Sometimes, you’ve got to play hurt.

Anyone who’s been an athlete – or thought of being one until the pains of growing up and earning a living started to seep in – can relate.

Walk it off, take it like a man, rub it down, stretch it out, if it ain’t broke, keep playing.

It’s hard to walk anything off while seated in a smallish sedan in the middle of I-95, going a little bit too fast and not paying quite enough attention.

The trees whooshed by, intermittently interrupted by clusters of small buildings and green road signs. I read each one as I went by.

Saco. Exit 36.

Biddeford. Exit 32.

With each mile marker, the pain got a bit worse. It was a death march of sorts, only this wasn’t 8 a.m. It was the middle of the day. A bright sunny day in the fall, one of the best times of the year in New England, and one of Jack’s favorites. Fall meant another hockey season was about to begin, and thoughts of the Bacon Street Omni danced in his head.

*****

John M. “Jack” Falla was born in Cambridge, Mass., and grew up in the town of Winchester. He graduated from Boston University’s College of Communication in 1967 and went to work as a freelancer for several magazines, including Boston Magazine and The Hockey News.

In the 1980s, Falla landed a spot on the first line, a hockey-writing gig with Sports Illustrated, where he followed the career of a certain young up-and-comer named Wayne Gretzky.

For one year, Falla served as the public relations director for the National Hockey League.

In 1987, he started giving back to BU, first as a lecturer and then, in 1989, as an assistant professor. One year later, he earned his masters degree at BU, and continued to teach there for 18 years.

*****

He rarely looked you in the eye.

I had noticed before, of course. But this time, with my hand extended from the window holding a crumpled dollar bill and a couple of coins, it was striking.

Just like you never look a toll-taker in the eye. Only that’s because some of those toll-takers can be pretty scary.

Jack wasn’t scary. Just shy. And nervous.

He didn’t want to let anyone down. It was his mission to see that everyone was afforded the same opportunities he had, and to do his part in helping you get there.

*****

A cocky young writer walked into the hallowed halls of Boston University in 1997. The Montreal Canadiens were four years removed from their most recent Stanley Cup championship, the Detroit Red Wings were basking in the glow of their most recent victory, and this young writer was going to take broadcast television by storm and land a job covering an NHL team by 2002.

Three years later, he met Jack, in his 13th year of teaching Sports Journalism.

Two years after that, our young writer had his first job – as a writer for the Sun Journal in Lewiston, Maine.

*****

Green gave way to gray as concrete, steel and wood-framed buildings replaced trees alongside I-95.

“Welcome to Massachusetts,” I mumbled.

It was just after 1:30 p.m., and traffic was particularly light. Excellent. I snuck in behind the defense.

That got me thinking about the ultimate trick play I had pulled on Jack.

I was a little early for class that day, and found my way to a seat in the back of the room. I sat down, and other students started coming in. Finally, in came Jack, bag in one hand, piles of corrected stories in the other. He set it all down, went to the board and wrote his morning quote in his classic journalistic scribble.

He spoke for a few minutes with a few late-comers (late, of course, being on time), and began to sift though the papers on the table at the front of the room.

Then, he noticed a stack of newspapers from Maine.

“It’s funny,” he started to tell the class. “I have a former student who works at this newspaper. Who brought these in?”

I raised my hand.

Then came the funniest face I ever had the pleasure of seeing him make, a combination of shock and laughter.

I graduated from BU in 2001. This was 2004. The papers were mine, and I was that former student.

Only Jack.

*****

In recent years, Jack made the leap from writer and lecturer to author. His first major solo work, Home Ice: Reflections on Backyard Rinks and Frozen Ponds, surfaced in 2000. It’s a deeply personal collection of essays, inspired by the game he loved.

For his next act, Jack delved into fiction, creating characters based loosely on people he knew, using places with which he was familiar, and spinning a novel that was simultaneously a love story and a no-holds-barred look at the world of professional hockey. That novel, Saved, dropped last winter.

His third offering, Open Ice, is a follow-up to Home Ice, and is rooted much more deeply in Jack’s soul. He skates the Rideau Canal in Ottawa, returns to Montreal for Maurice Richard’s funeral, and ponders mortality.

Ironic. That book drops this month.

*****

The spires of the College of Arts and Sciences twinkled in the autumn sun. The Charles River reflected the shadow of the famed Citgo sign, which sits atop the bookstore at Boston University.

“Home,” I whispered under my breath.

Only this time, my quick right onto Bay State Road wasn’t so easy. Nor was the sight of the College of Communication building.

Tears welled up in my eyes.

“I should turn back,” I thought. “What am I doing here? Didn’t Jack hate crowds? Why should I contribute to a crowd in his honor?”

*****

Jack Falla, a distinguished Boston University professor who inspired multiple generations of journalists across the world, died Sunday in Cumberland while visiting his daughter, Tracey, who is married to Maurice Fontaine III, originally of Lewiston, and has two wonderful kids of her own, Demetre and Ella

He was 62 and lived in Natick, Mass. with his wife, Barbara.

In addition to his wife and daughter, Jack leaves a son, Brian, of Hudson, Mass.; a brother, Patrick of Conway, Mass.; a sister, Elizabeth Verrill of Hampstead, N.H.; and his two grandchildren, Demetre and Ella.

*****

It’s been eight years, but it feels like the first period of that first game. Zipping up Commonwealth Avenue, I slid by Boston College, surfaced on Route 9 and made my way toward Natick. Short of burying my own father just five years ago, this is some of the worst emotional pain I can remember. This man was an inspiration in my professional life unlike any other. As I buttoned up my suit jacket, the tears came back. I took one look in the mirror, and drew in a deep breath.

“Walk it off, take it like a man, rub it down, stretch it out, if it ain’t broke, keep playing,” I thought.

Sometimes, you’ve got to play hurt.

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