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.