Muhammad Ali clenched his fists, put up his dukes, and urged me to engage.

Standing a few feet in front of him, looking at the sparkle in his eyes, I was equal parts amused, awed, and perplexed. Was he really asking me to throw a few jabs?

You bet he was. And if a boxing legend asks you to shadow-box with him during the course of an interview, there shouldn’t be any hesitation. Just dive right in.

And I did so with absolute pleasure.

This was one of the countless pinch-yourself type of assignments the Herald sent me on during my 38-year run with the paper. Ali, who was in town in November 1994 to receive the Courage of Conscience Award at the Peace Abbey in Sherborn, also made an appearance at a local college during his stay.

That’s where I found him, along with his unusual greeting.

I guess this was the champ’s way of playfully testing me before we chatted. While it still seems surreal many years later, Ali and I actually traded shadow punches for a bit. He won by TKO, since I was completely stunned this was even happening.

At that stage of his life, Ali had Parkinson’s, but was still able to communicate verbally. Mostly, though, he spoke with his eyes, as well as his hands.

During my career at the Herald, that was one of my favorite, most treasured moments.

And as my run comes to an end — I’ve accepted a job to be a sports columnist and supervising reporter with MassLive — it’s hard not to reflect, and share some of the stories behind the stories as it were.

My adventure with Ali was certainly one of the more sublime experiences. So was the time I taught Jose Canseco to play golf.

The former Sox slugger was itching to learn, and after hearing about my exploits on the golf course, asked if I’d teach him.

I thought he was joking. Turns out he wasn’t. Bob Sales, the Herald sports editor at the time, loved the idea. He loved it so much, he wanted me to write a Page 1 story about it. I never thought Jose would agree to that in a million years. Much to my surprise, he did.

So I arranged to pick him up at Fenway during the first off-day on the opening homestand and drive him to the golf course. Sales, meanwhile, wanted to make sure I drove Canseco in style. Apparently, my Honda Accord didn’t make the cut. The boss insisted on an upgrade.

Well, he upgraded, all right. Sales rented me a Jaguar for the day. It was gold-colored. Guess a sexy, hot car seemed fitting for baseball’s bad boy. And wouldn’t you know, the Jaguar impressed Canseco. Too bad Jose didn’t look as good swinging a golf club, as he did swinging a bat. Most of his drives landed two fairways over, in either direction.

But he’s not alone when it comes to blunders. I’ve certainly had my share. My most embarrassing moment as a Herald writer?

Getting stuck in Dennis Eckersley’s driveway during a December blizzard.

I was sent to do an at-home interview with Eck not long after he returned to the Red Sox to finish out his career in 1998. It was supposed to be the Herald’s Christmas Day cover story. As it turned out, the only day the Hall of Fame closer was available was a few days before the 25th. So blizzard or not, I had to make it to Sudbury.

I got there safely. But as I was turning into his driveway, I couldn’t stick the landing. The car wound up half in the road, half in his driveway, completely lodged in the snow. Talk about a pickle.

Eventually, I got out of the car, and sheepishly made my way to the front door, rang the bell, and asked Eck for help.

Only, he couldn’t help. Or rather, I wouldn’t let him. Just imagine the headlines if he damaged his arm, or slipped and hurt something pushing my car.

Eckersley still came out to assess the situation, and decided it would be best for him to drive, and for the women – myself, his wife, and one of his daughters – to push.

I have to admit, in between the awkwardness, it turned out to be a great story in the end.

And since we’re on the subject of being embarrassed, it’s hard not to mention what happened during an exclusive interview I had with Manny Ramirez in 2001, his first season with the Sox.

The session was pre-arranged, and he met me outside the clubhouse a few hours before the game. When I got there, he asked me where I wanted to do the interview. I said anywhere that’s private with just the two of us.

He told me to follow him. So I did, much to my chagrin.

After climbing the steps out of the dugout, we walked, and kept walking. Past first base. Past the infield. We ended up in center field, out by the warning track. He just led me out there, oblivious to the cameras recording our every move. This was Manny’s idea of a private location. Just the two of us hanging out by the Green Monster not long before the first pitch.

“Is this OK?” he asked, grinning at my discomfort.

It could have been worse. I was actually relieved he didn’t take me into the room inside the wall where he’d occasionally disappear during games. But for a time, Manny had me completely disarmed, and fearful of security coming out and hauling me away.

More tales from school?

How about being sent to cover the Winter Olympics in Turin, Italy, but needing to buy a scalper’s ticket to get into the women’s ice skating finale? That was fun, but mostly nerve-wracking.

While I didn’t have any trouble getting into any of the other events, this was always considered the primo event, and most-watched. Every outlet wanted to cover it, forcing the powers handling credentials to pick and choose who got in, and who didn’t.

The Herald was one of the outlets that drew the short straw, since we didn’t cover any of the lead-up events prior to the Olympics. Let’s just say the paper didn’t send me all that way to watch Michelle Kwan’s bid for gold on Italian TV.

Next thing I know, with the Herald’s permission, and a price limit attached, I was spying the streets near the venue hoping to find a scalper. Both myself, and a freelance photographer employed by the paper, prayed we could make an exchange. The photographer eventually delivered a scalper, and I bankrolled the transaction.

We met the guy at a cafe not far from the skating arena to make the deal. We walked in and settled into a booth. He sat directly across from me. I was incredibly nervous, sweating as if I’d just run a marathon. My eyes darted all over the cafe, looking for any sign of the Polizia, which is what the police were called over there.

Soon, the scalper handed over an envelope with the tickets. I had the photographer check and make sure they were legitimate, with the right date and venue, before I made the next move.

Then, as I was about to hand over the wad of cash in my pocket, the scalper stopped me short, and scolded me in a thick, Italian accent.

“Under the table, you idiot!”

Oops!

Hey, I was new at this. I hadn’t yet read the “Dealing with Scalpers for Dummies” book to know what to do.

Just chalk it up to one of many lessons learned along the way. Needless to say, I’ve had the best time at my job. Hopefully, that’s come across in my work.

I have to admit, a part of me wanted to be like Devin McCourty and Patrice Bergeron, playing for just one team. I really thought I was going to be a one-newspaper girl. Instead, as the fates would have it, I’m moving on.

But I’m leaving with a wealth of knowledge and experience to lean on.

Much like sports teams developing their young players, I went through a development process at the Herald nearly four decades ago. I started on the high school staff and gradually worked my way up, doing college games before hitting the pros. And I wouldn’t trade that development period for anything.

Along the way, I’ve covered every Super Bowl appearance by the Patriots. I’ve chronicled the exploits of Tom Brady from cover to cover. Same with Bill Belichick. That would seem like a great career right there, but there’s been so much more.

I was in New York for the Red Sox’ improbable comeback down 0-3 in the ALCS in 2004, and in St. Louis when the Red Sox broke the curse, winning their first World Series since 1918.

I stood in the press box at Busch Stadium as Sox closer Keith Foulke fielded Edgar Renteria’s one-hop grounder, and flipped to first for the final out, ending so many years of misery and frustration in New England and beyond.

I choked back tears watching the celebration below me, before heading to the clubhouse. I could almost feel my late father’s presence. He was a frustrated, yet faithful Sox follower through all the years of futility. He was also largely responsible for my love of sports, taking me to so many games at Fenway when I was kid. I could sense him smiling from high above.

Of course, I was also in New York at Shea Stadium when the ball rolled through Bill Buckner’s legs in 1986 during that World Series with the Mets. And, I was in Glendale, Arizona when David Tyree made the helmet catch and the Giants spoiled a perfect season for the Patriots in 2007.

The Buckner gaffe and Tyree miracle were incredible stories from a journalistic perspective. They were sportswriter’s gold.

There was a lot of that going around during my time at the Herald. Throw in a few Stanley Cup finals with the Bruins, a few NBA Finals with the Celtics, a half-dozen Masters shadowing Tiger Woods, a bunch of U.S. Open tennis tournaments and two Olympics, and I pretty much ran the gamut.

I really couldn’t have dropped into the Boston sports scene during a better time. And I’m grateful the Herald gave me a chance.

Having worked for an army of sports editors, I’d like to recognize and thank all of them. Starting with Tom Gibbons, who literally hired me the minute I graduated from Northeastern, then Peter Drumsta, Bob Sales, Mark Torpey, Hank Hryniewicz, Mark Murphy, Sean Leahy, Justin Pelletier and Bruce Castleberry, they’ve all impacted me in different ways. They’ve all had a hand in shaping my career.

Before I close, I’d also like to mention another important chapter, and how my colleagues came to my rescue when I was ill. In 1989, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which is a cancer that affects the immune system.

Two years later, I underwent a stem cell transplant in Omaha, Nebraska, hoping for a cure. During that time, I was overwhelmed by all the support I received from the paper, and from my colleagues in particular. Many of them donated vacation days to me so I wouldn’t feel the need to rush back to work. Mike Shalin, who has since passed away, also graciously lent frequent flyer miles for friends and family members to come out and visit me in Omaha during my extended stay out there.

That generosity has certainly left a mark. So in many ways, the Herald has been like a second family to me. It’s not easy for me to leave. For nearly four decades, I’ve been indelibly linked to the paper. But it’s time. I’m ready for a new chapter, a new challenge, and plenty of new stories to continue to inspire me.

At MassLive, I’ll still be writing about the Patriots primarily, but not limited to just that. I’ll also be supervising and mentoring some of the staff’s young reporters, something I really enjoy doing.

I remember when I first started out at the Herald, there were so many who helped me, and took the time to offer guidance. Columnists Joe Fitzgerald and Tim Horgan were a treasure. So were Steve Harris, Joe Gordon, Joe Guiliotti, Mike Carey, John Connolly and David Cataneo.

The band might not be as big as it once was, but it still fights and scrapes every day to provide the best coverage.

To borrow a phrase from Bill Belichick, Herald writers don’t take days off. And while I’m leaving, readers are still in very good hands with my amazing colleagues Andrew Callahan, Steve Hewitt, Steve Conroy, Rich Thompson, Gabrielle Starr, Mac Cerullo, and Danny Ventura leading the charge.

I feel incredibly blessed to have worked for the Herald for so many years. I continue to feel fortunate that so many readers have picked up the paper to check out my work, or read it on-line. And I hope you’ll follow my journey going forward.

The Herald saw something in me all those years ago, nurtured it, promoted it, and allowed me to thrive in a business where most voices don’t belong to women.

I leave as a much better writer, and much better reporter than when I started.

Thank you for an unforgettable ride.