While the Indians and the Browns were both mediocre when I arrived in Cleveland, the Cavaliers were just turning the corner to success.

Led by Austin Carr, who I knew from my days covering Notre Dame, the Cavs were about to make a big run to the NBA Eastern Division Finals in my first year in Ohio.

Bill Fitch, who eventually made it into the NBA Hall of Fame, had coached the Cavs since the expansion franchise began play in the 1970-71 season. The team had finished last in its division in each of its first three years and, as the team added talent from the NBA draft and good trades, things got better. They won 40 games in the 1974-75 season, setting the stage for my arrival.

The Indiana Pacers teams I had covered for five years were perennial winners, going deep into the playoffs each year I was there and winning two championships. The Pacers were a close-knit team led by a charismatic coach (Bobby "Slick" Leonard) and it was a great experience watching them play and spending time around the players.

I was pretty much a total stranger when I showed up at the Cavs' training camp for the first time _ actually my first day on my new job.

During a lull in the action, I walked up to Coach Fitch to introduce myself. He shook my hand and gave me a hard, quizzical look.

"You look different than I thought you would," he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about and he could see that I wasn't processing what he was saying.

"Slick called me and told me not to be too hard on you,'' Fitch said, smiling. "He said you are a pretty good guy, most of the time."

Fitch's reputation was that of a very good coach with a really sharp sense of humor, and that's exactly what I found as we dealt with one another over the next five years.

As for the team, like the Pacers it was loaded with characters, really good guys and a whole lot of talent.

The downside, at least at first, was that the team was playing it's second season in the Richfield Township Coliseum, which was located about halfway between Cleveland and Akron and near the confluence of three Interstate roads _ I-77, I-271 and the Ohio Turnpike.

My usual schedule on the day of Cavs' home games began with the drive from my home on the near east side of Cleveland to the AP office in the Plain Dealer building, near downtown. After taking care of mail and any writing I had to do before the game, I drove the 30 minutes out to the Coliseum.

After the game, I jumped on I-271 and drove 25 miles to the far eastside of Cleveland before heading back west on surface streets to our neighborhood. It was a lot of driving, with most of it in the winter in Cleveland, where it has been known to snow.

I was pretty lucky not to get stuck overnight at the Coliseum because of snow and ice, although there were a couple of times I had to be pushed to get out of the parking lot.

And, in five years of covering the Cavaliers, I only missed one game due to weather. It was snowing hard that night when I left the office, but I didn't think much of it until I got within about a mile of the exit off I-77 near the Coliseum and saw the backup of cars.

The ramp was on an upslope and was a sheet of ice. A couple of cars had not made it to the top and were bottling up the traffic. I tried to slither my way through and nearly wound up in a ditch. The safest way to proceed was back, so I returned to the office and covered the game by radio.

Thankfully, my stringer, who grabbed quotes and official statistics for me, made it to the Coliseum and phoned me with everything I needed. I actually never told New York Sports that I covered the game by radio _ so I'm sure you'll keep my secret.

That first Cavs team was special. Besides Carr, the team's stars were sharpshooting guard Bobby "Bingo" Smith, power forward Jim Brewer, small forward Campy Russell and center Jim Chones. Point guards Jim Cleamons and Foots Walker, shooting guard Dick Snyder and veteran center Nate Thurmond also played key roles in the breakthrough season for the young franchise.

They won 49 games and the catalyst to the great season was the trade for Thurmond, the 35-year-old star who spelled Chones during the regular season and became something of a father confessor to the younger players.

The four-player trade between the Cavs and the Chicago Bulls came 13 games into the season. And it was announced on Thanksgiving Day.

Judy and I were at a Thanksgiving dinner with friends in the late afternoon when someone turned on the news on the radio and I heard about the trade. I called the office to see if they had all the info they needed and found out the only person in the office had not "had time" to write a sports story.

"I don't know who that Thurmond guy is anyway," he said. "Is he important?"

No problem. I had the number for Coach Fitch at his Coliseum office and got lucky, catching him before pregame practice. The Cavs were playing at home that night against Kansas City and the coach was happy to talk about the acquisition of Thurmond.

I called the office and, much to the displeasure of the guy on duty, dictated a story to be sent to New York. Then I went back to dinner.

The next week, I was talking with Thurmond after a game and told him the story of my interrupted Thanksgiving dinner. He laughed and began calling me "Turkey." That was my nickname around the Cavs for the rest of the season. At least it wasn't "Jive Turkey."

The other inside joke I shared with those guys was about being a Midwesterner. I was interviewing Minnesota grad Brewer one day at practice and mentioned I had gone to Wisconsin. Campy Russell, who had gone to Michigan, was in the next locker over. He leaned in and said, "Hey, we got a Big Ten connection."

We became the "BT (Big Ten) Team," with Ohio State grad Cleamons eventually joining in the silliness.

Chones, who went to Marquette, was peeved that he couldn't belong, so we made him an honorary BTer.

That team won the NBA's Central Division title and went into its first-ever playoff, a first-round battle with the Washington Bullets. The series, known to Clevelanders as "The Miracle of Richfield," went seven great games.

The Cavs made miraculous comebacks to win games five and seven of that series, both in Richfield. In both games, it came down to the final seconds.

In game five, Washington's Elvin Hayes missed two free throws with his team leading 91-90. Cleveland got the ball back with six seconds left. A foul took one second off the clock and Bingo Smith then missed a short running jumper. But Cleamons took the rebound and bounce it off the backboard and in as the clock ran out. That gave the Cavs a 92-91 win.

Game seven was even more exciting. With the score tied 85-85, Snyder took an inbounds pass with nine seconds remaining and drove past gigantic Wes Unseld and threw in a runner. The Cavs held on for the final four seconds for an 87-85 win.

In both games, the arena was pandemonium. The crowd was so loud at times that, sitting a courtside, it seemed like there was no noise. It was like a vacuum.

I was trying to dictate on to the office on my phone and I just had to trust that there was someone on the other end because I certainly could not hear them.

The Cavs moved on to the Eastern Division Finals against the Boston Celtics.  Unfortunately, Chones, who had been playing at a very high level, broke his foot during the final practice before Game One of the series.

Interviewing Jim Brewer 

With Thurmond playing far more minutes than he was capable of at that point in his career, the Celtics won the series in six games.

As disappointing as it was to not make it to the NBA Finals, Fitch told me in an interview a few days after the season ended that "this season was the most fun I've ever had as a coach."

That was the peak during my time covering the Cavs. They made it to the playoffs each of the next two years, but lost each time in the first round. After that, the team began to slide back to mediocrity, making the playoffs only once between 1978 and 1987.

I also had the privilege of burying two professional hockey teams during my time in Cleveland.

When I arrived in 1975, the Cleveland Crusaders of the World Hockey Association were playing their home games at the Coliseum. The team and the league were struggling financially and things weren't that much better on the ice.

The Crusaders finished second in their division the year I arrived, but they did it with a losing record and then lost in the first round of the playoffs to the Hartford Whalers.

In 1976, the California Golden Seals of the National Hockey League became the Cleveland Barons and virtually forced the Crusaders to leave. They became the second incarnation of the St. Paul (MN) Fighting Saints.

The Barons arrived in Cleveland with lots of hype and even more arrogance, basically telling the people of northern Ohio how lucky they were to have an NHL team. Barons officials and players did very little to promote their team or their sport and it showed in the attendance, which hovered below 10,000 a game in an arena that seated just over 20,000 spectators.

The hockey was good, but nobody was watching and the team finally merged with the Minnesota North Stars, leaving Cleveland without a professional hockey team after just two years.

During their short stay in Ohio, I thoroughly enjoyed covering the Barons. Hockey players in general are very nice people and easy to deal with. My favorite on that team was Dennis Maruk, a nifty center who scored 68 goals during his two years in Cleveland, 36 of them in 1976-77 season.

Dennis, who stood just 5-foot-8 and weighed about 165 pounds, looked like a man among boys in the dressing room. We pretty much saw eye-to-eye and he became my go-to guy for quotes before and after most games.

During one mid-season game, this little guy with a big chip on his shoulder got shoved around once too many times by the other team's enforcer. He dropped his gloves and challenged the other guy to a fight.

The other guy started laughing and Dennis was on him like a lion on its prey. He gave as good as he got before the officials broke it up.

After the game, I walked up to Dennis and, as he turned toward me, I saw a very black and blue rim around his right eye and a big cut on his chin. He was grinning from ear to ear and said, "You want a play-by-play of the fight? I think I won."

I like hockey and I hated to see him and the rest of the players leave, although the team officials were definitely not missed.

During all my years covering sports, I found team public relations people to be tremendously helpful and usually really decent people. The PR staff of the Barons left a whole lot to be desired, never getting any of the players involved with the community or with local charities.

More important, in two years they never called me once to suggest a story or pass on information. And one of them could never remember my name, calling me Dave. So I wasn't sorry to see them go,

The strangest day I ever spent at the Coliseum was in 1977 when the Barons and the Cavaliers played a doubleheader, with the hockey game in the afternoon and the basketball game that same night.

I thought it would be a fun day and asked Judy to go with me. We got a baby sitter and off we went.

She sat with me in the grandstand as I took notes on the hockey game until I finally had to head for the press box with about five minutes to go. She had a book and some crocheting with her and I just said, "Stay here and I'll get you fed in the media room after I'm done filing the game."

What I had no way of knowing was that security cleared the building between games. Judy could not convince them that she needed to wait for me. They tossed her out into the frigid January afternoon. I had the car key and this was long before cell phones.

After walking around the outside of the building for a while, she finally managed to convince one of the security people to come to the press box and find me. I had just finished sending my last story and ran to the door where she was waiting - still outside.

I told the security people who I was and showed them my credentials for both teams and they still would not budge. Finally, I left Judy standing there, still in the cold, and went to find the Cavaliers' PR person.

When I told her what was going on, she dashed to the gate with me and brought Judy in, apologizing over and over to my shivering wife. I was pretty apologetic, too.

We went into the media room and found all they had for dinner was hot dogs and chips, which is exactly what we had eaten six hours or so earlier for lunch. Then, I had to go sit at court-side at the press table, while Judy sat by herself in the stands.

This time, after the game, I went and got her and made sure she had a warm, comfortable place to wait. But, by then she wasn't a happy camper and wasn't too fond of me. I think it was more than a year until she went with me to another game.

The Coliseum was actually a very nice building, even if it was in the middle of nowhere. But it was finally torn down in 1994, replaced by a new arena, much more conveniently located in downtown Cleveland.

Things began to fall into place in Cleveland after about a month on the job. One key to staying sane was finding out I didn't have to write a feature story about every one of the professional teams every day.

Before long, the training camps were over and the regular seasons began. I loved going to the games, especially Browns games.

I had been a baseball fan from the time I was a young boy, but growing up in Wisconsin, following the Green Bay Packers of Vince Lombardi, had also made me an avid pro football fan. And being in Municipal Stadium in Cleveland, even with so-so Browns teams, was a treat.

Close to 80,000 fans filled the enormous grandstands for every home game, regardless of the team's record. And the energy from those crowds was amazing to feel. Even with the fact that on frigid days at the lakefront stadium my feet froze in the unheated press box at the top of the second tier, I felt the same way.

There were a couple of Monday night games during my Cleveland tenure when my colleagues and I would walk up to the roof of the stadium at halftime to watch fireworks. The Browns would turn off most of the stadium lights and the effect of the rockets going off against the nighttime blackness of Lake Erie was awe-inspiring.

The Browns had struggled through a 4-10 season in 1974 under Nick Skorich. He was replaced at the end of the season by Forrest Gregg.

Gregg, a Hall of Fame offensive lineman, had played for Lombardi's Packers. He won five NFL championships with the Packers and finished his career with a sixth title in Dallas. But this was his first head coaching job.

I had grown up following the Packers and the Green Bay offensive line duo of Forrest Gregg and Fuzzy Thurston _ who actually was a neighbor in Madison _ were two of my biggest heroes. I was a bit star-struck when I finally met Forrest at the Browns training camp.

I can't say he was overly friendly, but he wasn't off-putting, either. At my request, and with the promise I would only use it in an emergency, he gave me his home phone number.

Any time I looked in my little phone book and saw the home numbers for Forrest Gregg, Frank Robinson, and Cavaliers' coach Bill Fitch, I was struck by the fact that I was finally in the big leagues.

Gregg got off to a slow start in Cleveland. The Browns went 3-9 in his first season. But, with up and coming quarterback Brian Sipe being mentored by veteran Mike Phipps and the running ability of Greg Pruitt, the future looked pretty good.

The next year, Sipe took over, starting 14 games and the team went 9-5, finishing third in the AFC East. That earned Gregg AFC Coach of the Year honors from The AP and it was my job to let him know and to write a story about it.

I figured that was as good of a reason as any to finally use that phone number. His wife answered the phone and, when I told her who I was, she asked, "Can you tell me what this is about?"

I told her I had some good news for the coach and I heard her say, "Honey, an AP writer is on the phone and has some important news for you."

Forrest finally came to the phone and said, "Who is this?"

After letting him know who was calling, I told him about being named AFC Coach of the Year. There was a long pause at his end and I could tell he was very emotional when he said, "Man, that is good news."

The next voice I heard was his wife's. "Forrest needs a minute. He'll be back in a second," she said.

He got back on the phone moments later and we talked for another five minutes about what the award meant to him. I thanked him for his time and he said, "No, thank you, Mike. This really means a lot to me."

It was the first time he had called me by name and he was much friendlier and easier to deal with from that time on. Unfortunately, Forrest didn't make it to the end of the 1977 season. He was fired with one game left after going 6-7.

Forrest was replaced for the final game by assistant coach Dick Modzelewski, who was a decent guy but all business. I really was hoping he would not be given the job permanently, and my prayers were answered.

Browns owner Art Modell hired longtime NFL assistant coach Sam Rutigliano. It was a good choice as Rutigliano took the Browns to records of 8-8, 9-7 and 11-5 over the next three seasons.

More important to me, Sam was a colorful character who made my job a breeze. He coined the phrase "Kardiac Kids" for the Browns teams that kept coming from behind for wins and, when somebody on his team made a mistake, he called it a "self-inflicted wound."

His sense of humor and easy-going manner reminded me a lot of Lee Corso, who had been the Indiana University football coach in my last couple of years in Indy. When I told Sam that, he actually blushed and said, "Lee is a friend of mine and one of my football mentors. That's a great compliment."

I also got to know Mr. Modell pretty well, too. Before he became one of the most hated men in the history of Ohio by taking the Browns franchise to Baltimore in 1995, he was a very popular team owner.

He occasionally attended the weekly fan luncheons at the stadium during the season and, when there was a speaker worth taking the time to see, I did the same. I always made sure to speak with Mr. Modell, just so he would know my face and name.

At one of those luncheons, we were talking about Coach Gregg and I told him about the phone call and the coach's emotional reaction. Mr. Modell said, "You called him at home?"

I said, "I had his number in case of emergency." He handed me a card and said, "Well, here is mine, in case of emergency. Actually, call me any time you need me."

I used that number when Forrest was fired and again when Sam was hired. Mr. Modell was gracious and talkative on both calls.

A year or so after I was transferred to New York Sports, Judy and I were visiting old friends Judi and Dave Hederich in Akron. The four of us decided to go into Cleveland for dinner at The Golden Bowl, our  favorite restaurant on Italian Hill.

As we waited for our entrees, the waiter came to our table with a bottle of wine. I said, "That must be for somebody else. We didn't order that."

The waiter said, "The people in the back room ordered it for you."

Confused, I got up and walked into the other room. There, at a table near the kitchen, were Art Modell and his wife and Sam Rutigliano and his wife. They had seen us coming in and decided to send us a bottle of wine. It was a very nice gesture and it meant a lot to me.

I got in trouble once because of a story I wrote after one of those luncheons.

The Browns had traded for a journeyman defensive end by the name of Ron East. He was destined to be a starter in 1975, but he was also a humorous speaker. At the luncheon, he had the crowd roaring as he talked about how he was going to teach his fellow defensive linemen how to play dirty, saying it would up their games.

It was all in fun and, in the story I wrote for the next day's afternoon papers, I made sure to put in a lot of "he said, tongue-in-cheek," "He said,laughing," etc,

In those days, our stories were sent to the Ohio control bureau in Columbus, edited and sent on to the various wires. The editor who handled the story in Columbus somehow missed the joke, taking out all the references to East's kidding and made it look like the player was serious.

I had no idea what had happened when I walked into the Browns' training facility in Berea the next afternoon. I was there to gather a few quotes for my next pregame story. Jerry Sherk, the Browns' star defensive player, saw me in the hallway and said, "You have a lot of guts showing up here today. East wants to kill you."

I gulped and said, "What are you talking about?"

Soon, I realized what had happened. I had two choices: flee for my life and face up to it.

I went into the dressing room and there, all 6-foot-4, 250-pounds of him, stood Ron East. As I walked toward him, the room, which had been buzzing with activity, became deathly quiet.

I stood in front of East and quickly said, "Hey, Ron. My name is Mike Harris and there's been a huge mistake."

With the promise of a quick retraction and apology from me, he smiled and said, "I guess I'll have a real reputation now."

My bosses weren't happy with me, even though it wasn't really my fault. But I was very careful from that point on about using sarcasm and hyperbole in my stories.

One of the other things I loved about covering pro football back then was the AP's "competitive play" competition.

At that time, about 50 big newspapers around the country took both the AP and UPI wires. After the games, somebody in New York Sports would check all of those papers to see if they used our story or UPI's. Then they put out a results sheet for all to see.

My forte was always speed and accuracy in my writing _ Judy called it "the nuts and bolts" _ and I really wanted to do well in the competition.

In 1975 and 1976, my first two years covering the Browns, I finished fifth and second in the competition and I was determined to do everything in my power to win it in 1977.

And I did just that, finishing with more than 94 percent of the competitive play that season. That plaque, with what is supposed to be a typewriter affixed to it, is ugly as sin. But it is one my proudest possessions.

I managed to finish in the top five each of my last two years in Cleveland, but came up short each time. It was disappointing, but still a lot of fun to take part in a competition. It made game days even more exciting.

Another reason I enjoyed Browns games was the company. I got to bring a stringer with me to help with post game quotes. I would tell the stringer who I wanted him to talk to and what questions to ask and he would head for the dressing rooms before the game ended as I prepared to write my lead.

At quite a few of those Browns games, my stringer was my cousin Ian "Ike" Krieger. He knew football and he wasn't afraid to ask the tough questions. His best assets were that he took accurate quotes and he was fast. We never had a complaint from a player or coach about being misquoted. And it was fun to spend time with him.

After I began covering auto racing full-time in 1980, pro football was the sport I missed most, with baseball a close second.

With only two weeks to close up shop in Indianapolis and move to Cleveland, I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

I took Judy and the kids with me.

Sure, I wanted them there. But it was totally unfair to Judy. In Indianapolis, she had a solid support system and a comfortable place to live. When we got to Cleveland, I put the three of them in a motel out in the middle of nowhere, no restaurant and nothing within easy walking distance. I took our only car and worked 12 to 14 hours a day for 10 days straight, leaving Judy to fend for herself and the kids as best she could.

I don't know what I was thinking. I knew before we got there that my first day on the new job also was the start of a seven-game homestand for the Indians and that each of the other three Cleveland pro teams _ the Browns, the Cavaliers and the Crusaders of the World Hockey Association _ were in training camp.

That meant daily stories on the three camps and a game to cover each night. I left the family each day around 10 a.m. and returned around 2 a.m. It was brutal for all of us.

What I realized in retrospect was that I should have left the family in Indianapolis for a couple of weeks, until I finished that crazy, busy stretch and had some time to look for housing.

Somehow, we muddled through, although because of that awful introduction to Cleveland, Judy was never very happy to be there.

Finally, I had time to take the family out looking for an apartment. We found a decent two-bedroom in Cleveland Heights and gave the landlord a check for first and last month. We were breathing easier before getting a call that night from our friends the Garbers, who lived in Cleveland.

Geoff Garber had a friend he worked with who owned a two-family home, also in Cleveland Heights. He was looking for a tenant. Eileen and Charley Ehrlich had three young kids and their house just looked like a better place for us to live.

With great trepidation, I called the other landlord and asked to get our deposit back. He was not happy, of course, but agreed to let us out of the lease. I quickly drove to his house and picked up the check, feeling very embarrassed by the situation. The next morning, afraid he might change his mind, I was at the bank when it opened to cash his check.

It was just another difficult moment in our introduction to Cleveland.

It worked out great, though. We lived above the Ehrlichs for nearly two years before buying our first house in nearby South Euclid.

While that introduction to living in Cleveland was chaotic, my new job got off to a much better start. I could not have been happier about getting to work in a Major League city,

I started around 10 a.m. that first day, visiting the various training camps, introducing myself to people and doing interviews. By 3 p.m., I was able to go into the AP office in the Cleveland Plain Dealer building and write stories from each of the three training camps. Then, at 5 p.m., I drove the short distance to Cleveland Stadium.

My grandparents settled in Cleveland before my parents were born. They were raised in the city and I was born there in 1943. My dad became a salesman for Cleveland-based Campus Sportswear Co. and, in 1950, he took over the Wisconsin and Illinois territories for Campus and moved us to Madison, WI.

But those blood ties to Cleveland were very strong in me. I loved visiting family there, and the Cleveland sports teams were always special to me.

My first baseball experience was at a Yankee-Indians doubleheader in 1948, when I was five. I only remember walking up the ramps to the upper deck and all the legs around me. But I do remember that I was there.

Whenever we visited Cleveland for a sales meeting or a family occasion, we tried to take in a game or two. I saw the Indians a lot, but we also managed to get to some Browns games and even some minor league hockey - my dad's favorite, the Cleveland Barons, who played in an arena right next to the Campus headquarters on Euclid Avenue.

For a few years, the Browns had a preseason exhibition doubleheader that we were able to attend because it lined up with his sales meetings. The second one was more memorable because of what happened between games.

The Browns had drafted Ernie Davis, an All-American running back from Syracuse. He was the No. 1 NFL draft choice in 1962 and was supposed to be the next Jim Brown, one of the all-time greats who had been a star for Cleveland.

But before Davis could play a single game in the NFL, he was diagnosed with an extremely toxic form of Leukemia. Everyone knew he would never play for the Browns and it was decided to honor him during that doubleheader.

After the first game ended, the lights in the stadium were turned out and Davis, walking in by himself from what is center field in baseball, was bathed in a spotlight as he walked slowly toward the home plate area.

The PA announcer simply said, "Ladies and gentlemen, Ernie Davis."

He got a standing ovation from the more than 80,000 spectators in the stands of the cavernous stadium.

I doubt there was a dry eye in the place.

A lot of people thought Cleveland Stadium was a throwback _ too old and too big. A baseball attendance of 25,000 was pretty good for most teams, but in that stadium, it seemed like nobody was there.

But I was thrilled to know I was going to be working in that stadium that held so many memories for me.

I was impressed to find my parking spot just outside the press gate and I made my way to the press box without much trouble. There was a sign on the door of the press box that read: "Reserved for members of the Baseball Writers of America."

It was amazing to me to realize that was now me.

I put my typewriter and briefcase on my desk area and went to find the Indians' clubhouse. I flashed my credential to the guard at the door and felt a thrill walking into the dressing area. Then I realized, I knew no one there. Worse, no one knew me.

I found the manager's office and looked in through the open door. Sitting at the desk, reading The Wall Street Journal, was Frank Robinson, the only man in baseball history to win the Triple Crown (leading the league in batting average, runs batted in and home runs) in both leagues.

Frank was also the last of the player-managers in baseball.

He was one of my favorite players, but I had also heard he could be difficult to deal with.

I knocked on the door frame and he looked up and grimaced. "What do you want?" he asked in a nasty growl.

Taken aback, I said, "I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm the new AP sports writer in Cleveland."

Frank gestured for me to come in, shook my hand without much enthusiasm and said, "Well, introduce yourself."

"I'm Mike Harris and I'm looking forward to covering you and the team," I said with what I hoped was a warm smile.

Frank said, "Okay, now I know who you are. Just try not to ask too many dumb questions."

He went back to reading his newspaper and, after a moment of hesitation, I slunk out the door., wondering if this Cleveland gig was such a great idea.

I managed to gather a few pregame notes and went back to the press box to watch the game. The press box attendant handed me a scorebook that had enough pages for an entire season. My dad had taught me how to keep score and it was something I truly enjoyed.

The Indians weren't very good in the 1970s and it wasn't a very good game, although the Indians scraped out a 6-4 win over the Detroit Tigers. I can't remember details, but I didn't care. I was covering Major League baseball.

I do remember writing a quick lead and racing to the visitor's clubhouse to get some postgame quotes from Detroit Manager Ralph Houk.

I listened quietly during the interview with Houk by some of the veteran writers, made some notes and raced over the Indians' clubhouse to get the home angle on the win. I wasn't looking forward to talking with Robinson,

By the time I got there, the local writers had already had their time with Frank. I walked into his office by myself, a little shakily. He looked up from the stats he was reading and grunted, "Where the hell have you been?"

I said I had to go to the visitors' clubhouse first and I began to apologize. That's when Frank started to laugh.

"Okay, rookie, what do you need to know?" he said, smiling. I almost fell over in relief. I asked my questions quickly and started to leave the room when Frank said, "At least your questions weren't too dumb."

We got along great until Frank was fired early in the 1977 season. When he was let go, I was the only local writer he talked to one-on-one before holding his final press conference.

That Indians team, which finished fourth in the American League East in 1975, was a fun bunch. I got to know pitchers Dennis Eckersley, who eventually made it into the Hall of Fame, and Rick Waits very well. And outfielder Rick Manning and third baseman Buddy Bell were good guys to hit up for quotes.

On the opposite end of the spectrum was George Hendrick, one of the best players on the team. Before I got to Cleveland, George felt he had been burned by the media too often and decided he would no longer do interviews.

Not knowing this, I walked up to him at his cubicle following a game that first week in which he hit the winning home run and tried to ask him about it. He turned his back on me without comment and, as I looked around the room, I saw several players just shake their heads and smile at my embarrassment.

From that moment on, every time I saw George _ in the tunnel between the clubhouse and dugout, behind the batting cage, in the clubhouse after the games _ I smiled and said, "Hey, George. How  you doin?"

Most of the time, he simply ignored me. Sometimes, he glared at me as he walked past.

Finally, during the 1976 season, we passed each other in the tunnel before a game in July. I did my usual, "Hey, George. How are you doin?, accompanied by a smile.

This time, this very big, very dangerous-looking man stopped and stared at me for a moment, hovering above me, then said, "Why do you keep talking to me like that?"

I said, "I'm just being friendly. I've never written anything bad about you and I think you're one hell of a ballplayer. So why not say hi?"

He stood motionless for another moment, got a strange quizzical look on his face and said, "Okay, I'll talk to you."

As luck would have it, he drove in the winning run that night. After filing my lead, I raced to the clubhouse and walked straight up to George, who was leaning into his cubicle. The clubhouse got silent as I said to his back, "Hey George. Congrats. Tell me about that game-winning double."

He stood up, turned around and saw it was me. George actually smiled and began to describe the pitch he hit for the winning run. A couple of other Cleveland writers sidled up cautiously in the next few minutes to eavesdrop as I asked George questions.

For the rest of his stay in Cleveland, we were friendly. And he developed a pretty good relationship with several of the other local writers, too.

One of my other favorites was Rick Waits, a left-handed pitcher who was never much more than a journeyman. But he was a really nice guy and a very good quote.

Once a year, Rick would receive a box of cuban cigars in the mail from a fan. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life but, in those days, I occasionally smoked a cigar.

After a particularly good, winning performance that August, I talked to Rick at his cubicle as he smoked a victory cigar. When I told him how good it smelled, he asked if I would like one. I said, "Sure."

The next spring, when he got his box of cigars, he grabbed a handful as I walked past and said, "Hey, enjoy these."

I kept them in the press box and it became our ritual that when Rick won, we would both light up one of his special stogies. It was enjoyable, but I don't think I've ever smoked a cigar since leaving Cleveland in 1979.

As things settled into place, both at home and in the job, it was like a dream come true. I was the AP sports writer in a Major League market and continuing to learn my trade. The hours were challenging, but I could not have been happier.

A few months after the disastrous 1973 Indianapolis 500, I got a call from Wick Temple, AP's National Sports Editor.

"We need to replace Bloys Britt as the Auto Racing Writer and you're the guy we'd like to do it," Wick said, leaving me pretty much dumbstruck.

When I finally got my mind back in gear, I thanked him profusely and immediately declined the offer.

First, I had a baby at home and another on the way. Then there was that awful experience of the previous year. It left a very bad taste in my mouth about auto racing.

Wick said he was disappointed but understood and he left it at that. Afterward, I wondered if turning down the job would wind up costing me future promotions.

By the time the next May rolled around, there was a new Auto Racing Writer in place. Jerry Garrett, who had been my No. 2 sports guy in Indy, jumped at the opportunity and I wished him all the luck in the world.

That meant I wouldn't be writing the main story at the Speedway in 1974, and that was just fine with me. Instead, the powers that be had me writing features and covering daily news during the month of practices and qualifying and writing the main PMs story _ for the afternoon papers _ on race day.

Johnny Rutherford won the first of his three Indy 500s that year. JR, who later became a good friend, is one of the nicest, kindest and funniest people in all of auto racing. His wife, Betty, was just as nice and she and Judy hit it off right away.

But, at that point, we had not yet gotten to know each other. And the aftermath of JR's first Indy win was also the first and only time I have ever had writer's block.

I enjoyed a race that was pretty routine, particularly after the previous year. There were no major crashes and no injuries. The big drama that day was that JR won the race from the 25th starting position, the farthest back that a winner had started since Louis Meyer in 1936.

JR was funny and interesting in the post-race interview. But, when I sat down in front of my typewriter, a blank piece of paper in the cradle, nothing came to mind.

It was eerie and frightening as 15 minutes went by. Then 30 minutes. That paper was still blank.

In those days, a handful of AP's top sports writers and editors descended on the Speedway every May on race weekend, pretty much taking over the coverage that the Indiana bureau had handled all month. We locals resented it a bit, but we were also very impressed with the talents of the out-of-towners.

That year, Wick came in for his first 500 and he was joined by top New York Sports feature writers Hal Bock and Bruce Lowitt and Hall of Fame columnist Will Grimsley. I was pretty much in awe of their talents. And they were all really good guys.

As I sat at my typewriter after the race, sweating bullets, waiting for inspiration to hit and feeling a sense of panic, Bruce walked past and saw the blank sheet of paper and my worried look.

"You okay?" he asked.

Embarrassed, I told him I just couldn't think of what to write. He smiled, gave me a gentle shove on the shoulder and said, "Let me get in there."

I stood up and he took my place at the typewriter. He looked up for a moment and then began to type.

A moment later, he stood up and said, "See how that works for you."

I sat down and looked at the paper. There was one line written on it: "They buried Johnny Rutherford but he wouldn't stay dead."

Maybe not the greatest lead sentence of all time, but it worked for me. The sentences just came tumbling out and, within 20 minutes, I had added 1,000 words and was ready to turn in the story. I'll always be grateful to Bruce for that much-needed kick start.

I had been in Indianapolis for four years at that point and was feeling like it was time for me to take the next step in my career. Indy was a comfortable place to work, but I wanted a job where I didn't have to spend a third of my time working the broadcast desk or as the overnight editor's fill-in.

When Wick asked Judy and me to join him for dinner at a downtown steak house the week of the 500, I took advantage of the situation to ask if there was any chance of me being promoted to New York Sports or a bigger bureau with more pro sports.

Wick Temple was one of the best bosses I ever had and he was always honest with me. But that didn't make it easy to accept what he told me that night.

"Mike, we're keeping an eye on you and I think you're going to eventually do some big things for AP. But you're not ready, yet," he said.

Judy, never a shrinking violet, especially when it came to being an advocate for me, said, "Why do you say that? Mike has done everything that has been asked of him and more."

At that point, it became a very serious discussion between Judy and Wick, with me sitting there mostly as an observer - a very interested observer.

"Mike is a fine writer and a hard worker, but he needs to learn to be a national writer," Wick said.

"What does that mean?" Judy asked.

This went on for a while, but the gist was that I needed to learn to write not just for people in Indiana who were interested in the Indiana Hoosiers and other local teams and sports, but for people in California and Texas and overseas so they would find what I wrote as interesting and informative as the locals.

The conversation left me depressed and confused and it took me a few months to finally figure out what Wick was talking about. But, thankfully, I did eventually get it.

By the time the 1975 race was run, I knew I was ready and I was determined to get out of Indy. The AP's Deputy Sports Editor at that time was Craig Ammerman, who I had not met before he showed up for race week.

I quickly found out that Craig was my biggest fan in New York Sports. And it didn't hurt that he also hit it off with Judy.

We invited him to come to our apartment for dinner one night but had to stop at a grocery store on the way home. Craig grabbed a bottle of wine and, as we went to check out, Judy said, "People at business dinners are always spending big bucks on drinking and I don't really drink. I'd much rather have candy. Do you think AP could buy me some candy?"

Craig handed Judy a large paper sack and said, "Fill 'er up!" She did just that and Craig was one of our favorite people from then on. He was also instrumental in finally getting me that promotion I had been longing for.

A few weeks after the 1975 Indy 500, punctuated by a horrifying crash from which Tom Sneva walked away uninjured, and won by Bobby Unser, I was asked to attend an AP Sports Editors Association meeting in Cincinnati.

Since my mom lived in Cincinnati, Judy and I packed up the kids and drove to Ohio. The day we got there, mom informed us that my dad, who had been acting erratically for a while, had walked out on her the day before.

That was a blow, but it was followed by an even tougher one. Early the next morning, Judy's aunt Irene called to say that Judy's dad had died suddenly from a stroke and that her mother was heading from Nashville, TN, where her parents had been living, back to Chicago for the funeral.

I called the AP office in Indy and New York Sports to let them know what had happened and that I was going to be unavailable for a few days. Then we took off for Chicago.

It was a shocking and sad time and I really didn't think about work for a couple of days. But the day after the funeral, as we were sitting shiva _ the Jewish equivalent of a wake, with little drinking but lots of food and conversation _ at the apartment of one of Judy's aunts, it suddenly occurred to me that I should call AP and let them know what was going on.

I phoned Indy and was told that Craig Ammerman had been urgently trying to reach me for several days and I needed to call him as soon as possible.

He came to the phone immediately and said, "We've been trying to find you. You can have the sports writer job in Seattle or Cleveland, but we need your answer now and you have to report to whichever one you take in two weeks."

It turns out the sports writer in Seattle had to leave the job because of illness and, at the same time, the Cleveland sports writer had suddenly quit. Both bureaus needed to fill the openings in a hurry.

Thinking about how most of my family was in the Midwest and how remote Seattle was, I immediately chose Cleveland. Craig congratulated me and I got off the phone thinking, "How am I going to tell Judy?"

Here she was reeling from her father's death and having been very happy living in Indianapolis, where she had a solid support system of friends. And now I was going to uproot her and the babies, and do it in two weeks. At this point, Tory was 20 months old and Lanni was four months old.

I walked into the other room and asked her to join me in the bedroom. She looked at me curiously and I decided to just be direct.

"We're being transferred," I said. "Where and when?" she asked, not even blinking at the startling news.

"Cleveland in two weeks!" I said.

 "Are you okay with this?" she asked. I said, "You bet. It's a major league city."

"I'll tell my mom and we'll head for home and get started packing," Judy said, walking out of the room.

And so began our next big adventure.

Before I begin blogging about my time in Cleveland, there are a few loose threads in Indianapolis to take care of.

Most of the very few news assignments I had during my time in Indy were pretty forgettable.

I did cover a few political speeches and once trekked out to a truck stop on I-65, north of Indy, to interview truckers during a national transportation strike. And I got to interview singer Petula Clark in her hotel room.

I was sitting at my desk in the office one weekday afternoon when the news editor called me over and said, "Petula Clark is in town for a performance and her PR lady said we could send somebody over to do an interview. You're it."

That sounded like a fun time to me, especially since I liked her music. And did I mention she was really good looking?

I rang the doorbell of her suite at the hotel and she opened the door, dressed in some sort of silk pajama outfit and looking very cute but a bit frazzled. She asked me in and as I entered I heard a gruff male voice: "You have 10 minutes."

Her husband stood over us like a guard dog for the entire interview, as if he expected me to attack his wife at any moment. She answered my very banal questions without much enthusiasm but, as I was thanking her and standing to leave, she said, "I apologize for the way we acted. I got a threatening letter yesterday and neither of us got much sleep."

That woke me up. I asked a few more questions about the letter and if they had reported it to the police. They had.

I went back to the bureau and called the police department. A detective told me they couldn't comment on an ongoing case, but that gave me enough to write the story.

Ms. Clark performed that night at the Indiana Theater and left town the next day, unharmed. But I had gotten a pretty interesting story in the end.

Without question, though, the most interesting and, in the end, fun one was in August of 1974 when Julie Nixon Eisenhower, the older daughter of President Richard Nixon was hospitalized in Indianapolis due to a ruptured ovarian cyst. She had been working for Conde Nast magazine, which was headquartered in Indy.

The then-25-year-old Julie was in University Hospital on the west side of Indianapolis for several days. Her husband and her mother, Pat Nixon, were there to oversee things, along with several secret service agents. President Nixon made a quick trip following the surgery and had a brief, private visit.

Meanwhile, the AP sent a photographer and staffer to the hospital each day, hoping to catch a picture or an interview with a Nixon family member. Because of days off for the news people in the bureau, I was assigned to stake out the hospital on the day after the surgery.

Chuck Robinson, the Indiana staff photographer for AP, and I spent the morning milling around the outside of the hospital, behind a rope barrier that the police had set up. Nothing was happening and it quickly got boring.

Finally, Chuck said, "I've covered stories here before and there's a back way in. You want to see if we can find someone to talk to?"

I said, "Sure." And off we went.

We were able to enter the hospital through the back door and were standing in the hallway near a service elevator when its doors opened. Inside were Pat Nixon and two men in dark suits, obviously secret service.

Chuck and I were wearing media ID cards hung from our necks, so nobody got too startled as they walked past toward the outside door. It appeared Mrs. Nixon simply wanted to get some air after being stuck inside that hospital room for several days.

Chuck and I got some nasty looks from the secret service guys, but he also got some images of Mrs. Nixon as she walked past. I got nothing. He followed them outside to continue snapping pictures and I stayed inside.

As Mrs. Nixon walked back toward a elevator a few minutes later, I caught her eye and asked, "How's Julie, Mrs. Nixon?"

She stopped, glanced at the big AP on my ID card and said, "The surgery went well and she's doing just fine. She's starting to get upset about having to stay in bed. But she'll be out of here soon."

That was how we got exclusive pictures and quotes that no one else had. Sometimes, you just get lucky.

I spent a lot of time in the AP office during my five years in Indiana. In those days, the office was located on the fourth floor of the Indianapolis Star-News building in downtown Indy. We had large, waist-to-ceiling windows that faced the parking lot at the rear of the building.

One stormy Sunday afternoon, I was alone in the office. It was spring and the weather was very unpredictable. There was little going on and my main jobs that day were updating  (basically rewriting) the hourly broadcast headlines and putting weather advisories from The National Weather Service on the state wire.

There were tornadoes spotted in several areas around the state and it was getting to look a bit eerie outside. I walked over to those big rear windows and looked up the sky. As I watched the swirling clouds turn from black to a sickly green, I thought, "This could be very bad."

Suddenly, the spout of a tornado poked through the clouds and dropped to the ground right in the middle of that, thankfully empty parking lot behind the building. I thought about ducking  below the windows, but the tornado quickly bounced back up into the clouds with no apparent damage. The close call left me a bit breathless.

Minutes later, the weather service reported a tornado had touched down less than a mile from the office, hitting _ you guessed it _ a trailer park. Thankfully again, no one was hurt. But that was my most close and personal contact with a tornado.

Another boring day in the Indianapolis office is the reason I'm a coffee addict today.

I was filling in for overnight editor Marty Anderson on a Sunday night and absolutely nothing was happening. Again, I was rewriting the hourly broadcast headlines because there was nothing new to put in them.

The phones weren't ringing and there was nothing to pick up from the Star's morning editions and nothing of interest on the television or the radio. I was pacing the floor in boredom.

Around 3 a.m. I was walking aimless through the office, just killing time. As I walked back through the area used by the technicians, I noticed a coffee maker. My parents had both been big coffee drinkers, but I was never really interested. Looking at the coffee maker, though, I thought, "People say it helps keep you awake."

I found a package of ground coffee, figured out how to put it into the coffee maker _ although I had no idea how much to put in _ added water to the reservoir and turned it on. To my surprise, I wound up with a pot of decent looking and smelling coffee.

I had finished the entire pot before the morning guy came in to relieve me at 6 a.m. From that day to now, I'm a regular coffee drinker and one of those lucky people who can drink half a pot of regular coffee before bed time and still sleep through the night.

And I might never have tried it if I hadn't been so bored that night in Indy.

I want to mention one other highlight of my time in Indy that was a direct result of working for the AP.

We lived on the north side of Indianapolis, just off 38th Street, a main east-west city artery. Also on 38th Street, not far away, was the State Fairgrounds. Much to my delight, I found that AP got free passes to the annual state fair because we occasionally covered events.

Our first summer in Indy, before we had kids, I asked Judy if she'd like to go to the fair for lunch. I wasn't going to work until 4 p.m. and her days off were in the middle of the week. The passes included parking. We drove over, enjoyed corn dogs for lunch, did some people watching and went home.

It was so much fun, we did that same thing for five straight days _ the last three with me picking up Judy during her lunch hour at the zoo, which was also near the fairgrounds. I'm not sure if I've ever had a corn dog since, but that was definitely a lot of fun.

And Judy also got me up very, very early a couple of times in future years to run over to the fairgrounds to watch sheep shearing, rooster crowing and pig racing, among other things. I told you this girl is interested in everything.

Since I told the story about getting Judy to the hospital barely in time for the birth of our wonderful Lanni Nicole, I feel obligated to tell a story about our first-born, Tory Max.

Being nervous first-time parents, we went to the hospital too soon. But they admitted Judy, who was very uncomfortable, and we then sat through 12 hours of labor. The maternity area at Methodist Hospital was being renovated and we were in an area curtained off from several other soon-to-be mothers in the same room.

One of them was scared to death and spent a lot of time screaming and crying. Judy, who was very calm, looked up at one point and said in a half-whisper, "Somebody please give that woman a baby."

Finally, it was time. They wheeled Judy to the birth room and I put on my gown and booties and followed moments later. When I got there, the doctor said, "Any minute now."

Judy looked over at me and said, "Get my purse out." I said, "You don't need your purse. Just concentrate on what's going on here."

She glared at me and said, "Get my purse out, please."

I shrugged and reached into the clear plastic bag that contained Judy's personal items and fished out the purse and handed it to her.

She reached in and took out an oblong piece of colorful paper and a paper punch. She then handed me back the purse, punched a hole in the paper and handed it to me. It was a ticket she had made up for me to attend the birth of our son.

"You being a sports writer, I thought it was only proper that you have the right credential," she said with a smile and a wince. Moments later, Tory came into the world.

So that's pretty much all the highlights and lowlights from my five years in Indy. Now, on to Cleveland.

After two years of what I considered little more than sentry duty, covering the south end of the pit lane during the Indianapolis 500, I finally got to do some writing.

I got to watch the 1972 race from the press box, an open-air trough hanging below the upper deck on the outside of the track. To get to the box, you had to walk through a tunnel under the racetrack, then climb several flights of stairs on the outside of the structure, walk down through the upper deck and climb down another short set of stairs to the press area.

It was an exciting time on race morning as I waited in the media center to make the walk through the tunnel with the other AP people who were going to work "upstairs." One of them was Jim Davis, a tech who would take our stories and transfer them onto tape to be fed into the teletypes for transmission to the members.

I have always had a fear of heights, so the steel stairs, with metal railings that had wide openings, were a bit daunting. But Jim's fear of heights was far worse than mine. We nearly got to the top of the first set of stairs and Jim, who was behind me, suddenly stopped. His hands were gripping the railings on both sides of the stairs so tightly, his knuckles were white. His face was sheer terror.

It was early, so the foot traffic wasn't too heavy. But, still, fans and media people were beginning to crowd in behind Jim, who was blocking the way. I tried to talk him into moving, but he was stone-faced and ashen.

 Steve Herman, who was going to write the running account of the race, was just behind Jim and the two of us managed to pry his hands free and walk him up the rest of the way.

Once in the box, Jim began to breathe freely and the color returned to his face. I didn't want to think about going back down after the race, although it turned out that going down was easier for him than going up - thankfully.

I was delighted to be in the press box for the race, although this was years before live TV and we had no video feed. We could see the entire pit lane and into turns one and four. But the rest of the 2 1/2-mile oval was invisible to us. We had to rely on spotters placed around the track with telephones to keep us informed of events out of our sight. And hearing anything on the phones with the engines roaring was not easy.

We did have headphone radios tuned to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway Network broadcast, which filled in a lot of the action and gave us access to quotes from the drivers as they left the race because of mechanical problems or accidents.

The crowd that day was more than 300,000 people _ the attendance was never announced at Indy, which was part of the mystique _ and the usual pre-race feeling in the air, like an electrical charge, was even more apparent from that high perch than from trackside.

The start of the race, as always, was thrilling, with the 33 colorful rocket-like cars zooming into the narrow left turn at the end of the front straightaway.

Three-time Indy winner Johnny Rutherford once described driving into turn one at Indy as "making a left turn at 200 miles an hour into a closet."

This time, they all made it through and the rest of the race that lasted just over three hours was pretty routine.

Mark Donohue gave team owner Roger Penske the first of his record 18 Indy 500 victories and I got to spend the race taking notes and watching the the action unfold before writing the main story for the next afternoon's papers. In those days, there were hundreds of newspapers that published afternoon editions.

For what we called the PMs Cycle, the idea was to write a story with a feature angle and more quotes and color than what had been sent out for the AMs cycle (the morning papers).

The best part about writing PMs was you could take your time, digest all the material you could collect and write at your leisure since the story didn't move on the wire until after midnight. It was a

great way to move into the media mainstream at Indy.

The lead story that year was written by Bloys Britt, AP's Motorsports Writer. Living in Charlotte, N.C., Bloys had started covering NASCAR events many years earlier. Eventually, he added major events like Indy and the America's Cup Yacht Race. The powers that be at the AP decided to make it official in 1969, naming him the company's first Auto Racing Writer.

But, during the winter of 1972, Bloys, who was in his early 60s, had a stroke. It was originally thought he would be back for the race the next May, but that wasn't to be. It turned out his days on the road were over.

Several weeks before the start of practice at Indy in 1973, I was told that I was going to write the main lead and oversee coverage of the race. I was thrilled. There was no way to know what a disaster the race was going to be.

Things got off to a good start, though a pattern of wet weather was setting in. Then, on the first day of qualifying, the second Saturday of the month, I was walking the pit lane prior to the morning practice and wound up chatting with veteran racer Art Pollard.

We sat on the pit wall and talked about Indianapolis restaurants and a birthday party for a family member of his that had gone awry. The track was about to open for practice and Art was putting on his helmet and we were both chuckling as I walked away.

Less than 10 minutes later, Art was fatally injured in a fiery crash. The Indy cars held 70 gallons of gas in two tanks surrounding the driver and fire was by far the most dangerous possibility in any crash.

I was shocked and saddened, but that was only the start of a very tragic time.

I now knew first-hand how quickly things could go south at Indy. But the soul is resilient and, even with Art's death still fresh in my mind, I was excited to be writing the main story on race day.

A thunderstorm moved through the area in the morning, postponing the start of the race from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. Finally, the race began and, as the pace car pulled into the pits, all hell broke loose on the main straightaway.

Steve Krisiloff, who was on the inside of the third three-car row, slowed with an engine problem, bunching up the field behind him. Salt Walther and Jerry Grant, both in the sixth row, touched wheels and Walther's car was launched into the catch fence on the outside of the track at full speed.

The fence sheared off the nose of Walther's car and his fuel tanks were punctured, spraying flaming fuel over the spectators in the grandstand. Eleven spectators were injured, nine of them seriously.

Walther's car flew back onto the track, where it was hit by several other cars. The lasting picture of that crash is Walther's car coming to rest near the pit exit, the nose cone gone and the driver's legs hanging out. Somehow, he survived and, after many months of treatment for burns and other injuries, made a full recovery.

Rain began falling again before the cleanup of the 11-car accident was complete and, after less than one green-flag lap, the race was postponed to the next morning.

After a heated early morning meeting with drivers and officials, it was decided to let all the damaged cars be repaired and restart the race from the beginning. Thirty-two of the 33 cars that started the day before, minus Walther's, were on the track when the pace laps began at 10 a.m. But rain began to fall on the second pace lap and that was it for the second day.

I had already written thousands of words for the wire and we had not yet completed an official lap. About the only excitement was counting the laps of the safety vehicles that were out trying to dry the track and watching for streakers _ beered up spectators who took off their clothes and ran across the track for fun.

We came back on Wednesday to find a desolate Speedway. More rain was in the forecast. There was trash strewn everywhere. Mud covered much of the infield and the restrooms were nearly unusable. But the show must go on.

The 9 a.m. start of the race was delayed because of standing water on the track. But the sun finally shone through at around noon and the track dried in time for a 2 p.m. start. There were maybe 20,000 people scattered through the massive grandstands when the cars came to life.

The first part of the race was pretty routine, although there was a lot of attrition from mechanical and engine problems and two minor accidents.

On lap 59, Swede Savage, who had pitted several laps earlier and had a full load of fuel onboard, lost control coming out of turn four. He slammed into the inside retaining wall near the entrance to pit lane at almost full speed. The car exploded into a fireball and tumbled end-over-end into the pit lane then back across the track, still in flames with Savage belted into his seat.

I heard the crash and looked up from my typewriter in time to see the fireball, but I didn't know who was in the car or what had happened. Darrell Christian, who was my editor that day, said, "I'll feed you information as quick as I can, just start writing."

I did just that until, moments later, I heard a sickening thud and looked up to see the body of a man flying through the air. Armando Teran, a 22-year-old pit board man, tried to run across the pit lane to see what had happened and was hit by a fire truck speeding toward the crash, going the wrong way on pit lane. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The next 30 minutes or so have never registered in my mind. According to Darrell and Steve I just kept writing as they fed me information about the accidents. Finally, Darrell reached over and patted me on the arm and said, "Okay, take a break. I think we're good."

I sat back and realized the front of my shirt and pants were soaking wet. I had been sitting there, writing furiously with tears running down my face.

The race restarted and then ended, fittingly cut short by rain after 133 of the scheduled 200 laps, with winner Gordon Johncock sliding,  skidding and barely making it to the finish line under caution on the soaked track. The victory celebration was short and had little joy and the traditional victory banquet was cancelled.

Savage, amazingly, was on his way to recovery before getting a tainted plasma transfusion. He died 33 days after the race was finally run, the result of contracting Hepatitis B.

The tragic race resulted in some life-saving rule changes before the next 500. The on-board fuel maximum was cut from 70 gallons to 40 with only one fuel cell.Wings were made smaller in an effort to slow the cars. Safety vehicles were no longer allowed to drive the wrong way on pit lane and pit board crewmen had to remain in their positions for the duration of the race. Retaining walls and catch fences were reinforced, the wall that Savage hit was removed and the pit lane entrance was widened.

At the same time, a rubber fuel cell that Goodyear had developed for helicopters in Vietnam, was adapted for the Indy cars before the 1974 race, virtually eliminating the threat of major fires in crashes.

All those changes and more in the intervening years have made racing safer. But you must always be aware that tragedy, in racing, is always only an instant away.

As far as I was concerned, I had had enough of Indy car racing after that May. But rest and time were healing and, by May of 1974, I was ready to go back to the Speedway.

I felt a whole lot more comfortable heading into my second Indy 500.

By May of 1971, unlike a year earlier, I knew how to get into the track, where to park, where I was working and I knew a lot of people involved in the sport. All that made it easier, but auto racing was still mostly foreign territory for me.

In those days, the buildup to the 500 on Memorial Day Weekend started at the beginning of the month and it was up to the Indiana Sports Editor to hold down the fort at the track until Bloys Britt, the AP's Auto Racing Writer, arrived in the second week and began directing the operation.

That meant I had to be at the track every day and come up with daily stories, feature ideas for the weekend editions and also for race week. It also meant I got to know the drivers, crew chiefs and team owners a whole lot better.

At that point, Roger Penske was viewed as an Indy outsider. Once a great sports car driver himself, Penske had formed an Indy team with future Hall of Famer Mark Donohue as his driver. Penske, Donohue and his crewmen all wore crew cuts. The crewmen dressed in clean, white uniforms and worked in a garage that they kept spotless. The Penske team was anything but old school and they sparked my interest.

We had not met in my rookie year, so I decided to try to get to know Roger because I thought he might be a prototype of the future of the sport. But he wasn't easy to talk to.

It seemed he was in meetings or hovering over the race car every second of every day. Dan Luginbuhl, his right-hand man, put up some pretty big road blocks to keep people, especially people they didn't know well, away from his boss.

Finally, a breakfast meeting was arranged at the Speedway Motel, across the parking lot behind the backstretch of the 2 1/2-mile oval track. The very non-glamorous motel was where a lot of drivers and racing VIPs stay, mostly for convenience. But it did have a very good dining room and bar and also served as the clubhouse for the Speedway's golf course.

I showed up early and found Roger and Dan already sitting at a table, reading newspapers and sipping coffee. It was an uncomfortable moment because they didn't know what it was that I was hoping to get out of the conversation.

"Gentlemen, all I really want to do is introduce myself so that you will know who I am when I need to talk to you," I told them. "Of course, I'd like to talk about Mark and your team and what you expect this month. But, mostly, I just want to get to know you and have you get to know me."

Everyone relaxed and that was the beginning of a relationship with both men that has lasted nearly 50 years.

A year later, Donohue won the race, the first of a record 18 Indy 500 victories by Team Penske, 16 of which I covered.

The 1971 500 was notable for two things: Al Unser won for the second straight year and the pace car crashed at the start of the race.

I was again assigned to cover the south end of the pits on race day. In those days, the Speedway officials would wheel a huge wooden trailer, carrying dozens of photographers, across the exit-end of the pits for the start of the race.

As soon as the cars zoomed into the first turn, the trailer was pushed back behind the pit wall and the photographers would scatter around the grounds. But 1971 was different.

Each year, a celebrity was chosen to drive the pace car for the start of the race. That year, it was a local car dealer, Eldon Palmer, driving the Dodge Challenger pace car. Palmer had done a little drag racing and had a connection to the Speedway.

He practiced the start several times the day before, driving the car on a quiet track and entering the pits at 125 mph. But on race day, with more than 300,000 people on hand, Palmer got excited, missed his braking point and slid wildly into the trailer at the end of pit road. The crash injured 29 people, two seriously.

Among the AP's reporters at the scene, I was closest. In fact, as the pace car careened down pit lane, I ducked behind the low pit wall, thinking it was going to hit the wall and possibly catapult over. Instead, the car veered back onto the pit lane and struck the trailer.

I jumped over the wall and ran to the car, one of the first people to arrive at the scene. In the car were Speedway owner Tony Hulman, U.S. Senator and former astronaut John Glenn and ABC Sports anchor Chris Schenkel.

Everyone in the car looked shaken but okay and I asked Palmer what had happened. He looked at me glassy-eyed and said, "I missed my mark."

At that point, all hell broke loose and I was pushed away by Speedway security, who quickly ushered away the people in the car.

I called the press box and reported what I had seen and heard and then went on about the business of covering the race, which restarted shortly after.

Two years later, I answered the phone at home and found myself talking with Harry Gonso, a young attorney and a former quarterback who led Indiana University to the 1968 Rose Bowl. Gonso explained that he was representing several of the plaintiffs in a lawsuit against the Speedway, Chrysler Corporation and Mr. Palmer.

I had been spotted and identified in photographs of the aftermath of the incident and he was going to subpoena me as a material witness. He invited me downtown to his office and threw a number of questions at me, showing me photos of the crash and the south end of the pit lane and asking me to explain what I saw and point out where I was at the time. I was there for more than a hour.

The trial, which didn't take place until 1974, was eventually moved to Franklin, 25 miles south of Indianapolis. The AP decided I needed representation on hand and brought in one of their lawyers from New York City to make sure I did not say anything that would prove to be a negative precedent.

I had to take several days off work for the trial and was not allowed to sit in the courtroom. So I spent one full day and most of another sitting on a wooden bench just outside the door. I could hear voices, but nothing was clear and I was about as bored as I've ever been.

Finally, I got called in. As I made my way to the witness stand, the AP's attorney stood and introduced himself to the court. He had no legal standing in Indiana, but he said he was there "as a friend of the court on behalf of Mr. Harris."

As I was sworn in, I gazed at two long tables at the front of the room, filled with a gaggle of lawyers representing the various plaintiffs and defendants in the case. Mr. Gonso stood and I was ready for whatever he was going to ask.

There was a blowup diagram of the pit lane on a nearby easel and I fully expected to step down and point out where I was and what I saw and heard.

But, this man who had played football in front of huge crowds, apparently had stage fright in his first big trial. After asking me my name, he hesitated and said, "Tell us where you were when the accident occurred."

I answered and waited for the next question. He hesitated, said, "No more questions" and sat down. The judge asked, "Any more questions for this witness?" It remained quiet in  the room and I was excused.

As I walked toward the door I thought, "I missed two days of work and had an attorney fly in from New York for about two minutes on the stand?" It was very disappointing.

The lawsuits were eventually settled out of court and Mr. Gonso went on to become a senior partner in his law firm. So I just chalked the whole thing up to experience.

Fifty-two years ago this week I married my best friend and true love.

So, with that in mind, I'm going to pause my big, ongoing ego trip and tell a few of the many wonderful stories about my longtime companion, Judy Rosee Harris, the woman who insured the success of my career with her steadfast support and has made me feel loved and cared for throughout the years.

I previously told the story of how we met on the University of Wisconsin football practice field after she accidentally audited a physical education class for coaching majors and was told to check out spring football.

What I didn't say at the time was that I was smitten even before I knew who this girl on the sidelines was. I had seen her each day for about a week and all I knew for sure was I had to meet her - somehow.

Once I did meet her and she agreed to go out with me, my fate was sealed. But it wasn't exactly love at first sight for Judy, whose main interest in dating in those days was to have someone to buy her dinner on Sunday night when the dorm cafeteria wasn't open.

Our first date was attending the second marriage of a friend's mother. It was fun and Judy agreed to go out again, this time for pizza on a Friday night. After picking her up, I asked if it was okay if we drive by my parents' house so I could introduce her to my family. She readily agreed.

She hit it off immediately with my mother, my sisters and my brother Bob, all younger than me. Dad was out of town and brother Richard was away at school. As we got ready to leave for dinner, without really thinking, I said, "Anybody want to go with us for pizza?" All three of the siblings present jumped on the invitation and off we went.

Years later, Judy told me that, as an only child, she was stunned when I invited Judy, Laurie and Bob to join us on a date. But, more important, she was impressed that I loved my family enough to want to include them, even on a date. It put me in a different light for her.

That night was the beginning of our relationship. We spent all of our free time together, meeting for lunch on campus, going out or hanging around my parents' house on the weekends and studying together in the evenings, either in person or on the phone.

I finally met the Rosees when they came to Madison for Parents' Weekend. She introduced me in the lobby of her dorm and, after a quick hello, I had to get to class. As I left, I gave her a peck on the lips and, as I walked away, I heard her dad say with some surprise, "You two are getting mighty cozy."

Much later, Judy told me her mother said she knew right away Judy was serious about me because "she had never dated a fat guy before." And I was only 165 pounds at the time.

One night, about six months after meeting, I was at home and Judy was at her dorm and we were both studying, talking occasionally but mostly just feeling like we were connected by that open phone line.

Finally, I picked up the phone and said, "Hey, we're spending all our time together. I think we should be engaged. What do you think?"

After a pause, Judy replied, "I guess so."

"Okay," I said, "I'll get you a ring."

That was my unromantic proposal and Judy's even less romantic acceptance. I was over the moon, though, that she was willing to marry me.

I had little money so I asked my mom if she had a ring I could use. She gave me her original wedding ring. I felt it was sentimental, but it was not very impressive, with only a very tiny diamond _ really a chip. But it had to do.

The next night, I picked Judy up at the dorm and gave her the ring in the car. We kissed and went for pizza. Then I dropped her at the dorm because I had to go to work at the newspaper at 10 p.m. Again, not the most romantic night.

We decided to wait to get married until both of us were out of school and we could afford to live independent of our parents. So it was a 2 1/2-year engagement.

Meanwhile, my dad couldn't figure out what to make of Judy. He kept saying, "She's awfully quiet. Is she okay?"

In our house, he wasn't used to quiet thinkers.

The two of them sort of tip-toed around each other for a while.

Dad had built a new home that was as grand as its address, 1 Park Lawn Place. It had a circular staircase in the entry hall, an indoor grill in the kitchen and a 30-foot high antenna attached to the back of the house because dad liked to watch late-night movies on the Chicago TV stations, 150 miles away.

Judy was hanging out at the house one weekend and we were both studying. I went to help mom with something and, when I came back to the living room, Judy was gone.

I walked out to the backyard and looked around. Finally, I looked up and there was Judy, sitting on the edge of the roof, reading her book. Judy has always loved climbing, often shinnying up trees and scaring the hell out of me in the early days of our marriage. She couldn't resist that antenna.

Just as I was about to ask her what she was doing up there, dad walked out into the yard.

Next thing I knew, he was climbing the antenna. I didn't know if he was mad at her for climbing up, worried about her or what. But the two of them sat up there on the roof for a long time, just talking. After that, Judy could do no wrong in my dad's eyes.

Judy has always taken care of the people around her, whether she knows them or not. And she expects them to do the same for her. Amazingly, more often than not, they do.

For a while, Judy's antics would embarrass me or put me on edge.

We would get a birthday cake or a big dessert in a restaurant and Judy would be walking around the room, sharing it with strangers.

We'd pass an older person walking in the rain or snow and Judy would insist we turn around and offer them a ride.

Stray dogs with collars had to be picked up and returned to their homes, no matter how smelly they were.

After a while, I realized this was one of the traits that made my Judy special and I learned to go with the flow and enjoy it.

There were plenty of odd moments, though.

After I started working for The AP in Chicago, we found an apartment on the North Side. Most days, I took a bus to the Elevated station at Loyola University's Chicago campus. Occasionally, Judy would drive me to the station, which was about five minutes away by car.

The first time she drove me, Judy pulled into one of the Loyola entrances to let me off. I kissed her goodbye and went off to catch my train.

As she attempted to back out, Judy drove the car over one of the 100-pound concrete turtle shells that lined the driveway. The rear of the car was off the ground and she couldn't go forward or back.

Fortunately, we had AAA and Judy went to a nearby pay phone (remember those) and called for help.

She was connected to a nearby service station and explained that she had gotten the car stuck "on a concrete gumdrop." The guy on the other end said, "This I have to see."

He arrived quickly, jacked the car up and got it off the stone which Judy had pulled into the driveway. "What do you want me to do with it now?" he asked, kidding. Judy says she told him, "I want my husband to see it, so can you put it in the trunk?"

When I got off the train that night, Judy picked me up and said, "I have to show you something."

I could see the back of the car was lower than normal and, when she opened the trunk and I saw the "concrete gumdrop" for the first time, I was speechless.

We had no garage at our apartment, so we parked the car on the street out front. A couple of days after acquiring the driveway marker, we came out to discover someone had drilled out the lock on the trunk, ostensibly to steal whatever was weighing down the rear of the car.

I would love to have seen his face when he opened the trunk and saw what was inside.

After that, Judy insisted we had to somehow bring the "gumdrop" into the apartment. We enlisted the help of Steve Brown, a friend who had played football and was a former Illinois high school heavyweight wrestling champion. The two of us carried it up a flight of stairs and placed it ceremoniously in front of the fireplace.

Judy placed a ceramic frog atop the "gumdrop" and that's where it remained when we moved to Indianapolis 18 months later, a present for the new tenants.

We had been in Indianapolis for a few years when the AP's National Sports Editor, Wick Temple, came in to oversee that year's Indy 500 coverage. Wick wanted to get the full Indy racing experience and asked me if I could take him to the Hoosier 100, a dirt track event for midget race cars at the Indiana State Fairgrounds, just down the street from our apartment. A.J. Foyt, who was going to drive in the 500 the next day, was also racing that night.

At the last minute, I called Judy and said, "Can I bring Wick home for dinner tonight?"

Judy had two lamb chops and some vegetables ready to make for our dinner, but she said, "Of course." Then she realized I had our only car and she had nothing to feed Wick.

She threw some vegetables into a pot to begin cooking and walked out into our courtyard and looked for someone with a car to get her a chicken from a nearby grocery store.

We knew many of the people who lived in our courtyard, but none of them were home. Judy then heard guitar music coming from one apartment that she wasn't familiar with. She knocked on the door.

Someone called "Come in" and Judy found two young men, one strumming a guitar and both of them obviously stoned. She said, "Could one of you please run to the store and buy me a chicken. My husband is bringing his boss home for dinner and I don't have a car. I'll give you the money and I need it soon."

The guitar player looked up dreamily and said, "I'll buy you a chicken."

Judy gave him the money and ran back to our apartment to continue the meal preparation. Fifteen minutes later, she went back to see if the chicken had arrived and, instead, found the two guys in exactly the same position she had left them.

She walked in uninvited and yelled at the guitar player, "I need that chicken. Go now!"

He looked startled, but jumped up and walked out of the apartment to buy the chicken, which arrived in time for Judy to serve Wick and me a lovely dinner before we headed to the track.

I was transferred to New York Sports at the beginning of 1980 to take over the auto racing beat and AP put us up at the palatial Drake Hotel at 56th and Park Avenue for four weeks while we hunted for a house.

The kids were six and five at the time and, although we obviously were not going to buy anything in Manhattan, Judy decided to learn as much about getting around the city as possible while we were living there.

She took the kids on daily trips around Manhattan, frequenting Central Park, trying out the bus system and, of course, going down "the rabbit holes" to the subway. She had the kids read the signs and soon, all three of them were comfortable with the big city.

Finally, we decided the only place in the area we could afford to live in was New Jersey and, while I was at work, Judy and the kids took a bus to Westfield, which had been recommended to us, to look at some houses.

She called me at work to say, "There are two houses here we can afford. One of them is big and needs a lot of work. The other is small and needs a lot of work."

Not being terribly handy, the smaller place sounded ideal.

I asked, "What kind of yard does it have?" Judy replied, "The good news is that the yard is just big enough so the house doesn't overlap it."

That was the house we lived in for the next 16 years.

Judy, Tory and Lanni traveled with me every summer for 11 years after I took over the racing beat,. We drove from race to race in a small station wagon with a Sears Clam Shell car top carrier holding most of our worldly possessions.

In those days, car safety was a different story. Instead of being belted into the back seat, the kids spent most of the trips lying on blankets in "the way back," reading, sleeping or playing games.

Family Picture around 1981

We rented our house out for eight weeks each summer to help defray the costs, although AP payed for much of the traveling.

We stayed at great resorts, like The Fountainbleau in Miami Beach and the Hershey Resort in the Poconos. But we also stayed in some real dumps. Wherever we laid our heads, Judy made it work. She fed the kids breakfast and lunch in the room most days and we ate our dinner out as a family.

Until the kids got old enough to go to the track with me, helping out in the media center by delivering papers, making copies, serving drinks and running errands, Judy found things for them to do all day, including working on a foreign language of their choice with each kid, often learning each day's lesson the day before teaching it.

Finally, though, Tory had had enough of traveling and decided he wanted to stay home to be with his friends and to get a summer job.

Judy decided to get a job, too, although she didn't know what she wanted to do.

There was an ad from an HMO in the Newark Star-Ledger that read: "Phlebotomist needed. Will train."

Judy, who had taken some classes in medical coding and knew a lot about medicine, answered the ad but had second thoughts about learning to draw blood. She went to the interview anyway.

Before she left, I begged her not to get too personal with the interviewer. "This is business," I said.

When she got home, I asked how it went.

"Well, I wasn't qualified for the job, but we talked for quite a while and I invited the lady to come to our seder if she needs a place to be on Passover. And I told her, if something comes up that I might be good at, give me a call."

Two days later, the phone rang. It was the lady at the HMO calling to say they had decided to create a job for Judy that put her all-around knowledge and personality to work. The position was called Health Information and Judy was great at it, running down answers on just about any question that came up.

After about two years, the working environment had changed greatly and Judy wasn't enjoying the job any more, so she quit.

Her mom was visiting and said, "You have no experience. You'll never find another job."

Two days later, she was hired as a receptionist/clerk at a doctor's practice in Westfield.

Never underestimate my wife.

Judy is wonderfully unpredictable, caring, loving, smart, funny and brave. I just hope we have many more years together.