Kevin Hensley
Where do I even begin?
There is no way to properly summarize the positive influence Matthew Osborne had on me as an editor, colleague and, most importantly, a friend.
A lot has already been put on paper by writers much more talented than me about one of the most generous people I have ever met in my life. Since his first editor job out of college was in the same chair that I occupy today, it felt appropriate to give myself the toughest assignment to date: write a tribute to someone I thought would one day be a groomsman for me – a sentiment I now wish I had shared with him, but thought I had better find the girl first before getting carried away.
Over the years, Matthew went from being my new direct supervisor when I moved to western North Carolina in 2016 to being the friend who fixed me his patented chicken enchiladas the first night I lived in Murphy – then later went to watch an independent wrestling show in Hot House that same night; an evening of absurdity that we reminisced about from that day onward.
Our mutual love for all things professional wrestling was equally matched by the random television and movie quotes we would break out; 90 percent of which stumped those around, but was the most hilarious thing of the moment to the two of us (he is the only other human I have met to love the ridiculously underrated Dragnet movie from 1987; we quoted it so much that characters from the movie would pop up on our respective phones when we called or text each other).
I could fill the adjacent page with a list of the inside jokes and memories we shared. Whenever one of us was on a trip to an assignment, it was not uncommon to ring the other up; just to check in and share what was typically a much-needed laugh on a stressful day in the news world.
He was that friend – the one you could count on; the one you could call on; the one who understood financial security well enough that he maintained possession of a Pontiac Vibe for the final 21 years of his life.
He bought it during his time in Robbinsville, at Collins Auto Sales. The decal on the hatchback proudly represented Graham County through the 300,000-plus miles he put on it (through all those travels, he never found an Arnold Palmer better than the one at Lynn’s Place; I sent him a photo of the glass each time I went, just to brag).
In other words, the guy had his act together – and it showed in those around him. He loved all of his family and friends, but didn’t have to verbalize it often; actions spoke louder than words. I truly hope he knew how much we all loved him.
I am fighting back tears as I type this. Maybe this is more therapy for me to punch out whatever word count this gets to. I’m not limiting myself; Matthew and I were the tag-team champions of North Carolina sports reporting in 2016. For proof, drop by 89 Sycamore St. in downtown Murphy and ask to see the award. I have a copy proudly hanging in my home office.
The last five weeks of his life exemplified how much I meant to him. He texted me the morning after my beloved dog Daffney passed away July 2, just to make sure I was OK (I was not, but he was on deadline for The Northeast Georgian in Cornelia, Ga., and didn’t have to – but he did).
Speaking of the final paper he was an editor for, I looked through my seemingly endless pile of Community Newspapers … um, newspapers that I keep to the left of my desk and found the final four that hit the newsstands before his passing. It was business as usual and included a column about a now-famed moment involving a former Cincinnati Reds announcer being fired mid-broadcast (he uttered a slur you should never utter when he thought his mic was off, speaking volumes to his true character) and the goodbye speech that followed. Right in the middle of it was a baseball game, which Nick Castellanos reminded everyone of by hitting a three-run homer.
“If I have hurt anyone out there, I can’t tell you how much I say from the bottom of my heart that I am so very, very sorry. I pride myself and think of myself as a man of faith – as there’s a drive into deep left field by Castellanos. That will be a home run, and so that will make it a 4–0 ball game,” the announcer said, without a single change in tone.
Matthew was fondly recapping other unfortunate instances in which Castellanos has found success. I read the column the night before he died and was going to text him about how hard I laughed over the choice of topic. It was late, so I opted to wait. We had just texted as part of a group chat the day prior, trying to arrange a time for an in-person fantasy football draft.
I never got to tell my friend how much joy that column brought to me – but I did get one final bit of quality time with him.
Being the wrestling fanatics we are, a North Carolina editor met with a Georgia editor (and his son) in South Carolina on July 31. All night, we laughed. We ate. We talked about work. We talked about life. We talked about his unusual admiration of a wrestler named “Serpentico” and how much he wanted to see him perform that night.
Serpentico was in the first match. Had it not been for armrests, we would have fell out of our seats laughing. I think that’s what I’ll miss the most: his laugh.
From what I have gathered, his deep, infectious laugh; his listening ear; and his insane knowledge and love for (almost all) sports was peacefully taken from the world Tuesday morning, Aug. 13. We are still unsure what happened, but admittedly it still does not seem real – even a week later. He was only 47. Forty-seven.
Regional Publisher David Brown called me just before noon Tuesday to deliver the news he had just learned himself; Matthew’s wife, Samantha (editor of the White County News), had graciously asked our company president to keep the devastating reality to himself until after the Cherokee Scout – the office David is based out of – went to press.
Upon his request to step outside, I was walking toward the back of our building on Tallulah when he hit me with three words: “We’ve lost Matthew.” My knees buckled. My gut felt like someone had sucker-punched me. He broke down crying. I broke down crying. We exchanged moments of silence interspersed with disbelief for the next few minutes, then hung up. David’s paper was finished; I still had to get The Graham Star out. Production had already kind of started when the call came in, so in a complete fog, the job was done and the Star hit the stands last week – right on schedule.
Just the way my friend would have wanted it.
Kevin Hensley is the publisher/editor of The Graham Star. He can be reached by phone, 828-479-3383; email, editor@grahamstar.com; or on X @KevinHensleyCNI. Instead of his usual witty ending, he suggests you find your loved ones and tell them what they mean to you. It may be the last chance you get to.