The Detroit Pistons won the NBA championship in 1989. That fact had very little to do with me - except that the aftermath caused me a very uncomfortable night on the streets of the Motor City.

My colleagues and I were in town for the Detroit Grand Prix, featuring IndyCars racing on a street course built around the downtown Renaissance Center, one of the landmarks of the city.

Most of us were paying little if any attention to the NBA championship battle between the Pistons and the Los Angeles Lakers.

The Pistons finished off the Lakers on Wednesday night in Los Angeles and, of course, the Detroit papers were awash in stories about the team and the championship series, relegating the race to second-class status for at least one day.

But a victory parade was scheduled for Thursday evening.

A few of my colleagues joined  me for dinner that night at a restaurant near the downtown area, just off Jefferson Avenue, one of the main streets in Detroit. We weren't thinking about basketball or the victory celebration until we left the restaurant, drove onto Jefferson Avenue and attempted to get back to our hotel in the Renaissance Center.

It seemed the whole city was celebrating by driving around, honking horns and shouting. It caused a massive traffic jam.

I was driving the rental car and tried to find an alternate route. It worked to a point, but, no matter how much I was able to avoid the jam-up by taking side streets, I still had to cross Jefferson at some point.

I pulled up to a stop sign at a cross street and watched a long line of cars slowly passing by on Jefferson with no end in sight. There was a policeman standing near the intersection, but he was simply observing and offered no help for us.

In the car, we were all just cussing and looking at each other helplessly, thinking we might get back to the hotel in time to get up for the start of practice the next morning. Finally, one of my passengers _ I'm not sure which one _ got out of the car, walked up the policeman and explained our plight.

He said, "Look, if you can just help us get across the street, we can find a back way to our hotel."

Amazingly, the cop shrugged and walked out into the street, holding up his hands for the oncoming cars to stop at the edge of the intersection. We then waited until the intersection was clear and slowly crossed the street, shouting our thanks to the smiling cop.

Once we got to the other side of Jefferson, I realized I wasn't sure there was any way to reach the Renaissance Center without getting back on the main street.

I wove along, taking rights and lefts and trying to keep heading toward downtown. Finally, I came to a fenced in area that had a closed but not locked construction gate. One of my passengers opened the gate, I drove through and found myself on the race track.

I knew security would be on us quickly, so I sped up and raced toward the pit area, right behind the hotel.

Security caught up to us there and I was able to explain to the officers what had happened and how we had gotten there. Luckily, we all had our credentials with us.They looked bewildered, but allowed us to drive on and we eventually got to the parking garage entrance.

Then the night got even more surreal. In my hotel room on the 28th floor, I heard the sound of gunshots and multiple helicopters. I went to the window, overlooking Jefferson Avenue and part of downtown and realized there were two police helicopters hovering outside at eye level and the sound of almost continuous gunfire.

There was also plenty of smoke visible, rising from fires that had been started by revelers. That's when I realized we were lucky to have made it back to the hotel unscathed.

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Mario Andretti's final season as a race driver in 1994 was dubbed "The Arrivederci Tour."

It was a bittersweet year for me since I counted Mario as a friend and also loved watching him race. And, of course, it was the end of an era.

The organizers of the retirement tour scheduled a celebratory dinner at a downtown Indy theater during the week leading up to Mario's final drive in the Indianapolis 500.

It was a gala affair, with lots of celebrities. Fans were also allowed to buy tickets to the event and it quickly sold out.

A dozen or so writers were invited to be part of the evening and I wound up at a table with several other journalists, including Los Angeles Times sports columnist Jim Murray. Also seated at that table actor was James Garner, a longtime friend of the Andretti family and a racing enthusiast who drove the ceremonial Indy pace car several times.

I loved knowing Jim Garner and relished hearing his stories about Hollywood and about racing and the people he knew. But I was far more thrilled to get to sit next to Jim Murray, one of my biggest heroes in journalism.

Grantland Rice, Paul Gallico, Red Smith and Jim Murray were my "Four Horsemen" of sports writing.

Rice and Gallico were gone long before my time, and I did get to spend one memorable evening hearing Smith tell stories about the greats of New York baseball. But here was my chance to have a real conversation with Jim Murray, a man who had chronicled nearly every great sporting event for more than two decades.

Before the dinner even began, Murray asked Garner about his first experience at Indy.

"I was asked if I wanted to take a pace car ride with Indy veteran Jim Rathmann, the 1960 Indy winner. It was great.

"We were in a convertible on a beautiful day and I was riding around the Indy track at high speed. It was exhilarating," Garner said. "I was sitting, sprawled back in the seat with my arm on the window frame on the passenger side, totally relaxed. After all, I was riding with Jim Rathmann. He wasn't about to crash.

"The first time coming out of Turn 4 we were maybe 10 feet from the outer wall and I was smiling like the cat who ate the canary. Rathmann looked over at me and said, 'Having fun?' I nodded.

"The next time we came out of Turn 4, the speed had picked up and we were maybe five feet from the wall. I was still comfortable and happy. Rathmann glanced over and smiled," Garner continued.

"Finally, on our third lap, we came out of the fourth turn very fast and within maybe two feet of the wall and I sat up straight and pulled in my arm. Rathmann looked over at me and, grinning, said, 'I wondered how close I would have to get to the wall to get your attention."

Everyone at the table laughed and Murray looked at me and said, "How about you. What was your first experience at Indy?"

I related the story of how J.C. Agajanian, a longtime car owner and a man I had never met, had taken me under his wing and helped me get an interview with Indy icon A.J. Foyt on my first day at the track, shocking the man who had given me the assignment to haze the Indy rookie.

"You don't get very far at that place without some help," I said. "Especially when you first arrive."

That year was my 25th anniversary at Indy and Murray said, "Well, I read a lot of your stories and it looks like you know your way around now."

Coming from one of my idols, that made my evening and my year.

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For everyone who has become a regular reader of this blog, I want to let you know that the well is running dry. After 85 blogs, dating back to April of 2021, I am running out of stories that I believe most people would find interesting.

In the future, I will only write more blogs when and if more good stories come to mind. In the meantime, thanks very much for reading my words and thanks even more for the many positive comments along the way.

The Champion Spark Plug hospitality room under the main straight grandstand at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway was an oasis of calm amid the uproar at the track during most of the month of May.

When I was first fortunate enough to be invited to the Champion Room, as it was called by everyone, it was run by former race driver and broadcaster Freddie Agabashion.

Freddie was a wonderful person and told some of the most colorful and fascinating stories about his years of racing at the Brickyard.

He started from the pole in 1952, but dropped out after 71 laps because of an engine problem. His best finish was fourth the next year. But that was also his best story.

"I was running so good that year I thought I had a real chance of winning the race," he told me during one of the many lunch hours in the Champion Room. "Then, with the extreme heat that day, I started to feel like I was melting.

"It got so I couldn't take it any more and I had to get out of that car. Paul Russo relieved me and I was in the (track) hospital cooling off when he finished the race in fourth. It was a tough day, but I was proud of the effort."

After Freddie retired, the stewardship of the Champion Room was taken over by another former driver, Jerry Grant.

Jerry was also a personable guy, but he was far different from the quiet, conservative Freddie. Jerry was a joker who loved nothing more than to shake things up.

He was first of several former drivers who thought it was fun to throw a car's gearshift lever into park while riding down the road with someone else at the wheel.

That devilish streak did not keep us from becoming fast friends. And Jerry's wonderful wife, Sandy, hit it off with Judy, too. The four of us often got together for dinner during the month of May.

There was also the time when Jerry almost got a group of us arrested for gun running.

We were in Detroit for the Grand Prix when Jerry invited me and several other writers out for dinner. He decided to take us to Pearls, a great Chinese restaurant across the river in Windsor, Ontario, Canada.

When we got to the Immigration booth at the downtown tunnel between the US and Canada, the officer asked Jerry if he had anything to declare. It was a routine question in those days, with people going back and forth between the two countries on a regular basis.

But wise guy Jerry said, "Yeah, I've got a trunk full of guns."

He started to laugh, but the officer didn't think it was amusing. The next thing we knew, the car was directed to a parking area and we were asked to get out of the car and stand with our hands on the roof while the trunk was searched. It was empty, of course, but we were all _ not just Jerry _ told we were lucky not to be in a jail cell and to think twice about saying something like that again.

We went on to eat in Windsor and, instead of being sheepish or apologetic, it was all Jerry could do to contain himself, laughing and giggling throughout the meal.

During the years when NASCAR held its awards banquet at the Waldorf in New York City, Sandy and Jerry usually attended. It became an annual thing that they invited Judy and me out to a fancy dinner a couple of nights before the banquet.

We loved the company but, after a few years of being treated, Judy and I both felt it was our turn to pick up the tab.

I called Jerry at his California home and said I would not take no for an answer. It was our turn to take them out for dinner.

I made a reservation at the Four Seasons in midtown Manhattan, one of the finest restaurants in the world, for eight people, including longtime buddy Lewis and several other local friends. And I specifically asked to be seated in the Fountain Room, an iconic, beautifully appointed dining area with, as you would suspect from the name, a fancy fountain in the center.

A few days before the dinner, I got a call at home confirming the reservation.

On the appointed night, Judy and I showed up early for the 8 p.m. reservation. I walked up to the dais to let them know we had arrived and would be in the bar. Sandy and Jerry arrived moments later.

I was standing in the loud, crowded bar talking with Jerry when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the manager of the restaurant, who asked me to come with him.

"We can't find your reservation, Mr. Harris. Are you sure it was for tonight?" he asked.

I was adamant, saying, "I even got a call confirming the reservation earlier this week."

"Well, we're fully booked, but we'll see what we can do to help you out," he said. "Just wait in the bar and I'll let you know what we can do."

I went back to the bar and told Judy what was going on. She shrugged and said, "This is New York City. I'm sure we can find some place to eat if they can't take care of us."

I couldn't believe how cool and calm she was. I was not cool and calm.

About 20 agonizing minutes went by before the manager came back and again pulled me to side.

"Mr. Harris, we found your reservation. It's for next Saturday night," he said. He was grinning and I wondered if he was taking pleasure in my discomfort.

"But, don't worry," he added quickly. "We're going to accommodate you."

I took a deep breath and asked, "How soon. We're all very hungry."

"We can't seat you in the Fountain Room because it's completely booked. But, if it's okay with you, we'll set up a table in the bar area and we'll seat your right away. I promise we'll take good care of you."

What choice did I have. I thanked him and said, "That will be fine."

As promised, a table was seat up in the bar area, which was actually very nice. The manager furnished two waiters and a bus boy to serve our table and sent over a bottle of wine, on the house. It could hardly have been a nicer meal - and none of us missed the fountain.

Another memorable dinner took place during one of my years covering the Toyota Grand Prix of Long Beach.

I was in the pit lane prior to the opening practice, talking with old friend Shav Glick, the highly respected auto racing writer for the Los Angeles Times and one of the nicest people I ever knew, when we were approached by Paul Newman, 

It was unusual for Paul to initiate a conversation with members of the press, so we were both surprised and delighted.

"Listen guys, we're having a dinner party tonight at Spago in Hollywood to raise money for a children's charity," Newman said earnestly. "Any chance you two could come and give us a little publicity, maybe write something in the next day or two?"

I drove, and knowing the traffic between Long Beach and Hollywood, we left the track as soon as our stories were filed. Amazingly, especially for a Friday night, the traffic was generally light and we made the 30-mile drive in record time.

In fact, we arrived about an hour before the scheduled start of the party.

We parked in the almost empty lot behind the iconic Wolfgang Puck restaurant and decided to wait in the car until we saw other people arriving. Finally, cars began filling up the lot and we decided it was time to go in.

That's when we noticed a gaggle of paparazzi, cameras at the ready, near the front door of the restaurant. Shav got an impish look on his face and said, "Let's have some fun. Keep your sunglasses on and follow my lead."

I had no idea what he had in mind, but I said, "Sure."

As we neared the front door, Shav, in a rather loud voice, looked over at me and said, "I'am  not giving Newman more than one point on this project. I don't care what his agent says."

I got the gist and said, "But we need Newman and Woodward for this project. Do you think we can get him for one point?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several of the paparazzi taking pictures of us and several other looking frantically through some file photographs, trying to figure out who the hell we were.

Once inside the door, we broke down laughing. When we told Newman what we had done, he laughed out loud.

"Serves them right," he said. "They'll be trying to figure it out for the rest of the night."

The party was exactly what you might expect, great finger foods, an open bar and lots of celebrities. Shav and I both had a great time and both of us wound up writing a story about the party the next day. We even got written thank yous from Newman.