Things were going great in 1979. Thanks to her part-time waitressing, Tory having started preschool, and getting to know a couple of the neighbor ladies, Judy was happier and feeling better about Cleveland. My job was going very well and I was thoroughly enjoying covering professional sports.

I was particularly enjoying covering the Indians, despite their lowly status. Jeff Torborg had replaced Frank Robinson as the manager during the 1977 season. He was a college graduate (Rutgers) and a very pleasant person.

While Frank was usually approachable and friendly, there were times when he was downright thorny and difficult. Jeff was much easier to deal with and we were able to talk about things other than baseball.

The other Cleveland writers made me pay my dues before I was accepted. But I had a secret weapon named Mike Peticca. I inherited Mike as my baseball stringer and soon found out he was about as good as you can get.

Not only was he accepted in the clubhouse and got me loads of great quotes and notes, he was (and probably still is) a numbers savant. Mike could figure out batting averages and earned run averages instantly in his head. And, long before analytics became an integral part of baseball, Mike would come up with all kinds of interesting stats that I used for notes.

I wasn't about to give away any real scoops, but I was happy to share notes and stats with the other writers, which broke down a lot of the barriers.

As the baseball season ended, Russell Schneider, the veteran baseball writer for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, decided to quit as chairman of the Cleveland Baseball Writers chapter and, to my surprise, nominated me to replace him. I easily won the vote and was very excited about the job.

Unlike Indianapolis, where I knew after a year or two that my future was elsewhere, I was beginning to think that maybe staying in Cleveland for the rest of my career would be just fine, especially if I kept getting sent to spring training and the Indy 500 and maybe added some other special events along the way.

Then came the call that changed everything.

For some reason, AP's National Sports Editor, Wick Temple, had gotten it into his head that I was the right person to take over the auto racing beat (called motorsports in those days).

I had turned the job down twice, once in Indianapolis in 1974 and again in May of 1977. But I was still surprised to hear Wick on the other end of the phone saying, "I want you and Judy to come to New York and let me talk you into taking the auto racing beat."

I started to protest that I really didn't want the job. But Wick persisted, saying, "I've made plane reservations for you and Judy for next Tuesday. Come in and we'll talk about it."

Again, I said I wasn't really interested in a traveling job and, besides, I had a Monday night game between the Browns and the Dallas Cowboys.

"You can sleep on the plane," he said. "Write down everything it will take for you to accept the job and we'll go over it when you get here Tuesday."

And he hung up.

I walked into the kitchen and told Judy about the call. She took it a lot better than I did.

"Do you want the job?" she asked.

I hemmed and hawed for a bit, but finally said, "Well, it would get me to NY Sports."

"Then go for it," Judy said. "The kids and I will adjust."

Over the next few days, I filled a page on a legal pad with demands (requests is more appropriate, I suppose) _ both sides.

Things like autonomy on my schedule, being allowed to take my family on my assignments when they are available to travel, a modest expense account to help pay their expenses when they do travel with me, a good-sized pay raise to accomodate moving to the New York area and lots more.

One of the most important items, though, was allowing me to start my new job from Cleveland until we got the house sold.

The Monday night game could not have gone any better. The Browns won 26-7 and I was able to get my stories written and sent before 1 a.m. I dashed home, got a couple of hours of sleep and Judy, who had miraculously found a baby sitter willing to stay overnight, and I were on a Delta flight at 8 a.m.

When we arrived at the AP office at 50 Rockefeller Plaza, across from the iconic skating rink, I walked into the office to a standing ovation. It turns out I had won the play against UPI on the Monday night game 24-0. What an entrance.

Wick immediately took us into his office and, after a bit of small talk, took my page of demands/requests and sat there, leaning back in his chair, sucking on his pipe and playing with his hair as he took what seemed like forever to read every word.

Judy and I were both fidgeting and eyeing each other, wondering what he was thinking when Wick finished reading, set the paper down and said simply: "Okay. You've got it."

My response: "Shit! I didn't ask for enough." 

Finally, I shook my head and said to Wick, "Okay, I'll do it. But, as I said on that paper, I'll do it for three years and then I want to cover a real sport."

His reply: "We'll see."

All of a sudden, I was no longer the Cleveland sports writer for AP. I was now the AP's Motorsports Writer.

Nobody at AP seemed to care that my entire auto racing experience consisted of attending a motorcycle race on my local eighth-mile dirt track in my teens and nine Indy 500 races. I knew nothing about NASCAR, IMSA, Formula One, NHRA or any of the other myriad racing acronyms or designations.

But, as Wick said, "You'll learn."

I had plenty of time to prepare since Wick decided to let the current motorsports writer finish out the regular season and have me start in January. That would also give the Ohio bureau time to find my Cleveland replacement and let us get the house prepared to sell.

Wick took us back to his home in New Jersey that night, riding a commuter bus, which was a preview of the way it would be once we moved out east. He and his wife took us to dinner at The Manor, a famous restaurant in northern New Jersey and then dropped us off at a hotel near Newark Airport.

By the time we were alone in the hotel, we were both dead tired and did little talking. But, on the plane back to Cleveland the next morning, I said, "What have I done? New Jersey is the middle of nowhere. And I'll be on the road all the time and I'll never get to see you and the kids. I think I should call Wick and tell him I've changed my mind."

Again Judy said, "It's a great opportunity for you. We'll adjust. And moving to the New York area is very exciting. We'll find a place with good schools near one of the airports and we'll be fine."

It was prophetic _ but still scary.

The next few months seemed to fly by. Unfortunately, we found out that selling the house was not going to be easy because interest rates were sky high _up to 14 or 15 percent _  at the end of 1979. The house, a beautiful 50-year-old Tudor-style was in almost perfect shape. But houses were just not selling.

Finally, I had said all my goodbyes to the players and team officials and media people in Cleveland it was time to start my new job.

NASCAR had a very strange schedule in those days. After the last race in the fall, there was about a six-week hiatus before the new season began with a road race in Riverside, CA. The season then continued three weeks later with NASCAR's biggest race, the Daytona 500.

I flew out to Los Angeles on a Wednesday and drove the 60 miles east to Riverside. I had been told there was no practice on Thursday but that some of the Good Ole Boys would likely be hanging around the garage area.

I was hoping to meet some people and start to get a handle on what stock car racing was all about.

After meeting Bob Russo, the Riverside PR man who became a good friend, I wandered over to the garage area and began walking around. I saw a number of people working on cars, sorting and stacking tires and hauling equipment. But, of course, I knew nobody and couldn't bring myself to interrupt anybody's work.

Finally, I got very lucky. There, sitting on a short stack of tires, was a face I recognized. Richard Petty, the most famous driver in NASCAR _ and one of the few stock car names I even knew _ was watching his team working on his famous No. 43 car.

I walked up and said, "Mr. Petty. I hope you don't mind me bothering you, but I'm Mike Harris, the new Motorsports Writer for AP."

Richard's craggy face lit up with a smile. He stuck out his hand and said, "Welcome to NASCAR, son."

Conversation came easily and we talked about everything from family to Indy cars. After about 10 minutes, I said, "I hope I'm not keeping you from anything Mr. Petty."

He laughed and said, "I ain't going anywhere. And I'm Richard."

Just then, Cale Yarborough, another face I recognized, walked past. Richard flagged him down, introduced us and said, "How about this. An AP guy in the garage."

Apparently, my predecessors were not known for leaving the media center or press box unless they had to. I told them that was going to change.

It was a great way to begin my new job. But it turned out to be a very strange and difficult weekend.

A young driver named Tim Williamson was killed in a crash during the Grand American race _ a preliminary event _ on Saturday. I didn't know him, of course, but it was a stark reminder of what covering such a dangerous sport could be like and it felt like a bad omen about the job.

Sunday's race didn't make me feel much better. It started in a heavy mist and, after 26 laps, it began raining hard. Officials wanted badly to get the race in so teams could begin preparations for Daytona Speed Weeks in February. But, after a long wait, the race was postponed until the following Saturday.

I filed a story and then called the office to see what they wanted me to do. Should I stay in California for the week or go home and come back next Friday? Ask Wick, I was told.

I called the boss at home and told him what was going on. He said, "Your call. You wanted autonomy on your schedule. You've got it."

So I decided to fly home to be with the family for the week.

On the plane, I was reading an LA Times story about next Sunday's Super Bowl XIV between the  LA Rams and the Pittsburgh Steelers at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. An idea popped into my head.

When I got off the plane I called Deputy Sports Editor Terry Taylor, who was in charge of the Super Bowl coverage, and said, "I'm going to be covering a NASCAR race next Saturday in Riverside. Could you use any more help on the Super Bowl on Sunday? Pasadena is only 60 miles from Riverside."

To my great pleasure, she said, "Sure. We'll put you to work."

The weather cooperated and the rest of the race went off smoothly, with rising star Darrell Waltrip beating another rising star, Dale Earnhardt, for the win.

After finishing my writing, I drove back to LA and checked into a hotel near the airport. The next morning, I headed to Pasadena and the Rose Bowl. My only other visit to the famous stadium was when I worked the 1963 Rose Bowl game between Wisconsin and Southern Cal as a Badgers' manager.

It was exciting to be back and to be part of the crew covering the Super Bowl. It turned out that there was not enough room in the press box to accommodate all of the media, so Ken Peters, the LA sports editor for AP, and I were seated in the last row of the grandstands, right in front of the press box.

Our assignment was to cover the team dressing rooms after the game, so we had nothing to do but watch the action from our 50-yard-line seats until we had to go down to the field with about five minutes left on the clock.

It was a warm, cloudless day and, after a while, it became hard to keep my eyes open. It didn't help that the Steelers and quarterback Terry Bradshaw dominated the Rams.

We flipped a coin and Ken got the winning team and I got the losers. But, other than getting shoved from behind and stepping on some big lineman's foot in the overcrowded dressing room, everything went well. I got some good quotes, ran up to the press box, typed them out and my job was over.

That turned out to be the only Super Bowl I ever got to cover. But it was great fun.

It had been a strange and interesting start to my new job. And it was definitely a harbinger of things to come.