I continued to help out on the Cubs games during my time on the overnight, but it was a lot tougher on my system, going to the game in the afternoon, taking a nap before dinner and then heading off to work till after dawn.

My time on the overnight finally came to an end in August, 1969 and I was happily put back on nights, 4 p.m. to midnight, a schedule much easier on me and on Judy, and much easier on my baseball days.

The Cubs, known to many as the "Loveable Losers," were having an extraordinary season under fiery manager Leo Durocher. In the first season with the leagues split into two divisions, the Cubs had a 9-game lead over the New York Mets  in the National League East on Aug. 15.

I talked with Durocher before a game in early August and asked him what was different about this Cubs team from previous years. He smiled and said, "These guys know how to win."

The North Siders were in first place for 155 days, until mid-September. That's when they ran out of gas, lost 17 out of  their last 25 games and finished 8 games behind the "Miracle Mets." And I blamed myself, at least partially, for their collapse.

I was exhausted after four months on the overnight and, even though we didn't have a lot of extra cash, Judy and I decided it was time for a short vacation. I saw an ad in the Chicago Tribune for a three-day, two-night trip to Las Vegas that included airfare, hotel, a buffet and tickets to a show for $199 per person.

We asked Raleigh and Barry Sweet to join us on the trip. They flew in from Seattle, where lifelong friend Barry was the AP staff photographer and a catalyst for me getting my dream job. We saw a dinner show at the still-new Caesars Palace _ prime rib, Harry Belafonte and Lena Horne for $20 apiece _ and we caught Buddy Hackett at the Sahara, did some gambling and a lot of walking.

Las Vegas Boulevard still had empty lots between some of the big hotels in those days.

It was a great time.

The downside, though, was that the Cubs' free fall began during that trip. By the time we got home, the Mets were red hot and the Cubs, overworked by Durocher, who didn't believe in platooning, were fading fast.

It made no sense, but I really had a feeling the Cubs might have continued winning if I hadn't left Chicago at a crucial moment.

Going into the Cubs' clubhouse on their last homestand that year was like spending time in a morgue. Even the ever-bubbly Ernie Banks was scowling.

But something good did happen for me shortly after the Vegas trip. I got my first AP Newsfeatures byline.

I saw a story in one of the Chicago papers about Cook County Sheriff Roy Woods leading a drug raid and the more I heard about Woods the more interesting he became. In the picture that accompanied the story, he was wearing a tuxedo, which I later found out was a hand-me-down from Richard Nixon, thanks to Rosemary Woods, Roy's sister and Nixon's private secretary.

The sheriff carried a pearl-handled pistol and once tried _ and failed _ to form his own 1,000-man posse to back up his police force. The man was flamboyant and my interest was piqued.

I asked permission to do a feature on the sheriff and called his office. Surprisingly, I was given a time for an interview the next afternoon.

His office was high up in one of the glass and steel skyscrapers in the Loop, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an incredible view of the city. Woods was a big, dapper man with a booming voice and very friendly. The interview lasted about an hour and I had so many notes that I didn't know how I was going boil it down to 1,200 words _ what I was told was my limit for the story.

 The writing went easily and the story was sent to the Newsfeatures desk at AP headquarters in New York City.

City Editor Carroll Arimond said, "You did a good job, but don't be surprised if you don't recognize the story when they file it on the wire. The editors in New York tend to put their own spin on things."

The story was finally sent on the wire for weekend editions on Saturday and Sunday, Aug. 21-22. It was picked up by newspapers from coast to coast and, much to my surprise and delight, I couldn't find a single word that had been changed. That feature story was a highlight of my 15 months in the Chicago Bureau.

Another highlight from around the same time was a much less official event.

I was working a night shift on a Friday when Joe Mooshil walked over from the sports desk and asked when I was going to dinner. Moosh had never shown any interest in my joining him for a meal, so I was surprised and a little excited.

"When you get off, meet me in the bar downstairs,'' he said. "I have a surprise for you."

I finally got my work done about 7 p.m. and took the elevator down to the main floor, where there was a cozy little bar, whose name I forget. I walked in and spotted Mooshil at a table with three other men near the back.

He introduced me to them: Steve Jacobsen of Long Island Newsday, Phil Pepe of the New York Daily News and Walter "Red" Smith, longtime sports columnist for the New York Herald Tribune and later a two-time Pulitzer winner while writing columns for the New York Times.

The Herald Tribune had folded in 1966 and Smith was working as a freelance writer at the time I was introduced to him. But he was already one of my biggest writing heroes, along with Grantland Rice, Ring Lardner and Paul Gallico _ all sports writers from the old school.

The New York writers were in town to follow a story with the Yankees, who were playing the White Sox. They were staying across the street at the Bismarck Hotel, a landmark in Chicago that has since been torn down. It turns out _ to my good fortune - this little bar was one of their favorite haunts in the Windy City.
 
I was allowed to sit there like a fly on the wall, listening to story after story about baseball's greats and no-so-greats. My lunch hour was over much too soon and I grudgingly said goodbye and thanked them for letting me join them.

Mr. Smith shook my hand and said, "We'll probably still be here when you get off. Come on back down."

The next four hours seemed like months to me, and I'm sure my work suffered since my mind was elsewhere. At the stroke of midnight, the end of my shift, I raced out of the office, jumped on the elevator and walked breathlessly into the bar. There they were, still sitting at the table as if no time had elapsed.

I was greeted warmly and Mr. Smith said, "We've kept your seat warm."

We all had to be shooed out when the bar closed at 2 a.m. For a lifelong baseball fan, and a huge fan of great sports writing, it was truly an evening for the ages. When I got home, I kept Judy up until nearly dawn trying to remember and tell her just about every story I heard that night.

After that, things became pretty routine for the fall and winter months. I was inundated with my duties on the news desk and had little time for pestering or hanging around the sports writers. More than once, the thought popped into my head that perhaps my sports writing days were over and I'd have to adjust my dreams.

But life is full of surprises, and I got a big one at the beginning of May, 1970. I was called to Bureau Chief Al Orton's office when I arrived for my evening shift.

As I walked in, he stood, walked around the desk and shook my hand.

"Mr. Harris, I'm taking a big chance on you,'' Mr. Orton said. "We're sending you to Indianapolis to help out on the Indy 500. It's kind of a sports tryout for you and everybody in New York Sports will be paying attention.

"I went out on the limb to get you this chance. Don't mess it up."

When I left his office, my heart was pounding and my mind was racing. And then it occurred to me: "You know absolutely nothing about auto racing or the Indy 500, This is going to be an interesting adventure."

I had no idea how big an adventure it was going to be.