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.