In the fall semester of my sophomore year, I was quite adrift, with little or no sense of what I was doing at Columbia. I had done very poorly in my freshman year and was amazed that my scholarship had not been withdrawn.

One afternoon I visited Professor Charles W. Everett in his office. Professor Everett's academic star had long since set, and his was one of the few faculty offices that did not have a long line of students waiting outside. We talked for hours. Some of it was about his course, some about my lack of direction, much about his confidence that I would find my way.

At one point, he said to me, "I am giving you an assignment. It is not to be completed by tomorrow, not by the end of the semester, maybe not even as long as you live. There are two words that seem to have vanished from the English language, and I want you to put them back. One is 'joy,' the other is 'beauty.'"

In everything I have done since, from running intelligence agents in Europe to anchoring the Olympics on network radio, I have tried to surround myself -- and infuse others -- with joy and beauty. Sometimes, I have been successful, sometimes not, and I have been graced with much joy and beauty from others.

My beautiful wife Sharon, who died of cancer last month, brought me great joy in the 37 years we were together. Better than anyone else, she understood the mission on which Professor Everett sent me all those years ago, and which, beyond any professional constraints, has been my life's work.