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.