I write about beer for a living. This is thanks, in a large part, to David Letterman’s influence on my pre-teen self.

To understand that statement, let’s go back to 1992. Back then the news was filled with Johnny Carson’s retirement from The Tonight Show, and behind the scenes intrigue on who would become his successor. Letterman’s eventual bolting to CBS reinvigorated that network’s late-night lineup with the creation of The Late Show. I was 12 years old and buying The New York Post, The Daily News, TV Guide and any other publication I could to follow the latest developments. I was also setting the timer on the family VCR to tape “Late Night” so I could watch it the next afternoon after school.

The show that Letterman brought to the once-Tiffany network is back in the news again these days, as CBS decided to cancel he Late Show with Stephen Colbert. There are many well-deserved tributes to the show popping up. I ask that you indulge me as I use my small corner of the world to also pay my respects.

The year was 1993. I was a nerd. I built a “late night TV set” in my parent’s basement with a couch for my guests and a desk for me to host from. I borrowed my grandparent’s video camera. I taped my own talk shows, roping in friends, my family, even the family dog Rover, as my esteemed guests. I told not-very-funny jokes and worked on my timing.

I did everything Letterman did on his show. When I got into high school, I convinced the administration to fund a television studio and let me host a student show every month for four years. I interviewed teachers and other students, produced an annual Christmas show, and tried my hand at comedy-themed remote bits.

I realized if I wanted to get into television, I needed a job in television. So at the age of 16, I sent out resumes to every station in the New York metro area. Only one responded — New Jersey Network, the public television station in Trenton. I was offered a summer internship in the newsroom, where very quickly I went from cataloging tapes and other menial tasks to being allowed out in the field with reporters and photographers to watch the news-gathering process.

Something clicked inside and I found a true calling in journalism. I was hooked. I still loved late-night television, but I knew then that my career path was not as a host making jokes, but as a reporter.

I still watched the Late Show with David Letterman faithfully, and made a vow that one day I’d make it onto the show. As it turns out, I didn’t have to wait long.

On Sept. 2, 1997, I got my shot. It was just before the first day of my senior year of high school. I won tickets to a taping of the show and headed to the Ed Sullivan Theater with a friend. I wore jeans, a white button-down shirt and a tie. We stood in line and were finally ushered into the theater, which was cooled down to about 55°F.

I had studied the show and realized that during his nightly monologue Letterman would say something that didn’t make much sense to viewers at home, but garnered a big laugh from the studio audience.

Before the camera started rolling, I learned that Letterman would come out and banter with the audience for a few minutes, usually picking one person, asking them a question (where are you from, what do you do, that kind of thing). He’d then reference their answer during the monologue and the camera would zoom in on the person, who would usually be looking up at the studio monitor instead of at the camera, exposing their neck, and waving wildly in the wrong direction.

That day in the studio, I was miraculously picked for the question. I asked Letterman if he had any advice for me and my high school show. He laughed, said he didn’t need the competition and told me to do something else with my life. Then the show started. The guests that night were Steven Seagal, a child hula-hoop expert and the musician Beck.

Letterman kicked things off in his on-camera monologue by offering “advice to all you high school talk show hosts out there.” The audience laughed and the camera switched to me. Rather than looking at the monitor I stared right into the camera lens, gave a big grin, pointed my finger and made a shooting motion. Letterman cracked up, and during the monologue came back to me several times. Each time, my cheesy grin straight into the camera grew, along with my gestures.

After the first commercial break, Letterman picked up the night’s Top 10 list, paused and looked at me in the audience. Then he invited me up to the stage to help him read it. I let pure adrenaline pull me onto the stage while Warren Zevon (sitting in for Paul Shaffer) and the CBS Orchestra played familiar bars from Beck’s most famous tune to guide me.

Letterman sat me down and asked me about my show while the cameras rolled. He asked if it consisted of me following people around with a video camera. “Pretty much,” I replied. He made fun of my tie, so I took it off and sat on it.

The category that night was “Top 10 Signs You’re Not Going to Win the U.S. Open.” The tennis tournament was being played in Queens, New York at the time. I was tasked with reading number one. (There were now-dated jokes in there. Number Six: The only thing you’ve served is an Arch Deluxe at the local McDonalds).

When the time arrived I delivered my line: “You’re often mistaken for a doubles team.”

The band played, I snapped my fingers along. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. Then Letterman said, “Look! It’s me and Dave Jr. He’s just back from talk show camp!”

I lost it in laughter and it was time for a commercial break. I went back to my seat in the audience. The rest of the night was a blur. I taped the show that night. I’ve kept it, transferred it to DVD, and eventually to digital.

Last Call: Having a Round on the ‘Late Late Show’

In a retrospective aired on CBS when Letterman retired in 205, it was estimated that more than 18,000 people sat next to him at the desk during his three decades on the air. Being one of those people makes me very grateful indeed.

I mourned the day Letterman retired from his show. I still miss it: the irreverence, the sharp wit, the bits, the way bad guests (like Segal the night I was on) squirmed while trying to sell some project, and the great guests that completely ignored the corporate mission and simply had fun.

Admittedly, I haven’t regularly watched Colbert’s iteration of the show. I caught clips on the internet, but it’s been years since I tuned my television to any program at 11:35 p.m. eastern.

So, for me, the real loss as the Late Show goes off the air is the Ed Sullivan Theater.

Originally known as CBS Studio 50, that stage at 1697 Broadway in Manhattan has been the place of countless televised memories and milestones. Older viewers remember it for The Beatles and Elvis on The Ed Sullivan Show. My generation appreciates it for Foo Fighters, the surrounding shops and its employees, and being a supporting character in the overall Letterman version of The Late Show.

For Colbert viewers it has been a temple of broadcast excellent. Restored to its former glory, and a showpiece of countless segments and musical acts.

When Colbert’s show goes dark on Thursday night, the theater enters an uncertain future.

“The fact that nothing’s gonna come in here breaks my heart,” Colbert said during a recent interview in Architectural Digest. “But someone will figure it out, and I wish them all the luck in the world—because they’re gonna love it.”

CBS said it was purely a financial decision that led to the cancelation of the show. A lot of people call BS on that. The truth is that a lot of people who worked there are losing jobs,, the country is losingt important nightly laughs, and a landmark building in midtown faces an uncertain future.

After that day in 1997, I grew up and went on to a career in...

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