There was a little feeling of loss and withdrawal when May dawned in 1976 and I was not at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. But I was so busy in Cleveland that I didn't have much time to think about it.

I watched that year's Indy 500 on television, alone in my living room, and I cheered when my friend Johnny Rutherford won the race for the second time. After covering the world's biggest and most important auto race each of the previous six years, it felt strange and more than a little empty watching it on that little screen.

In those days, the top, all-access credential at Indy was a silver badge made different each year to reflect the previous year's winner, a race sponsor or that year's pace car. I had six of those badges and I thought it was a collection that I'd like to continue, even if I wasn't attending the event.

Before the race, I sent a note (snail mail in those days, of course) to old friend Bruce Lowitt, asking if he would keep a lookout for any extra badges or one I could buy cheap. I also mentioned it to Indy colleague and friend Steve Herman.

To my surprise and delight, I got an envelope in the mail from Bruce a week after the race. In it, was a silver badge. I still don't know how he got it or if it was his. He has never said.

A few days later, another envelope showed up, this one from Steve. Another silver badge.

In the end, I wound up with 47 years of badges. Ironically, the only year I didn't attend the race during that period was the year in which I collected two badges.

That same year, the Cincinnati Reds, then known as The Big Red Machine, won their second consecutive World Series.

I have to admit I was a little jealous of Norm Clarke, the AP sports writer in Cincinnati. The Indians continued to be mediocre while the Reds soared to new heights.

Of course, Norm, one of AP's best writers and a really nice guy, got to spend February and March at the Reds' spring training camp in Florida, a fact that I was well aware of while shivering and shoveling snow in Cleveland during the winter and spring of 1976.

But, while I shoveled, an idea was fomenting in my brain. It took until the summer before I acted upon it, but I eventually did, writing a letter to the Ohio Bureau Chief Jim Lagier with a carbon copy to National Sports Editor Wick Temple.

In it, I pointed out that, despite the fact that the Indians were usually hopeless by July, there was always serious interest in the team, particularly in northern Ohio, over the winter and into the spring. After all, hope springs eternal, right?

I suggested that I be sent to Tucson, AZ, where the Indians trained, for a week early in spring training. I would fill up a few notebooks and, after I was back in Cleveland, I would write a steady stream of features from those interviews and observations.

I heard nothing back from Lagier or Temple and figured the idea had just fizzled.

It was a quiet day in December when I walked into the Cleveland bureau for the 4 p.m. start of my shift. No games that day, so I was figuring on a night of answering phones, rewriting or following up stories in the early editions of the Plain Dealer or coming up with a feature idea or two.

As I walked into the office, Cleveland correspondent Neil Bibler, ostensibly my boss, but more of a friend, called me into his office. He looked so serious, I wondered if I was in some kind of trouble.

"Mike, how would you like to go back to Indy?" Neil asked.

I grimaced, thinking I was being transferred back to Indianapolis.

"Wick wants you back at the 500 in May," he said, grinning.

I was ecstatic. He handed me the memo asking me to report to Indy the week of the race.

That was great news and I started to walk back to my desk when Neil said, "Wait, there's more."

He handed me another envelope, this one more official looking.

In it was a letter from Jim Lagier, with a handwritten note from Wick Temple, telling me I was not only heading for spring training in February but I was going to be there for the entire six weeks, covering the games _ which had been done in previous years by a stringer _ and writing as many features as my little brain could come up with.

Wick's note said, "Great thinking, Mike. Go to Tucson and hit it out of the ballpark for us. And enjoy the sunshine."

My kids were still in diapers and Judy was only working part-time as a waitress, so I immediately began figuring out ways in my mind to take them along. I said something about it to Neil and he pointed out that the assignment included renting a furnished apartment while I was there. So, no problem taking the family along.

I was so excited I was almost to the point of bursting, and I wanted to tell Judy as soon as possible. But this was long before cell phones and she wasn't answering our house phone. I finally tracked her down at a neighbor's house.

She got scared when the neighbor told her I was on the phone. Why would I be calling her at a neighbor's in the middle of the day?

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But I quickly explained that we were going to be traveling to Indianapolis and Tucson in 1977. It was a super exciting moment in our lives.

It was typically frigid and snowy in Cleveland that December and, coincidentally, the next day's Plain Dealer had a picture on the front page of a group of nice looking people frolicking in a swimming pool in, of all places, Tucson.

We clipped that picture and kept it on our refrigerator door, anticipating the trip to the warm winds and sunshine of Arizona as winter raged on in northern Ohio. 

I made the travel arrangements for the family and found an apartment that AP was okay with, leasing it for seven weeks, starting the second week of February.

Finally, the big day came. We were packed and more than ready to get out of Cleveland. And, of course, it started snowing on the way to the airport. Heavy snow.

As we sat at the airport, it became apparent that it was going to be a very long day. The cycle began where the airport workers would deice the plane and the runway would then need plowing. So they would have to deice the plane again. And again the runway needed plowing.

We sat in the waiting area for delay after delay, wondering if we should just give up, go home and reschedule for another day. We ran out of diapers and had to ask other families with kids for more.

Finally, the call came to board. They deiced the plane once more with us inside and we began to taxi. As we did, the snow came down even harder and my heart sank. I still expected us to head back to the gate any moment.

But, wonder of wonders, the pilot came on the intercom and said, "We're next for departure."

Off we went, bumping through the clouds, the plane shaking and bouncing for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, we were above the clouds with nothing but azure blue skies above and ahead of us. The rest of the flight to Tucson was smooth and uneventful and we both had visions of that poolside scene from our refrigerator door in our heads as we prepared to land.

Our arrival in Tucson was not what we expected. Instead of blue skies and warm temperatures, there was heavy rain and strong winds blowing the rain in sheets across the tarmac. The clouds were black and threatening.

Judy looked at me and said, "Welcome to Tucson. Just our luck."

Being an eternal optimist, I said, "It will be nicer soon, I'm sure."

This was before most airports had jet bridges, so we clamored down the uncovered stairs in the still driving rain. Airline officials handed us umbrellas at the bottom of the steps, but the rain was coming sideways, so they did little to help keep us dry.

We were all soaked by the time we reached the terminal. It was a disconcerting start to our much-anticipated spring adventure. But, by the time we had collected our luggage and signed for our rental car, the skies were clearing and things had begun drying out.

By the time we reached our apartment complex, the sun was shining brightly and the clouds were gone. We had no way of knowing then, but those clouds that we saw upon our arrival in Tucson were the last we would see for our entire stay.

I think it was just the Gods playing a little prank on us.

As we began carrying our possessions into the apartment building, a mustachioed man in a trench coat walked out of the door leading a small dog. He smiled and said "Hi" as he walked past. With a thick mustache and dark features, he looked a lot like comedian Ernie Kovacs.

By the time, I was getting the last of our stuff out of the car, the man had come back from walking his dog. He stopped to chat and, after finding out I worked for AP, he began to tell me about what he thought was a local government conspiracy.

I broke off the conversation as politely as I could, saying I had to get the family settled and go buy groceries. He told me he and his wife were our upstairs neighbors and we should stop by sometime soon.

Although I tried to avoid him for the next few days, he and his wife kept insisting on making us dinner. We finally agreed a couple of nights after our arrival. And it turned out, he wasn't a nut job, just a very intense and caring guy.

Vicki and Jerry Cogelja were and are salt of the earth. Jerry worked in the juvenile court system, trying to help young people through difficult situations. Vicki was a grade school teacher.

After Jerry told me the whole story about his conspiracy theory, I found it palatable enough that I called the AP correspondent in Tucson and told him the story. He agreed to talk to Jerry. In the end, he wound up breaking a big story about a government fraud.

We are still friends with the Cogeljas, although we only see them once every few years on our infrequent trips to Tucson.

I'll get to the baseball part of the trip next time, but there was another new personal relationship that sprang up in Tucson.

Another neighbor in our complex was a couple with one small son, around the same age as our kids. They were hippies, in the true sense of the word, and were particularly interested in Native American affairs.

They had a crystal-shaped dome in their living room and would sit inside it to meditate and let their son play in it. Judy spent some time with them and the kids played together quite a bit.

I came home one day to find Judy chuckling and a bit red in the face. The woman had come knocking on our door that afternoon, saying, "Judy, Judy, tell your old man the indians are meeting in the desert to protest for water rights later today."

Judy had to tell the woman that when she said I was in Arizona to cover the Indians, it was a baseball thing, not a cultural thing. She had misunderstood.

It was a wonderful time in our lives, and I haven't even started writing about spring baseball, one of the best assignments I ever had.