It's not unusual for complete strangers to chat like old chums at Ironman Coeur d'Alene, so when the guy sidled up on my right, leaned on the fence and started a conversation at the intersection of Second and Lakeside, I didn't think much of it.

"Why aren't you out there?" he asked.

Before I could answer, my daughter, Elena - as quick as I am bald - quipped: "He finished five minutes ago."

The guy laughed.

"And look at you, not even sweating," he said.

"What about you?" I asked, glancing at him briefly before catching the second-place men's runner dashing in front of us. "What are you up to?"

"I stopped by to tell you I like your shirt," he said.

That shirt is the pride of my pro sports wardrobe: a navy blue Chicago Cubs T-shirt with the word LEE in red above the number 25 on the back. Derrek Lee is one of my all-time favorite Cubs, a giant of a team leader who won the National League batting crown in 2005, was twice an all-star and three times won the gold glove at first base.

"You a Cubs fan?" I asked, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. There aren't so many of us left after more than a century of making history in the loss column.

The guy nodded and, reaching over, tapped the top of my shirt.

"That's my name," he said.

Like a Fergie Jenkins fastball, a thought blazed through my brain: What an amazing coincidence. This guy's a Cubs fan and his last name happens to be Lee!

He was smiling now.

"That's my number," he said, tapping the big 25.

I gasped.

"Derrek?" I squeaked. "You're Derrek Lee?"

Derrek Lee laughed and we shook hands. He straightened up to his full height of 6-5, and I was vaguely aware that my mouth was wide open and my knees were shaking.

Somehow I managed to ask what he was doing at Ironman Coeur d'Alene. Lee said his wife is from Spokane and they spend some of their summers on Lake Coeur d'Alene. I looked over at my daughter, who was smiling. I looked back at Derrek Lee, who was grinning. Three and a half decades of interviewing people for a living, and I couldn't think of a damn thing to ask or to say.

Even though I only thought to have my picture taken with him a full 10 minutes after Derrek Lee had walked east on Lakeside, I was ecstatic. I had trouble falling asleep Sunday night and told my wife it must've been the caffeine late in the day. When I did fade off, it was to the violent crash of wood on leather, No. 25 launching a 490-foot blast beyond the desperate grasp of Old Style-emboldened Wrigley Field bleacher bums.

For a couple thousand people each year, Ironman makes dreams comes true. Now I finally get it. Next year I'm wearing my Ernie Banks shirt.