There’s a photo I adore that dates back to at least the 1980s. It shows the late Phil Jasner, then the Sixers’ beat writer for the Philadelphia Daily News, seated on a folding chair in the locker room at St. Joe’s, where the team practiced at the time.

Phil, cradling a notepad, is leaning forward as he interviews Julius Erving, who is lying on the floor and wearing his practice togs; enormous icebags are affixed to each of his knees. The fact that Dr. J’s hands are spread wide, palms up, suggests he and Phil are having a healthy give and take about something or other. There is no evidence of rancor or mistrust, but rather mutual respect between two professionals – a point-counterpoint where each man’s view is considered and weighed.

It speaks to the relationship the two of them enjoyed over the 11 years Doc played in Philadelphia, and indeed the relationships Phil forged with so many people – whether players, coaches, front-office types or other reporters – during the three decades he covered the team.

It also hints at a larger point about all of us. About relationships random and intentional. About how fragile and fleeting they can be. About how the best of them need to be treasured and nurtured.

I shared that photo on my Facebook page in 2013, after it had appeared on SI.com’s Twitter feed, complete with the notation that Doc was meeting with a Sixers’ “coach.” And as luck would have it, the photo reappeared on my Facebook page not quite two months ago.

I mentioned again how much I liked it.

“Agreed!!!!!” Andy Jasner, Phil’s son, wrote in the comments.

It was the last time I would hear from Andy, who died suddenly Wednesday, at the age of 55.

Tough one to process for everyone in the Philadelphia sports media community, because Andy, an accomplished freelancer, had been flitting around for years. Union. Phillies. Eagles. Sixers. You always saw him, always enjoyed his company.

(Side note: He also authored a book about the Baltimore Ravens in 2010, and in 2017 anthologized his dad’s work. And yes, the aforementioned photo adorned the cover.)

Phil, who died of cancer in 2010 at age 68, had always been the houseparent of the Sixers’ beat corps. Get too loud in the media workroom, and he was sure to admonish you: “C’mon, guys!”

But far more often he was warm, kind and supportive. Case in point: I was hired for a new job in 2003, and I stopped at a Sheetz on the way home. My phone rang, and it was Phil, offering congratulations.

I was dumbfounded. How could he possibly have known that soon?

“What,” he said, “you don’t think I have sources?”

Five years later, I was laid off from the same job. An email arrived, also from Phil.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he wrote. “They did.”

Andy adored his dad, and for good reason. There are photos in the anthology of the two of them at a long-ago NBA Finals – they covered several – and from the ceremony in 2004, when Phil was presented the Curt Gowdy Media Award at the Basketball Hall of Fame.

Certainly Andy, a Syracuse grad, took the job seriously. The Sixers gave him his dad’s old seat in the media room when Andy covered the team a few years back, and he cranked stuff out for NBA.com and other outlets. But he was also a little more impish than his dad, a little more mischievous, a little more apt to stick the needle in. He chided me for my love of Bruce Springsteen, Madison Square Garden and Five-Hour Energy. (I make no apology for any of that, particularly the latter, given the length of my game-night commute.)

He also called me “Greg,” as did the other beat guys, a reference to the night when Sixers coach Doug Collins, frazzled by a tough loss, addressed me by the wrong name.

Of course there was far more to Andy than that. He was a devoted husband to Taryn, a proud father to his daughters, Jordana, Shira and Leah.

And he was a mensch, a guy you enjoyed seeing. A guy you thought you’d always see.

This just in: Life ain’t like that. You just have to treasure the time you have, and the relationships that are worthwhile. Because both come in short supply.