chance to see the Akron in which LeBron James grew up, and the community that nurtured him and allowed him to become the superstar that he is today.

Over the course of two days, we travelled around the area and met a number of people that had an impact on James’ career.  I had never been to Akron before this, so I had no frame of reference—only the impressions I was left with.

We visited the Summit Lake Community Center, where James first learned to play basketball when he was six or seven years old.   Walking into the entrance, it felt like any other well-worn community center, except on the wall next to the gym entrance, and above the old trophy case, was a large collage of cut-out magazine covers and newspaper articles featuring James.  There was a handwritten note saying “We Love You LeBron”—the type of note you’d expect to see attached to an All-Conference announcement at another school.

Coach Frank Walker walked us through the same gym where he’d coached kids for 20 years, including James.  The temperature inside the old gym was noticeably hotter.  The air was thick.  The polyurethane coating underneath the backboards was worn away from years and years of use.

We visited St. Vincent-St. Mary high school where James and his core group of basketball playing friends—The “Fab 5″— attended.  The school at which they won the National Championship in 2003.

As I walked through the main entrance of SVSM I noticed a sign above the door, donated by the 1983 Student Council.  It read “Through These Doors Walks A Winner.” This type of sign probably adorns some wall of most high schools around the country.  I bet students walk underneath it everyday and give it no thought at all.  I’m sure there are some that couldn’t tell you what it says if you asked them.  That sign was hanging above the door for a decade before LeBron James walked underneath it as a student.

I couldn’t help but wonder, do people look at it differently now?  Did LeBron notice it when he was there?

Today, SVSM is the high school “where LeBron James played.”  You can’t escape it. What does it mean for the young kids of Akron?  Are they more inspired having that story right in front of them?  By contrast, there used to be rumors that someone in our high school league could dunk—though I never saw it myself. That’s quite a difference.

I don’t know what impact going to the same school as LeBron James has on the people that come after him. I don’t know if you play any harder because you’re practicing on the same worn-down wooden floors that he played on.  I’d guess that a lot of it is subtle and subconscious.

If I wanted to point to one sign though, it’s what I saw as we were leaving the school. SVSM has a steep hill that runs out behind it.  As our bus circled  to leave, I saw two kids—maybe seven or eight years old—running up and down the hill behind the school.  They were laughing, but they were working; training.  I used to hate running hills when I played sports in high school, and this hill was a hell of a lot steeper.

On a Friday afternoon in the late summer these two kids chose to go and run hills together.  As I watched them run up the hill behind the school where he saw such levels of success, I couldn’t help but wonder: would they have been doing it they didn’t have his story somewhere in the back of their minds?