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.