There is no overarching point to what follows, other than to ask you – beg you – to send that text. Make that call. Reach out to That Person. You aren’t THAT busy. Nobody is. Because the words of Aerosmith can surely bear the metaphorical arrow: “Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away.”

Many years – too many – had passed since I’d last seen Carl Norby, one of my favorite human beings ever, a man who treated me like the son he never had. Carl, a retired entrepreneur but not retired sports fan, lived in Alton, N.H., a three-wood from the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee.

Carl was in my thoughts last weekend as my good fortune allowed me to spend both days at the beach, laughing away the hours with many friends. I can’t pinpoint what exactly made me quote Carl, other than my mind drifting to a voice from the past, to blissful scenes and places once visited.

“Well, another rotten day at the beach,” I said, drawing a chuckle or two from the gallery.

This was a wink and a nod to Carl, who only every day would crack, “well, another rotten day in New Hampshire,” as he’d sit with a Heineken and stare at Winnipesaukee’s wonder, the aesthetic bewitchery seemingly fodder for Rockwell.

And then it was Monday morning, an occasion to take my laptop to the office for a lube, oil and filter. I stopped in to check my mail. Here was an unexpected letter from Carl’s wife, Sharon.

She had some nice words to offer about a recent column of mine, but sadly buried the lede. She wrote that Carl passed away last November at 78. This wonderful man I had quoted a few hours earlier, this man about whom I’d wondered frequently but never made that call or that text, gone.

Once again: Make that call. Send that text. Your excuses are feeble. All I have left is the old quote about how memories surely help two friends see each other when distance gets in the way.

Let me tell you about him. We met while he was living in Durham through the late, great Hal Levy, a former boss of mine and writer at the Groton News and later Shoreline Newspapers. Carl and Sharon, married 47 years, never had children. Until I came along.

Carl was born in Salem, Mass. Passionate Boston sports fan. Loved Doug Flutie. When he discovered I was a BC guy, he would take me to Alumni Stadium into his luxury box. Fun days. I always sat next to Carl’s friend Bob Shea, who drank Scotch like it was Diet Coke and could make me laugh by saying anything, including “and” and “the.”

Sharon’s letter included a photo of Carl that is now immediately tucked into the large, framed photo of game day at BC hanging in my living room.

Carl would come with the writers to the Big East Tournament and always get a suite at the Penta, the old hotel across from Madison Square Garden. We spent a night partying in 1993 after a blizzard crippled the city in the middle of the tournament. Oh, what that room looked like the next day.

He belonged to the Coliseum Club when the XL Center was the Hartford Civic Center. We’d go up there all the time. I even met Gordie Howe once through him. Gordie was entertaining all of us one night when excused himself briefly to use the men’s room. When he left, the Whalers were winning 4-3. He came back about a minute later, stunned to see the Bruins had scored two quick goals to go up 5-4.

Gordie Howe: “Good thing I didn’t have to (go No. 2).”

We visited Carl and Sharon a few times in New Hampshire. Their neighbor was Scott Gray, formerly of WTIC Radio. Carl would always marvel that we did sports for a living. I never told him that I stole this line from Dan Jenkins, but he roared with approval when I said, “sportswriters have to complain a lot. Otherwise people would think all we did was have fun.”

I never did make that call to him. Or write that letter. Or send that text. To a man and his wife who treated me better than I ever deserved. There is a letter in the mail right now to Sharon that will explore some days when we can meet again soon.

But for now, I’ll spend the rest of my life missing Carl O. Norby. Legend. If you are lucky enough to have someone like this in your life, make that call. Trust me.

This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro