As the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight last Friday and the television broadcasters kept muttering that we were entering the “new millennium” for at least the 2000th time of the evening, I started to think about how many things were going to change, once that ball dropped and the flashing lights blinked the new year of 2000. It meant that we were all saying, “Goodbye” to an era, in sports and in life. Soon after, there was a course of events that made me ponder more just how quickly things can change in other more important facets of life, as a year changes as well. The new year of 2000 meant saying farewell to simply the way we classify years of the past, by using the last two numerals of the year. For example, the ’69 Miracle Mets. Or the Mets won the ’86 World Series. Or Hoboken won three straight state football championships from ’94 through ’96. The last two numbers of a year became a way of life for sports fans. How are we supposed to classify that from now on? With 00, as in “oh, oh?” Sounds like a confused Stuttering John, not knowing which stupid question to ask. Or a three-year-old who just dropped his glass of milk on the floor. “Oh, oh.” Is it “ought, ought?” That sounds too much like offering a lame excuse for not wanting to attend a party. “I ought, ought to go, but I have to do laundry instead.” Something like that. “Zero, zero?” Now, we’re really getting worse. Sounds more a like a boring football game score. “Nil, nil?” That’s even worse. That’s a boring British football game’s score. This has caused a huge dilemma. Where do we go? I think it goes to saying the full year. Two thousand. The year two thousand. Yes, it sounds regal and is probably the best way to go, but it doesn’t provide the short cut that the other two numbers gave us. It was so simple and easy to say that Babe Ruth hit 60 homers in ’27 or Roger Maris hit 61 in ’61. Suppose Mark McGwire hits 80 round trippers this year. We’re stuck with saying that he broke his homer record in the year 2000. The year two thousand. It’s so hard to get used to. How about championship jackets? Every kid in Hudson County wants one. Geez, every Hoboken football player has received one for the last six years. And it’s been so impressive to see the number 94-95-96-97…and so on, on the back of the jackets. How silly will it look from now on with 00 on the back? That’s something the guy from Dunkin’ Donuts should have on his jacket. The dawning of the new millennium _ God, how I hate that term _ has caused such a dilemma. I’ve found that, as a sports fanatic and sportswriter, I’m not Y2K compliant. The rest of the world has no worry. But I do. It has also caused us to say “Goodbye” in several different areas. The Jets said farewell to two head coaches in 24 hours. The loss of Bill Parcells is devastating. The loss of Bill Belichick is a blessing. Parcells is a local icon, the Big Tuna who has represented New Jersey football for the better part of the last 15 years. He’s a New Jersey boy from Oradell who worked his way through the ranks and became the first guy to coach both inhabitants of the Meadowlands. Parcells also became larger than life, winning two Super Bowls as a coach with the Giants, then saving the Jets from disaster and turning them into contenders. His stature as a coach just grew and grew, to the point where he’s now considered in the same breath with another Jersey legend, Vince Lombardi. He retired and thought he was turning the franchise over to Belichick, who then turned his back and practically stabbed his friend of 20 years, namely Parcells, in the back, for a job in New England that doesn’t even exist yet. Amazing. The whole mess played into a soap opera and now, the Jets are in total disarray. Parcells may have to go back on his retirement plans and come back to coach again. No one knows what’s going to happen. One thing is for certain: I wouldn’t go to war, playing for someone who basically stabbed a great friend in the back. If I’m a Jets fan, I’m elated Belichick’s gone as well. The Mets bid farewell to Bobby Bonilla. That was a no-brainer. The man was more concerned with drawing to an inside straight with fellow cancer Rickey Henderson than he was with the Mets fighting tooth and nail with the Braves for the National League pennant. Good riddance. Jane Fonda and Ted Turner bid farewell to their marriage. Another major loss. Yeah, right. Adios. On a serious note, the nation bid farewell to a true giant and a national hero when former United States attorney general Elliot Richardson died on New Year’s Eve. He was 79. Now, you might wonder why a political figure’s passing would make its way to a sports column. The answer is simple. Elliot Richardson was the father of our former editor-in-chief here at the Hudson Reporter, and a person I’m proud to call my friend, Michael Richardson. I was extremely proud and honored to serve here at the Hudson Reporter for seven years under the guidance and tutelage of Michael Richardson, who never dared to brag that he was the son of such a famous and historic figure. In fact, I knew Michael for four years before I found out. I mean, it was four full years _ and I had to be told by a colleague. When I confronted Michael with it, with something like, “How come you never told me your father is Elliot Richardson?” he responded, in typical Michael Richardson tones, “You never asked me.” With all the college bowl games going on Saturday, it was easy to get lost in a football frenzy, which is what was happening to me. I was in remote control heaven, flipping from one game to the next. But my day came to an immediate halt when I saw on CNN that Elliot Richardson had passed away, just five months after his wife, Anne, had died after a long battle with Alzeimer’s disease. And instantly, my thoughts went out to my friend, my boss and in some cases, my mentor, who had lost both his parents in the span of five months. And how Michael’s three children had lost both grandparents in such a short time frame. And my heart ached for them. I remembered the day about four years ago or so, when Michael and Sasha Richardson’s middle child was born, their first daughter. He told everyone that her name was Elliot, in honor of her grandfather. I thought at the time it was a tough name for a girl, even if he’s known as Ellie. I don’t think that way anymore. I’m glad they gave her that name. Because in her, Elliot Richardson, my friend’s father, lives on. And that’s one reward in saying, “Farewell.” In closing, there’s another farewell this week, as we enter a new millennium. Maybe if I write it enough, I’ll get so sick of the word. Anyway, The Hudson Reporter newspaper chain enters a new era this week, when new owners David Unger and Lucha Malato take over the reins from former publisher Joe Barry. When the Hudson Dispatch folded in 1991 and it looked like I had nowhere to turn in Hudson County journalism, Joe Barry reached out and contacted me and brought me in to his publishing family. It’s where I’ve remained ever since, in good times and in bad, and for that, I owe him a huge debt of gratitude. Joe Barry doesn’t need my well wishes for success. He’s far more successful than I’ll ever dream to be. But I am thankful that he gave me the opportunity. And as we go on, I bid him a fond farewell as well. And welcome to the New Year of oh, oh. We still have some work to do that one.