I was pretty shocked to get the phone call this morning that Lindy Infante had died. His wife, Stephanie, confirmed that Lind passed away in St. Augustine after a lengthy illness at 75 years old. While he gained a national identity as the head coach of the Packers and Colts in the NFL, I got to know Lindy when he was the head coach of the Jacksonville Bulls, an expansion franchise in the fledgling USFL.

Former Bulls running backs coach Buddy Geis called me early with the news, and coincidentally, I was with Matt Robinson, the first big free agent signing for Lindy and the Bulls.

“He had the best offense ever,” Matt said shaking his head in disbelief. “Somebody was always open,” the Bulls first quarterback remembered.

While a lot of coaches have designed offenses to take advantage of whatever the defense was giving them, Infante had a whole different idea. He put the power in the quarterback and the wide receiver’s hands, letting them read what was going on in the play as it happened. It’s pretty routine now, but in 1984, it was considered revolutionary.

“Whatever the defense was doing before the snap of the ball and as you dropped back, if the quarterback and wide receiver saw the same thing, the defense had no chance,” Matt explained. “If they played inside technique, two deep, press coverage, it didn’t matter, you knew somebody would be open.”

Infante was the offensive coordinator for the Cincinnati Bengals before he came to Jacksonville as the head coach of the Bulls. At the time he was one of the “hot” names in coaching. After the league folded, Lindy joined the Cleveland Browns as their offensive coordinator, helping create the “Cardiac Kids” with Bernie Kosar at quarterback and Infante calling the plays. Kosar was the only QB Lindy seemed to have any luck with.

Most of his career was marred by bad timing and injured signal callers.

With the Bulls, Infante found exactly what he was looking for in Robinson. A smart, talented thrower who had some experience. Matt had played for the Jets, Broncos and Bills in the NFL but was lured to Jacksonville and the USFL by Lindy’s offense. But after a couple games, Robinson injured his foot against the Tampa Bay Bandits and the Bulls were forced to go with backup Robby Mafouz. That year it was never the same.

The following year, the Bulls thought they had pulled off a coup, signing Brian Sipe from the Browns as their prized free agent. They traded Robinson to Portland and installed Sipe, another smart thrower from the NFL, as the starter. And again, after a couple of games, Sipe was blasted to the turf, tearing up his shoulder and collarbone. He, and the Bulls, were never the same, going through quarterbacks like Ben Bennett, Ed Luther and Buck Belue looking for somebody who could run Lindy’s offense. (BTW, that team started Archie Griffin and Mike Rozier in the backfield, three Heisman’s among them). The USFL folded that year.

After the stint with the Browns where he was again the hot coach in the league, the Green Bay Packers hired him as their head coach. His bad quarterback luck returned. Don Majkowski was the toast of the NFL after a Pro Bowl season and 16 starts in Green Bay, leading the Packers to a 10-6 record. Infante was the NFL’s Coach of the Year. But Majkowski held out the next season, played in 9 games and the Packers were headed downhill.

Lindy once told me that the Packers were prepared to get the first pick in the 1989 draft after a 4-12 season and were planning on rebuilding around Troy Aikman. But in the last game of the year, the Packers slipped to the #2 pick through a couple of fluke results and Aikman went to the Cowboys. The Packers drafted Michigan State’s Tony Mandarich, who was later exposed as a steroid fraud. When Infante lost his job as head coach of the Packers after the ’91 season, the team acquired Brett Favre the next year from Atlanta. His quarterback luck continued at his next head-coaching stop in Indianapolis. After two losing seasons and a 3-13 record in 1997, the Colts fired Infante. They drafted Peyton Manning that year.

I hosted Lindy’s show called “Bulls Sidelines” for the two years he and the Bulls were in town and got to know him pretty well. We shared a builder for both of our first houses in Mandarin. We played some golf together and talked a lot of football.

I last saw him at the Florida/Georgia Hall of Fame induction two years ago. I mentioned that we should get together and play some golf again. “Call me, I’m in the book,” he said in his post-football casual manner.

No matter where you went, its all people could talk about. The US team had played well enough to advance into the knock round of the tournament but were still underdogs. A young team, they had a coach who was positive, challenged them, and made them believe in themselves.

Sound familiar?

While that’s been the case recently with the US Men’s National Soccer Team, the scenario I’m talking about was 34 years ago when the US Hockey team went on a run in the Olympics and eventually won the Gold Medal.

I was working at the ABC Network affiliate in Charleston, S.C. at the time, new to the business and as excited as a sports fan as anybody that the hockey team had surpassed all expectations and was going to face the Soviet Union in the semi-finals in Lake Placid. All anybody could talk about was the upcoming match up (it was at the height of the Cold War) and as the ABC affiliate; we were on display since at the time ABC was the Olympic Network. Before cable and satellite were part of the everyday television reality, before cell phones and smart phones were in everybody’s hand, it was us vs. the Soviets and it was going to be televised on our station.

On tape.

Before negotiating with Olympic officials about the timing of the events and the importance of television to the whole Olympic movement, the IOC decided when the events would be contested at their leisure. So the US/Soviet Union semifinal hockey match, the biggest thing going, the only thing anybody was talking about, was scheduled for four o’clock in the afternoon.

With no other outlet to show the game live, ABC decided they’d run the game on tape and show it in “prime time” starting at 7pm on the East Coast. As I mentioned, it was before cable and cell phones so you could still play that game of not knowing what happened in the game, and turn your television on at 7pm and watch it “plausibly live.”

And a lot of people did that.

To accommodate them, I did all kinds of silly things on the air when we had the Olympics (and continued that tradition at Channel 4 when CBS picked up some of the Olympic games). I held up signs, told people to turn the sound down, skirted around the issue and generally had fun with it. But on that night with a big audience watching, I was in a bit of a dilemma. I don’t remember if the game was over by the time I went on the 6 o’clock news but I do remember telling people I wouldn’t reveal the score or anything about the game during the sportscast. That decision had it’s detractors, and I answered the phone starting at 6:30, telling people what they wanted to know since I had kept it out of the 6 o’clock news. (Remember, no internet, radio played music, no way to get the information unless you knew somebody at a news outlet. I know, seems like a hundred years ago.) I was the viewer’s conduit to the information of the day and some didn’t like that I had shirked my “responsibility.”

So I spent the next half-hour telling people we had won and explaining that it was a station-wide decision to not tell the score (we didn’t say anything during the newscast either) and that the News Director and the General Manager were part of that decision-making process.

You might know that network affiliates take advantage of their affiliation in many ways, but a “promo” or a “tease” at the top of the hour, right before one of your favorite network shows, is a big opportunity for an affiliate to promote their own product. You see this a lot in the evening with the local anchors promoting the station’s coverage of the news that night. At the time, we were only doing a 6 and 11 o’clock newscast so those three-second spots at the top of the hour were valuable in promoting our late news. So after all of this elaborate planning and shenanigans, the game broadcast was finally scheduled to begin at 7 o’clock. But at 6:59:57 we had a 3 second tease, taped in advance right after the 6 o’clock news, promoting our 11 o’clock broadcast, right after the Olympics.

At that moment, I looked at our monitor in the newsroom ready to watch the game myself (there was no feed of the game anywhere while it was going on) and our 11 o’clock anchor, a young woman who went on to some success in her career after Charleston, smiled, looked right into the camera and said, “Big win for the Americans. Highlights at 11!”

It sounds quaint, but people had set up their whole day around knowing this was going to be broadcast “plausibly live.” They rushed home from work, rushed through dinner and sat down in front of their televisions ready to watch the “big game.” And at that moment their bubble was burst. And they were mad. So what did they do, they called the television station. And since it was a “sports” story, the News Director designated me to answer the phones and explain what happened. While I’m not a big fan of being out of touch with what’s going on around you, I still probably was a bit harsh on the phone myself. I was also mad. And I knew I’d be taking the brunt of this “miscue” for a while.

So for the next half hour or so I answered the phone explaining what happened and ended each conversation with “The game’s on right now, don’t you want to watch it?”

Not since then have I seen this kind of excitement surrounding a team wearing “USA” on their chest. Yes, the women’s soccer team caused a stir in 1999 winning the women’s World Cup but nothing like this.

Watch parties, appointment television, interest from people who couldn’t care less about soccer or sports in general is an indication of the shrinking world and the expanding knowledge available when it comes to information.

Soccer was generally a fringe sport, and some even thought of it as “un-American.” In 1994 when we hosted the World Cup, I couldn’t get my News Director to even let me drive to Orlando to cover some games. Her answer: “Nobody cares.” What a difference this time around, and for a lot of reasons. The global information age we live in has brought the game closer. NBC Sports Network televises the English Premiere League every weekend in season. Stars like David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo transcend the sport. ESPN covers the MLS with highlights during Sports Center. The decision makers in newsrooms around America are familiar with the game, many of them having played it as kids. And the reporters are in the same group. Guys like Dan Jenkins and Jim Murray, influential sports writers of the 60’s 70’s and 80’s didn’t have that much interest in the game other than it was “foreign.” Now, sports reporters are familiar with the game, for many having played as kids and followed it along the way.

I played the game as a kid, mainly because they wouldn’t let me play football. Too big for my age group and my parents didn’t want me to “play up” with the older kids. I played on a church team, a club team and played a lot of pick up games. My interest in the game only grew when I was the voice of the Jacksonville Tea Men in the NASL doing television play by play on channel 4 when we broadcast the games. I spent many nights listening to Noel Cantwell, Dennis Viollet and Arthur Smith explain the ins and outs and nuance of the game. And I stayed close to it through my own children’s careers, as they all played, culminating with my son’s captaincy of his high school team as a senior.

So in other words, I really like the game. And I’m glad so many people are coming to the game and I don’t care if it’s only because a team with USA is playing.

Good for you.

Good for us.

I guess we should just be amused when people who don’t know anything about America try and come up with reasons why Americans are, well, Americans. We are somewhat iconoclastic, doing things our way in our almost 240 years as a nation. We drive on the other side of the road than the British. Our horse racing goes the other way, specifically to create an independent state of mind for “the colonies.”

We’ve developed our own sports, some of which we’ve exported to the rest of the world. Basketball is an international game. Baseball has a footing in Central and South America and in Asia. Football has a following, but it would be a stretch to call it “international.”

My European friends call the games we play the “entertainment sports.” To most of them, if it’s not futbol, F1 or Moto (motorcycle racing) it doesn’t count.

Other countries have their specialties. The Irish follow hurling religiously. Australia has it’s own brand of football. And the French have a sport that resembles bocce ball called Petanque. In fact, their biggest tournament was played in Jacksonville in the past two years.

So I suppose I should have just laughed it off when Dutch speedskating coach Jillert Anema on an American cable network during the Olympics, blasted Americans for focusing on what he called “foolish sport.”

“You have a lot of attention for foolish sport, like American football. You waste a lot of talent, athletic talent, in a sport where it’s meant to kill each other, to injure each other. …and when you compete once every four years, with talent, with a few lone wolves, who are skating, you can’t beat the world, it’s no way.”

I was amazed that the “reporter” asking him the questions let him get away with that, just smiling and saying his comments would be considered “blasphemous” in the US. She laughed when she said, “Americans love their football.”

So he continued.

“You’re [the US] is so narrow-minded, and you waste a lot of good talent in a sport that sucks,” he added.

It would be easy to call Anema “misguided” but he was clearly using this platform to slam the States at will.

Unacceptable.

Perhaps he should have been reminded of Shani Davis’ success in the past two Olympics. Or Apolo Ono’s medal haul in Vancouver. Maybe he’s forgotten about Bonnie Blair. Or he wasn’t around in 1980 when the single greatest feat in Olympic history was achieved by American Speedskater Eric Heiden. Heiden won all five gold medals in speedskating at those games, from the 500 to the 10,000. That’s akin to somebody winning the 100 meters and the marathon in the same Summer Games. He set 4 Olympic records and one world record at those games for good measure.

“Coach” Anema should be congratulated for the success the Netherlands scored in Sochi. Speedskating is a national sport in his country of nearly 17 million people. But he should also be reminded that it’s a good thing we’re not serious about speedskating as a nation.

With our more than 330 million people in the States, I’m sure we could find a few who might be able to rival the Dutch in just about anything. Imagine if there was no American football and those athletes turned to speedskating instead.

Our national team would be made up of guys like Maurice Jones Drew in the 500. Chris Johnson in the 1000. Megatron looks like a good fit for the 1500. Larry Fitzgerald could probably handle the 5000 with Tony Gonzalez or Vernon Davis in the 10,000.

So Coach, stay home and stay under the radar until every 4 years you can grab some global glory. Because if we decide we’re going to be good in your sport, you’ll be playing for second.

I’m always amused when people I meet find out I’m from Florida and the first thing they say is, “How can you stand it? It’s so hot there in the summer!” They’re right; it is hot here in the summer. So what do we do? We stay inside. That’s how Florida got be so popular as a place to live: Mosquito control and air conditioning (and no state income tax).

Same as they do in Chicago in February. It’s cold; it’s snowing so they stay in.

When Demi Moore was shooting “GI Jane” here in town her then-husband Bruce Willis came to visit in the summer. He was on a late night talk show when the host noted he had “just been in Florida.” “Yup,” Willis quipped, “in Jacksonville, hottest place on Earth.” I laughed out loud when I heard that because he’s right, it’s hot. High temperatures and humidity mean it’s uncomfortable for a few months.

While a lot of places start thinking about fall and what they call “football weather” right after Labor Day, our summer is still in full blaze. Been to a Jaguars or a Gators game at home in September? The most precious commodity isn’t points scored but rather water.

Golf courses are empty for most of the days in the summer. Early morning tee times are hard to come by as nobody wants to be out over a three-footer at noon in August.

In fact, most of the summer play is by visitors.

Including at the beach.

Save for a few weekends, Floridians don’t go to the beach in the summer. Most people you see on the beach in the summer are tourists. For natives, it’s too hot.

Maybe that’s why it seems so incongruous that the SEC has their media days in July in Birmingham. It’s about as hot as it can be in Alabama in late July, yet the assembled media flocks to the meetings looking for one morsel of information. Not much comes out of those meetings except the nuance of how coaches act when they know they’re going to be good.

Or bad.

Football practice starts in late July for some and sometime in early August for the rest. The latest technology is supposed to protect the players from overheating and threatening their health. NFL teams in Florida have their largest players swallow pills that work through their system and can be read from the outside to check their core temperatures. And to think we survived three-a-days with no water and salt pills until the mid ’80’s!

The summer is a good time to relax. Slow down. Read a book. Travel. Do something different. People say all the time that they can’t wait for “football season” to get here. It’ll be here soon enough.

Enjoy the summer.

Arthur is the third person I met when I came to Jacksonville in 1981. He was the Player Personnel Director for the Jacksonville Tea Men and moonlighted as my broadcast partner when we televised the games. But we all knew it was his job to be Noel and Dennis’ best friend.

It seemed at every turn I was learning something from Arthur.

So I got to know Arthur professionally, and personally all at the same time. We traveled together, ate meals together, drank together, all the while as he taught me everything I knew about professional football (soccer), reminding me that he never taught me all that he knew. He taught me the nuance of the professional game, and more importantly, how to get along with Noel. In fact, Arthur kept Noel from beating me to a pulp in San Diego at dinner one night, diffusing the situation with his normal humor and grace. He taught me that if the bar bill wasn’t higher than the food total when somebody else was paying the tab, you hadn’t done your job.

I got to know Arthur professionally when he went to work at Tom Bush BMW. I bought cars from Arthur but actually many days I sat in his office while he worked on a sale, meticulously going over the numbers and executing the paperwork in perfect penmanship. Beautiful writing actually, crafted much like his personality: meticulous, thorough, and clearly understood, with a few extras thrown in. I don’t know why I was fascinated with Arthur’s handwriting but it always had clarity to it, with a little flair.

But it was over the years that he grew into one of my best friends. I’d like to think I was one of his best friends but that might be insulting to at least 20 people in this room alone because he treated so many people as his best friend. And a great friend he was. Always available always upbeat. Ready with some advice if you needed it, whether you liked to hear it or not. He raised my level of refinement when I needed it. Throughout his various ailments you all know Arthur never wavered. He always said to me, “I’m going to get out of here and be just fine. I’ll work on it until I make it right. No problem. There are a lot of people worse off than me.”

Like all of you, I just liked to spend time with Arthur, discussing his world travels and hearing stories of far away places. He became my de facto travel agent. There was never a place I was interested in going that he already hadn’t been there. Sometimes he waved me off. Other times he was insistent. He told me about an obscure Michelangelo sculpture in Brugge, encouraged me to go to Andorra because, as he put it, “their entire economy is based on smugglin’.” When I told him I was going to Santorini, one of the Greek isles, he told me a story about going there and passing on a boat cruise everybody else was going on. “I sat in this beautiful bar,” he told me, “and this lovely American girl was the bartender. From Kansas City. Went there on vacation and never left.” It was that kind of recall and detail in his stories that enriched the storytelling and gave real texture and fabric to the people and places he had encountered. Because you know he made friends with everybody.

We spent a bunch of time in Leo’s. Hours and hours of just sitting and laughing. One night I was there with Linda and all three of our children. I insisted that Arthur join us and I have such a fond memory of his recalling to my kids about his time as a child in England during WWII. How he went home from school in the dark. How the planes would fly overhead. And how they would go into the bog looking for a downed plane in order to get the Bakelite from the cockpit canopy. As a storyteller he had no peer. I can recall my children’s rapt attention at a life so different from their own.

I once tried to tell Arthur how important he was to me, and what a good friend I considered him and how he was one of my favorite people. He waved me off saying, “We’ll have none of that Sam, let’s get together tomorrow night.” When I came here last night, I got to the front door and knew I was in the right place. It sounded much more like a party inside than a wake, just as he would have expected.

He did touch his sentimental side in recent years, being sure to tell me, with Shirley in the room, how important she was to him and how she was the best thing that ever happened to him. I always chuckled when people said Arthur was living on “borrowed time” after his first episode with “upper aortic anuyrsum.” “He’s so lucky his wife came home at lunch,” people would say. The only time she’d ever done so. Ever. But she was supposed to be there, just like Arthur was supposed to be here for 80 years to touch all of our lives. He wasn’t living on borrowed time, it was HIS TIME. It wasn’t Arthur who was lucky but rather all of us who shared his life, his humor and his grace.

When my phone rang last Friday and it said “Arthur Smith” on the screen, I answered with my usual, “Hey Arthur, what ‘cha up to.” When Shirley’s voice came from the other end and said, “Sam, it’s Shirley, and I have some bad news,” I knew what was up. For some reason I knew exactly what she was going to say to me and I reacted very differently than I thought. I shed a tear, for sure, but I never, and still haven’t considered Arthur, “gone.” For some reason, and I don’t think this about everybody, I think I’m going to see him again. It might be a little hot for a while, between the two of us, but I believe I’ll see him again.

So to steal a line from Arthur that Barbara reminded me of last night, he would never say, “Goodbye,” when you left or hung up the phone. He’d always end it with, “Bye for now.”

So, Bye for now Arthur, we’ll meet later and I’ll be able to tell you how you’re one of my favorite people.

It was early. Especially for somebody who’d been a bartender and was working on the first job of his career that also required working the “second shift.” In the summer of 1979 I was living and working in Charleston, S.C. Just after 7am my phone rang, jolting me out of bed as only a ringing phone can. The deep voice of the News Director at Channel 2, “Specs” Munzell, my boss was pleasant and direct.

“I just got a call that Muhammad Ali was having breakfast at the Mills House downtown. You need to get down there. Now.”

I don’t look like much when I get out of bed, and with the night before still rolling around in my head, I threw some clothes on, brushed my teeth, barely combed my hair, grabbed the camera and recorder and walked out the front door in about 5 minutes flat.

“No way,” I kept saying to my self. “Ali, here in Charleston. At this hour? For what?” I made it out of Mt. Pleasant and over the Cooper River Bridge, absent of traffic and headed downtown.

The Mills House is an old, historic hotel in the center of downtown Charleston. It’s been run by Hyatt and Holiday Inn among others, but it remains a landmark in the city. The front entrance is impressive as is the lobby with the restaurant off to the left. Big white columns run floor to ceiling giving it a very big feel. With white tablecloths to the floor, it oozes elegance.

Overlooking the restaurant from the lobby landing, I realized something was amiss: it wasn’t open. For some reason, at the time the Mills House didn’t serve breakfast. It was dark but I shuffled around and leaned to the right, camera equipment in hand, only to see three men sitting at a table way in the back drinking coffee. I sat the equipment in a corner and walked into the restaurant. Muhammad Ali

Facing me at the table, luckily was a guy I recognized and perhaps more astonishingly, he looked up and recognized me.

With an easy wave he motioned me over to the table where the unmistakable silhouette of Muhammad Ali was facing the other way.

The guy I knew and the other, young man at the table both stood as I approached offering a welcoming handshake.

“Hi Sam, great to see you,” my “friend” at the table said. “Do you know Reggie?” he asked as he motioned to the young guy at the table. Reggie did look vaguely familiar so I said, “Sure” as we shook hands.

“And you’ve met the Champ,” my friend added.

Ali had stayed seated and turned his shoulders toward me, just getting his head around enough to see his face.

It was a bit surreal seeing Ali this close. He was one of my boyhood heroes and I’d read everything I could about him. But as he turned, he was so familiar it was as if I was running into somebody I’d known for years. The cut of his hair, his smooth features, the color of his skin all were exactly as I had always thought.

“Hey,” he said quietly as we shook hands. It wasn’t much of a handshake, but as I’ve learned over the years, boxers and football players don’t always have much of a handshake. It usually hurts too much. Nonetheless I stood there and stammered out a sentence trying to do my job.

“Champ, I’m Sam Kouvaris from Channel 2 here in town and I’ll be over there in the doorway so when you’re done if you would just stop on your way out and answer a couple of questions I’d really appreciate it.”

Ali eyed me for maybe a second or two and turned completely in his chair to face me before he said, “Have you eaten?”

I was so confused by his question that it barely even registered in my head. So I went back at it.

“No, but I’ll be over there by the door and if you . . .” which is when he cut me off by repeating. “Have you eaten?”

That’s a pretty simple question so this time I just said, “No sir.” Which is when he pulled out the chair next to his and said, “Sit down.”

It was my first lesson in dealing with wealthy and/or famous people that has served me well. When they make some kind of offer with a declarative statement, just do it. Like, “Get in my plane,” or “Take my car” or even at times, “Let me get the check,” just follow their lead and it usually leads to very interesting experiences.

So I sat down. Of course I knew the restaurant wasn’t open but Ali called the waiter over and said, “Sam wants to eat.” The waiter was eager to please so when he asked me what I might want (without the benefit of a menu) I ordered an omelet and some coffee.

Over the next hour or so, I sat at the table with the retired heavyweight champion of the world, one of my idols, drinking coffee, having breakfast and talking about everything you can think of: Religion, politics, women, sports, friendship, loyalty and just about everything else. Ali was disarming, fun, playful, serious and easy to talk to.

When it was time to go, we stood up and faced each other, I supposed to shake hands. Instead, Ali stepped back and flicked two left jabs within a half-inch of my nose. I reacted by raising my fists to protect myself and striking my version of a “boxers pose.” With that, Ali dropped his hands and said, “I’m not fighting you,” as seriously as you can imagine.

I relaxed and said, “Why not?”
“You’ve boxed,” the champ responded.
“Sure,” I replied.

He laughed and mimicked my pose saying, “Nobody puts their hands up like that and turns sideways to give nothing to hit when they haven’t boxed.”

With that we did shake hands, did the interview, and snapped one photo. As he left, he patted me on the back in an approving way I’ve never forgotten and walked out, never looking back.

(As an addendum to the story, Ali was in town to testify at a trial for Reggie as a character witness. Reggie had run afoul of the law on a drug charge and Ali had taken the red eye in for a court appearance that day. Reggie still went to jail, Ali said he wanted to be there because he and Reggie were friends.

In case you’re wondering, I’m 23 in this picture, Ali is 37)

Nobody lives in North Florida or South Georgia because they have to. Nobody has to stay here because they owe money to the company store. So why is it that our civic leaders, elected and otherwise, can’t figure out that’s the frame of reference they should be using for every decision?

Is it right that we’re the largest land-mass city in the continental US and have nine miles of bike paths? And only one dedicated trail for cycling, running, etc.?

Recreation and sports are the life-blood of the people who live here. Jobs are tough to come by, and the ones that are here aren’t, on average, the highest paying in comparison to other cities. So people are here because they want to be and their off-the-job activities are important to them. Yet it seems it’s the last thing on the agenda when it comes to spending money on the quality of life here.

You name it, there’s not enough of them here.

Tennis courts, baseball/softball fields, soccer pitches, lacrosse fields, etc. Many times it’s left up to the private developers to set aside land for recreation somewhere within the confines of the community.

Why?

Because it’s a selling point.

Our part of the country is attractive because of the lifestyle. Everybody does something. Run, bike, swim, sail, play golf, tennis, paddle board, whatever, everybody’s got something they do. So it ought to be a priority, along with public education and transportation to keep parks open, to keep building fields where kids and adults can play and to create programs to entice people to get involved.

I know there are private, not-for-profit organizations like the Mal Washington Foundation and the First Tee that identify and help kids stay out of trouble and learn life skills through sports. But if you just wanted to go throw the football with friends would you know where to go? Do you know where the nearest basketball court is where you can find a pickup game? Would you rollerblade on your street? Where would you go to ride your bike? Take a walk?

Where we live is our greatest asset. Let’s figure out how to use it.

I knew I wouldn’t get much sleep, but I was excited about the trip so 2 ½ hours didn’t seem that bad. An early morning flight to Norfolk was necessary because I had been offered a chance to actually fly out to the George H.W. Bush, the newest aircraft carrier in the United States Navy.

Amazingly, all went according to plan. The commercial flight was early, the cab ride was only 15 minutes and the C-2 (COD in Navy terms) was on schedule.

Even if it turned out to be delayed for an hour, nothing was going to dampen my enthusiasm when it came to flying on to a carrier. I’d done it before in a F/A-18 Hornet, but this was a whole different experience. No windows, bouncing around, and sitting backwards, I nodded off, as the flight from Norfolk was more than an hour. The Bush was well south, looking for good weather and smooth water. The ten minute announcement rousted me and the hands in the air and “here we go” call from the crew signaled we’d be on deck any second.

Landings on a carrier look smooth and comfortable from the outside. Inside, it’s violent and a crushing G-force smashes your body into the seat: for about 2 seconds. It’s exciting, exhilarating and exhausting all at the same time.

Inside the ship, we met LCDR John Schofield the ship’s Public Affairs Officer (PAO). He’s a pro and laid out our schedule for the next 24 hours on board covering everything from flight ops to night ops, lunch, dinner and a meeting with the skipper.

After a quick cup of coffee (I really like Navy coffee) we headed to the flight deck. It was “open” and they were in the process of bringing the Air Wing (CAG 8) on board. The main platform for Naval Aviation now is the F/A-18.

On the flight deck, it’s loud.

You hear “Rhino, 90” and “Grizzly, 45” among other things on the loudspeakers above the wind and the jet engines. Rhino and Grizzly are how they differentiate between the two different Hornet platforms. It lets the crew know how much tension to put in the landing wires based on their different weights.

While it looks like a smooth transition on deck, it’s a very violent event. Thirty-Eight thousand pounds going from about 150 mph to zero in 340 feet is loud, scary, dangerous and violent. Yet the crew is as efficient and professional as if they were cooking meals going about their business capturing and launching planes with regularity. With most of the sailors just over 19 years old, it’s impressive to see the pride and professionalism they all have.

Of course they know it’s a matter of life and death; for everybody involved. It’s a coordinated effort, no different than an offense or a defense in football.

If it’s violent to “arrest” a plane on deck, the launch from the catapult is awe-inspiring. The blast shield comes up behind the airplane. The plane is hooked to the “cat,” by the “hold back” and the numerous checks and re-checks begin. When the pilot moves the throttle to full power (before burners) it shakes the whole ship. And it’s deafening. The pilot and crew go through more checks and rechecks for about 40 seconds before the salute and launch. Three hundred feet, zero to 125 miles and hour, all in about 1.7 seconds. We got to see that over and over.

And it never got boring.

We didn’t want to leave but an elevator ride was waiting.

Not just any elevator. The mechanism they use to move airplanes from the flight deck to the hangar deck is simply called the “elevator.” But moving 40-tons up and down all day should have a much more dramatic name. And it’s fast! They zip up and down with planes and sailors constantly. Another harrowing experience!

I’m sure it’s harrowing inside the Skipper’s brain on the bridge, but you’d never know it. The bridge is where the Captain oversees the whole operation, looking for potential trouble spots and is responsible for everything.

That’s right, everything.

But Capt. Chip “Bullet” Miller looks confident and in control, no matter what’s at stake. It’s about what you’d expect from a former F/A-18 pilot and former squadron commander. As impressive as the crew is on the George HW Bush, they take their cues from their equally impressive Skipper. Capt. Miller is the guy you want on the bridge, in good times and bad. He’s everything you expect from a Naval officer and more. He remembered when we flew together out of VFA-105 “The Gunslingers” in 1992 at Cecil Field. He gets high marks from all of his contemporaries as well as those who work for him.

As he spent time with us and conducted a couple of interviews during the flight ops portion of the day, he smoothly handled problems about every 15 seconds while answering questions with the aplomb of a diplomat.

As night fell, we were treated to dinner in the officer’s mess. Excellent fried chicken and great company.

We headed off to witness the night operations on the deck, this time watching from the Flag Bridge. Then down to the ready room of the Golden Warriors, commonly known as “War Party.” We were briefed on what was up for them tonight: two touch and goes and two landings to become carrier qualified. It was off to the combat operations center to see how the ship defends itself. Some ships in the carrier group were accompanying the Bush on this “at sea” period so they were involved in the perimeter defense of the ship.

My personal favorite was in Air Operations. A dark room with four large electronic screens on the front wall all with information about where the planes were, where they were headed and what time it was all happening. Sitting on the benches on the back row “observing” were the Group Admiral, the Commander of the Air Group (CAG) and just about every squadron commander on the ship.

That room is small, so the intimacy of it was fascinating. Every move is scrutinized, analyzed and debriefed. If you don’t want to be evaluated on your actions, don’t get involved in this situation! A group of air traffic controllers were next door, coordinating the air traffic around the ship, all happening seamlessly.

We were treated as “Distinguished Visitors” onboard the USS George H. W. Bush. As a “DV” we were assigned to the “Congressional Suite” along the row with the rooms named “Ambassador to China,” “RNC Chairman,” “Vice-President,” “Director” (CIA) and others. Bunk beds, 13 cable channels on the TV and beautiful towels and robes all embroidered with “GHWB.” (They were the only things LCDR Schofield said we couldn’t take from the room!) The DV rooms are on level “O3” amidships. Until we turned in for the night, we didn’t know they were right under the blast shield for Cats 1 and 2. So as each Hornet or Growler was ready to be launched off the deck, the 40-second full military power run up was right over our heads! Matt and I had a laugh and turned on what we called “the airplane channel,” the closed circuit broadcast of what was happening on the deck. “At least we’ll see it coming,” we laughed.

They quit night ops around 2AM. With the room “68 and dark” as our friend Kevin calls it, I fell into a deep sleep. But not for long. They blow reveille at 6AM for the “DV’s!” We were on the deck before sunrise (honest) but we were far from the first people “topside.” A full crew was already doing maintenance on some of the Hornets parked on deck. Another was working on one of catapults. The radars were going and the ship was still alive. We had breakfast in the officer’s mess with some more excellent Navy coffee.

With 5,500 sailors and officers on board when the full air wing is active, the USS George H.W. Bush serves up to 22,000 meals daily. Four meals a day, breakfast, lunch and dinner plus “mid rats” (midnight rations) the seven galleys onboard stay busy. A visit to the food stores was impressive just by the sheer number of goods on board. On a ship, and particularly on a carrier, they carry what they need with them. And I mean carry. No automation to get things from one spot to another. They’ll take more than 100 sailors to load and unload the food and drink they need.

By the way, the food was great.

We had a full tour and review of the ships medical facilities. It is a warship, so treating casualties is a prerequisite. But sick call, physical therapy, and preventative medicine are all part of their daily routine. The Senior Medical Officer (the “SMO”) is a Captain in the Navy but also an internist and a hospital administrator. They have 53 beds available for patients, can do full surgeries and have a digital x-ray system among other cutting edge medical systems. They even have their own pharmacy.

A visit with the Skipper concluded our time onboard.

Back in his in port cabin, he told us stories about the pictures arrayed in the room (a one of a kind photo of The President and First Lady Barbara Bush as well as Bush family photos and a picture of George H.W. Bush receiving Babe Ruth’s hand written memoir’s while he was Captain of the Yale baseball team) about the President and First Lady visiting (Mrs. Bush didn’t recognize the setting a young Ensign Bush was in giving a toast at a wedding surrounded by three young women!) and how the President just likes to meet sailors on board, roaming around at 2:30 in the morning just to see the ship operate.

Captain Miller talked about his pride in the ship and crew, how putting his team together was almost like fielding a new club in the big leagues. An expansion team, if you will. It’s obvious Captain Miller believes in the people around him and that’s reflected in the personality of the ship. It’s his personality: upbeat, can-do, friendly, but with an eye constantly on getting the job done.

I also think the crew’s attitude might have something to do with being onboard the only ship in the Navy who’s namesake is still alive. President Bush has been onboard a couple of times and many of the sailors have met him. They don’t want to let him down.

Personally.

And that shows. (I’d really be remiss if I didn’t mention how well the Captain’s cook/chef, Culinary Specialist 2nd Class Leesa Zilempe, treated us each time we stopped by the in port cabin. We’re a bunch of nobodies but she acted like we were ambassadors from abroad. And the cookies were fantastic!)

The Captain bid us farewell guaranteeing “the first 300 feet” of our journey home.

That, of course, is the length of the cat shot off the bow of the ship. The C-2 (COD) had returned so we put our gear on and climbed inside. The brief was the same, only backwards. Sitting still, and backwards, the crew explained that when they gave us the signal we had to “grab our harness, tuck our chin, put our feet flat on the floor and brace yourself.” I’d done this before in a Hornet so I kind of knew what to expect.

But not backwards.

The signal of hands in the air and the call of “we’re getting ready to go!” were followed by a quick jolt and a forceful push out into your harness. I just remembered the plane captain in the Hornet putting his foot on my shoulder and tightening the harness until it almost hurt, and being appreciative of that the other time I did this so I kept pulling on the harness until it was just about cutting off my circulation.

And it worked. About 1.7 seconds later we were airborne and climbing.

The flight home was uneventful and shorter since the ship had steamed north overnight. The landing smooth and the Force PAO was on hand to make arrangements to get us back to Jacksonville.

There are so many people to thank; I’ll just say again that Captain Miller was fantastic. LCDR Schofield and his deputy Matthew Stroup were experts at putting us in the right situation, guiding us but not being intrusive. We were greeted with “Good Morning Sir,” and “Excuse me Sir,” so often that it was gratifying that it felt normal to be polite.

The men and women serving our country deserve our unending respect. But more than that, they serve as examples of personal accountability, dedication, pride and professionalism that sadly, are often missing in the civilian world. They’re willing to be evaluated at every turn, and their leaders are doing what they can to make them the best they can be.

I only hope I run into President Bush one more time to tell him how proud he should be of “his” ship.

But I’m sure he already knows.

I read that some of the American players were crying when they accepted their silver medals at the Confederations Cup in South Africa on Sunday.

And they should have been.

Leading 2-0 at half, I don’t know what coach Bob Bradley said to the team, but it was completely backwards.

Now all of you soccer snobs out there just keep your panties on because I played the game for years, did the play by play for the Tea Men of the NASL and watched my kids go through all sorts of school and club teams over their careers.

Having said that, one of the problems Bradley or any other coach has at the national level is they don’t play to the strength of “Americans.” They’re always trying to play somebody else’s game either “English” or “South American” or whatever. Let’s play like “Americans.”

What does that mean?

It means not standing around and just packing it in the box when you have a lead and counter attacking.
Up 2-0, we want to make it 3-0.
That’s what we understand.
It’s in our DNA!

So keep moving forward, not with somebody else’s game but our own!

What, did we think the Brazilians were not going to score? We were going to shut out Brazil? Come on! They’re Brazil! They’re the best team in the world and we flat out played them for a half. Then decided we’d do something different.

What do you think the Brazilian coach said at halftime? He told those guys, “What’s the matter with you, you’re losing to the Americans! Any more of that and you might as well stay in Africa!” So what did they do? They came out and scored in the first minute and dominated play from the start. And what did we do, we sat on our heels and let them bang it at the goal for 45 minutes.

Soccer is such a political game in the US to begin with, we don’t even have the best players out there half the time and don’t’ develop the best players as teenagers with any gusto. If you go to the right camps, play for the right clubs and suck up to the right guys, you’ll move forward. Play another sport? Forget ever moving toward the national level.

Brazil is a country of a 100 million people and the best athletes are on their soccer team. Our best athletes of 300 million people are playing football, basketball or baseball, where the money is at this point. Beating Brazil at this point wouldn’t have changed the game here in America, but it sure would have given us some confidence going into the World Cup next year. Instead, we’ll be thinking how we couldn’t beat Brazil playing just one half spotting us two goals!

I remember when George Steinbrenner got fed up with how the Olympic team was competing on an international level and used his “bully pulpit” to push them in the right direction with a training center and forced them to get serious about competing as a country. I wish somebody like that, Mark Cuban, Jerry Jones, Hank Steinbrenner, somebody with a sports background and a bunch of money would do something about US Soccer.

Start by firing Bradley.

As we go into the holiday season, I just wanted to tell this story so perhaps when things get hectic over the next couple of weeks; perhaps we can take a deep breath and think about what’s really important.

As many of you know, I like to ride my bike. I have a lot of friends who are in the bike community and like to ride with them when I can. If not, I’ll be out by myself. Either way, it’s fun, and can be a good workout.

Last Saturday morning I got up early to catch the group ride out of Champion Cycling in Mandarin. The ride goes right by my neighborhood so even though it leaves at 7:15 from the shop, I usually leave around the same time and catch the “bunch” on the road. It was perfect when I left, a really beautiful golden sky as the sun came up.

What I didn’t know is the sun was catching the edge of a big front so when I got about two miles from my house, the bottom fell out. I ducked under a tree, put my stuff in a plastic bag and tried to wait it out, waiting for “the bunch.” But in about a minute I was soaked and no sign of the riders. So I figured I’d rather be soaked riding than standing there, so I headed back on the road trying to find the group. Of course, they took a detour and I never did find them, but since I was already soaked, I figured I’d put some miles in.

Almost two hours later after wind and rain and questioning my own sanity, I was pretty close to home when my back tire went flat. “Perfect,” I thought, as I fumbled for my phone looking for a ride. For some reason, I happened to look up and not 50 feet from me a guy was standing in front of his pickup truck in running shorts waving and asked, “Do you need help?”

He obviously had just finished the Mandarin 10K also in the rain. “Where you headed,” I asked, a little warily. “North,” he said. “Can you drop me at Champion?” I wondered. “Phil’s place?” he said with a laugh and finished, “sure.”

So I threw my bike in the back and he drove me the couple miles up to Champion Cycling. He told me his name, said he rode out of the shop on a regular basis but lived in Arlington. Phil knew him, “Grey truck?” Phil asked. No big deal right? Nice guy did me a favor.

But on Tuesday night I was at Starbucks in Lakewood and happened to be on the phone when I pulled up as a guy pulled up next to me on a nice Harley Road King. As I continued my conversation, the guy got off his bike and walked over and knocked on my window. I rolled it down and motioned that I was still on the phone. He waved and backed away. But stayed right there. When I finished the conversation, I rolled the window down and said, “What’s up?”

He walked towards me; one hand supported by a cane, and said, “Hey, I know you!” “Thanks,” I said, “nice bike.”

“Yeah, I like it,” he answered. “I rode up here from St. Augustine,” he continued “and when I went to put gas in my tank I realized I left my wallet at home. Can you help me out with a couple of bucks to put gas in the bike?”

“Sure, let’s go across the street to the Shell and fill it up,” I offered.

I was somewhat stunned, not because somebody was asking me for money, because that happens all the time. But rather I couldn’t get the image of the guy helping me out on Saturday out of my mind.

“Gee, God,” I chuckled to myself, “this is kind of fast!” I’ve always believed in “Paying it Forward,” but I laughed at the quick, “payback.”

The guy mumbled something about high octane and I could see that he was uncomfortable with my offer, so I got out of the car and said, “Hungry?” He demurred, adding “Sam, it was hard enough asking you for money for gas.”

So I said, “Come on, let’s get a cup of coffee.”

He gladly followed and after ordering coffee, we sat and talked for about 20 minutes before I had to get to work. I put enough money on the table to fill the tank of his bike and buy a decent meal on his way home. “Is that enough,” I asked. He said, “Man that’s plenty,” so we shook hands, I wished him well and back to the station I went.

Still no big deal right?

Except last Saturday I was up early again for the morning ride, but it was freezing out, so I put it off for an hour before heading to the road. About halfway into it, I saw the front tire going flat, (different tire, different bike) so I pulled over to fix it. Of course, TSA took my CO2 cartridges out the last time I traveled with my bike, so I was stuck.

Again, I fumbled for my phone and again, a guy appeared not 50 feet away at the intersection, rolled down his window and said, “Do you need help?” I almost laughed out loud but couldn’t get the images of the last week out of my head of being helped and trying to help.

So I threw my bike in the back of his Pacifica, said hi to his teenage son in the back seat and accepted the ride, once again up to Phil’s place at Champion Cycling.

He went out of his way to drop me off and all I could do was again say thanks, shake his hand, wish him luck and tell him how kind his offer was.

And of course, all I could think about lucky I was to be in a place where people were so kind and generous and hope to be able to replay that again in the future.

So for the holidays, when things aren’t going exactly how you’d want them to, look around, there might be somebody who needs a little more help than you do.

I know I will!

I haven’t liked just about anything about this year’s campaign. The negative tone, from both sides, fueled by the avalanche of information distributed by the media hasn’t done anybody any good.

The Democrats have been able to set the tone, putting the Republicans on the defensive from day one. Whether it’s been about the war in Iraq and Afghanistan or the economy, John McCain has been answering questions instead of trying to put forth his own agenda. Barak Obama has raised more money than any candidate in history, over $600 million. He’s spent it on advertising, setting the tone and pushing his middle class tax cuts and hooking McCain to George Bush.

Senator McCain is a bad candidate who could be a good President. Senator Obama is a good candidate who remains a mystery. There hasn’t been much scrutiny of his background as the media rides the wave of “change.”

Working in newsrooms all of my professional life, there’s no question that a liberal point of view is the dominant sentiment among those in the news business. It’s the kind of business that attracts young professionals who are “out to change the world.” It’s disappointing to see such a distinct point of view invade what is supposed to be a journalistic environment but it is a fact and it’s not going away.

Just know that every newscast has a point of view. No matter of everybody’s claim to “the truth” every bit of news comes from somebody’s point of view.

Do your homework. Figure out the issues that are important to you. Don’t be influenced by the PR machines that the campaigns have become. They’re all saying what you want to hear but none of it is close to the truth regarding what actually is going to happen.

I’m not impressed with either side. The Republican’s seem disorganized and while McCain is the standard bearer, nobody seems convinced that he’s the right guy. The Democrats have done a good job with their electoral strategy, and Obama has become the new version of a “Teflon man.” No matter what questions about his associations and views are asked, he and his advisers have been able to deflect those without much investigation.

Many people are voting “against” something instead of “for” one candidate.

But there is a clear choice in the election. The Democrats want to move the country in a more socialist direction, redistributing earnings through taxes. Republicans want to enable wage earners to keep more of their money and allow businesses to distribute money by hiring new employees and expanding the business.

Health care, the economy, national security and abortion are among the hot button issues for this election.

Whichever is your issue you can do one thing about it.

Vote.

I was in entryway for the media at the stadium following the Jaguars game when I came across about 20 people crowded around a small TV set. I knew what they were there for: Michael Phelps was going for his eighth gold medal, swimming in the IM relay with his American teammates.

The small crowd was pretty quite, intently watching the walkout and the introductions. When the camera panned to Phelps there were a couple of “there he is” comments but this was a group of people who cover sports for a living. A pretty jaded crowd, not much impressed by anything or anybody. Especially a swimmer.

But something different was going on here.

These folks weren’t just observing, they were, for the moment, fans.

It was really interesting to watch the race with these people. In the press box, since everybody started carrying computers, it’s a pretty quite place. The windows are closed and you only hear the silence interrupted by the dispassionate announcements of down and distance.

The stadium entryway is usually a busy place with people coming and going before and after the game. But for these couple of minutes, time stood still. Nobody moved.

The opening backstroke 100 had the Americans near the front. The breaststroke had the world record holder swimming for Japan so you knew the US would be behind when Phelps jumped in the water for the butterfly. And you figured, at least hoped, that he’d swim his normal leg: controlled for the first 50 meters then put on his big surge at the finish.

And that’s what happened.

A quick glance at the crowd showed a few heads bobbing with each stroke Phelps made and I caught the occasional “come on” murmured under somebody’s breath. When Jay Lezak jumped in the water with a half body length lead, somebody up front said, “Come on Jay, don’t blow it.”

Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t just some uninterested bystander. I was pretty intent and involved and even when Lezak turned for home I said something like, “Come on Jay, Swim!” By that point everybody was into it, exhorting Lezak to “hang on” and “finish strong.” And when he touched and that “carpet” rolled out on the water with the stars and stripes and “USA” behind the number one on the water something funny happened: Everybody clapped.

For a moment there were no naysayers, no critics. Nobody finding fault in the victory, nobody was trying to somehow downgrade the accomplishment. “We” won and Phelps got his eighth gold. It’s that kind of communal moment that we don’t often have in the States.

Since we don’t have a national team in any of the international sports the people follow, it’s not often that we all are in front of the television watching one thing and rooting for victory.

I was in Costa Rica once when their national soccer team had qualified for the World Cup and was playing in the first round. Sitting at a bar on the beach, the bartender didn’t acknowledge me when I sat down, instead keeping his gaze on the television. “Can I get a beer” I asked politely. “Come around and get it yourself,” the bartender said nicely, never taking his eyes off the TV.

We don’t get that much here.

The ’80 hockey club is about the closest to everybody being on the same page as we’ve ever been in the last 50 years. It’ one of the things I like about the Olympics. Not every four years, but occasionally, something or somebody will catch our attention and bring us all together.

Phelps was able to do that.

A kid from Baltimore who’s built like the perfect swimmer has also had the perfect temperament for dealing with the schedule, the media demands and the execution of his skill.

I saw him on the air on NBC in a split-screen between Beijing and Detroit with Mark Spitz. Spitz was tremendously gracious (apparently for the first time) and Phelps couldn’t have said more perfect stuff. Maybe it’s the times, maybe he’s just the right guy but for those two minutes everything seems just right.

And we won.

Just like everybody else, I follow horse racing as a casual fan, focusing on the Triple Crown. I do follow some of the other races during the year, the Florida and Arkansas Derby, the Travers Stakes and the Breeders Cup. I watch the races and read a bunch about the different competitions. I’ve been to the track to see races in person, a must when it comes to that sport. The horses are so impressive and for the most part, the people involved are totally committed to the sport and the animals involved.

We’ve been talking about the next “Super Horse” for a while, from Spectacular Bid to Smarty Jones with 30 years gone by without another Triple Crown winner. It’s the longest stretch in history without a winner of all three races. I thought Afleet Alex was that horse in 2005, but he just didn’t run in the Kentucky Derby but went on to win the Preakness and the Belmont. Three races in five weeks seem like a lot, and it is when it comes to 3-year-old thoroughbreds.

I’ve heard that the sport has changed in the past couple of decades with breeding turned toward speed instead of endurance. That might explain some of the failures in the Belmont at 1 and a half miles but Saturday’s race with Big Brown was different.

Big Brown looked like a super horse in the Derby and the Preakness. Whenever Kent Desmoreaux asked him to run, he took off like he was turbocharged. When he broke from the gate at the Belmont though, he didn’t look right from the start. Big Brown has a beautiful stride and great gait but it wasn’t on display in New York. He looked uncoordinated during the whole trip. Even though he had a smooth ride and was sitting in the right spot at third coming to the final turn, he was already laboring.

It didn’t have anything to do with the distance; something was going on with the horse. There had been a lot of talk about Big Brown taking Winstrol, a steroid about once a month. It’s legal for horses in most states. Big Brown’s last injection was on April 15th, two weeks before the derby. Who knows if that had a negative effect on his run after it was out of his system but he just didn’t run?

“When I came to the final turn and asked him to go, I just didn’t have any horse,” Desmoreaux said immediately after the race. When he went to let him out, nothing happened. In fact he went backwards.

The weird thing is, Big Brown looked the part. He looked different than the other thoroughbreds. He looked big and strong, kind of like Secretariat. But he didn’t run like a Super Horse. He just didn’t run.

Have you ever gone for a run and just felt completely uncoordinated the whole time? It looked like that from the start. I don’t think Desmoreaux had anything to do with the ride. In fact, I thought he was masterful; especially when he pulled Big Brown up once the cause was lost.

Maybe the answer is to spread the races out since the breeding habits have changed. Maybe a standardized drug program is the right way to go. But whatever it is, the sport needs a fix up.

Affirmed, and even Alydar seemed like Super Horses and maybe they were bred to win the Triple Crown but there’s nothing like them out there now.

“Man, I have that same shirt,” Mike Love said to me as we were introduced and he pulled on my sleeve. “Really?” I responded. “No really man, I have that exact same shirt,” he offered again. “Well I was hoping you’d wear it tonight,” I told him, ” I was told it was a Beach Boys concert!” Luckily, Love laughed and I felt better about my half smart-aleck remark.

I had gotten an email from Paul Witkowski, the PR director of the Symphony that was pretty simple: “Hey Sam, wanna sing with the Beach Boys?” That sounded intriguing so I replied, “sure.” Paul and I have tried to cook up something with the symphony for a while. I’ve done some things with them in the past and we’re always looking to add to that total, especially a chance to sing.

A couple of days and a couple of emails later I found out the “singing” with the Beach Boys was a little less than I expected. I’d get a chance to sing along on “Barbara Ann,” you know the “Ba ba ba, Barbara Ann” part. Fair enough, I thought. The Beach Boys are an American icon in their own right and their music is a big part of our historical sound track. My personal one too. I think I had an 8-Track of their songs. Anyway, to stand on the stage with them in any form or fashion sounded like one of those experiences you never thought you have a chance to do.

I got there early (stop laughing) and grabbed a seat in the back for the first set. I wanted to see what the set up was in the Theatre. Four guys across the front, a drummer and bassist behind and the Symphony tucked behind them, behind plexiglass. That’s a pretty standard thing in this kind of “cross-media” performance. Voices and guitars could get lost in the full force of violins, trumpets, xylophones and tubas.

The vocals sounded good, perhaps surprising me a little bit. Love is 63-years old and his son stands next to him, singing and playing guitar. Bruce Johnston is the front keyboard player and he’s about the same age as Love. The other guys are fill-ins. Brian Wilson didn’t make this gig. They do make constant jokes about their age, but it is remarkable to think that some of their hits were written and recorded in 1963 yet they’re still timeless, still being performed and have some of the best vocal harmonies ever.

Showing their ability to still sing those harmonies, they borrowed “California Dreamin'” from the Mammas and the Pappas in the first set. Love and Johnston have a running show about each song in the run-up, pretty well choreographed, complete with sounds of creaking bones. Sometimes Johnston’s actions and attempts at audience involvement seem a little forced but it’s all about the fun and the songs anyway. Love does provide some background about the songs, (“Only song written about a car”, or “this song is actually very patriotic. It’s about cheerleaders.”)

At the break I ran into Paul who took me backstage to introduce me to the stage manager so I could help give a car away and understand how I fit into the whole singing with the Beach Boys thing. Problem was, nobody knows what the guys on stage are going to do. That whole laid-back California thing isn’t an act. We were looking for answers when Love happened to walk by so Paul introduced me and asked how it was going to work. After the short exchange, Love, who’s bigger than you’d think and wears about 8 rings, said “Just stand over there off-stage next to Bruce and we’ll figure it out.”

Then he went on to ask if I thought the Omni bar would be showing the UCLA game that night. “My nephew plays for the Bruins you know,” he added. I assured him that it’d be available and we chatted about the team and their chances. Then he drifted off, saying we should listen to the Symphony’s version of “In My Room.” “It’s really pretty,” he added.

So I hung around, looking at the set list and figured out it’d be about 40 minutes before they got to “Barbara Ann” the third to the last song of the night. I made it over to stage left, right by Johnston’s keyboard, under 10 feet off stage. “Help Me Rhonda” got the crowd going and Barbara Ann was just two away.

Except they skipped the song in between and went right into, “Ba ba ba, Ba Barbara Ann.”

That’s when Johnston walked off stage toward me and I figured this was it. Except he walked past me like I was invisible, circled around the curtain and the plexiglass and headed for a young, blonde violinist in the Symphony. This kind of thing has happened to me before so, although disappointed, I took it in stride.

That’s when I looked up to see Love motioning me on stage and pointing at Johnston’s microphone. I figured I’d take my chance and jumped on stage.

They were at the part in the song right after the “So I thought I’d take a chance on Barbara Ann.”

So I joined in with “Barbara Ann, take my hand, Barbara Ann, you got me rockin and a rolling rockin and a rollin Barbara Ann” in the best falsetto I could muster.

I guess it took Mike Love by surprise and I can’t figure out if he was shocked I was actually doing it or I was singing his part! Either way he was laughing, feigning shock and pointing at me.

In the next verse Johnston showed up with the violinist so I backed off and “exited stage left!”

It was great fun, I think one of those once in a lifetime experiences, I actually could hear myself, got to meet Mike Love and sang in front of the Symphony.

And I guess I have at least one cool shirt.

Sometimes I’m amused when somebody on the phone or calling into a radio show tells me that we’re not asking hard enough questions of our sports interview subjects. (I also get calls telling me to lay off.)

Covering professional and college sports means two completely different environments when dealing with players, coaches and the other media involved. College athletes are more eager, more honest and haven’t had the enthusiasm coached out of them when it comes to talking with the media. That means usually better answers but it might take some time getting that answer out of them.

The coaches are a little less wary of the media in college. Part of that comes from their tenure and from the knowledge that how they’re portrayed to the public can directly effect recruiting, fund raising and the whole perception of the program. The coaches in college are also less critical of their players, and rightly so.

There’s also a comfort level for college coaches among the media. You’d be amazed how many Florida grads/fans are in the media group covering the Gators. Same thing in Tallahassee for FSU. It’s usually a younger group and part of a pack mentality that exists among just about all media these days as well.

I’ve always thought that the key to getting good answers is asking good questions. Asking a coach or player to “talk about” anything is stupid. “Talk about your tight ends,” isn’t a question. “Are the tight ends fulfilling your expectations, blocking downfield and getting open regularly?” is a question. And that usually gets a decent answer.

Covering professional sports is a different animal. The players are coached to not give information to the media, the coaches are cynical and tight-lipped and the media horde is older, more cynical and skeptical (sometimes with good reason) and usually with an agenda.

Tuesday and Wednesday of this week were good examples in Gainesville and in Jacksonville. Tony Joiner’s arrest on a felony burglary charge was dealt with directly by Florida Coach Urban Meyer. Meyer said he was disappointed and admitted it was a distraction. “He won’t suit up as long as he has a felony charge against him,” Meyer said after practice.

There were some direct questions asked of the Gators head coach and he gave direct answers. Not a lot of beating around the bush or hemming and hawing. That’s not always the case, but in this instance, it seems like we’re getting the truth and the situation is being dealt with.

Wednesday in Jacksonville was a little different story. It was the first time the team met with the media since the Khalif Barnes incident came to light. Barnes had a well-publicized scrape with the law last year and last Wednesday left the scene of a one-car accident at 6:30 in the morning. Barnes said he was on his way to treatment at the stadium and fell asleep at the wheel. That could be a true story, or it could be false. And that’s the problem.

Jack Del Rio said he didn’t want to discuss it, that it had already been well reported and well documented. I asked him if it was customary for a player to be headed to treatment on a Saturday morning on the bye week and he said, “With Khalif’s injury he would have been required to report for treatment twice a day, every day, regardless of the day.” Then made it clear he wasn’t going to answer any more questions about it. Still, Cole Pepper asked, “In light of the recent moves by the commissioner’s office, would you suspect that Barnes might be suspended and unable to play this week?” Jack didn’t like that, but said, “I don’t think the commissioner’s office gets involved in citations but I also don’t think there is anything that would keep Khalif from being available to us this week. Now, does anybody want to talk about Kansas City?”

It’s a silly way to act, especially when it’s a developing story. Stop trying to manage the information. Just get it out there, no matter how good or bad it is and do the right thing. If he’s out of line, suspend him, fine him, or cut him. If Barnes has a problem, perhaps this is the situation that brings it to light and he can get some help before he hurts himself or someone else.

The public is getting very tired of misbehaving athletes and the slack they’ve been cut in the past. Barnes knows this, so does Del Rio and so do his teammates. Fred Taylor said it best, “If he’s gotten into trouble, he needs to use better judgment than that for himself and for his teammates. Bottom line.”

There’s a lot of talk about blackouts and fan support for the Jaguars early this season. The team avoided a blackout in their opener against Tennessee, extending the deadline and selling just under 2,000 tickets in the last week.

What’s behind the blackouts anyway, I’m asked on a regular basis.

The league has their own rule that mandates that if a game isn’t sold out 72 hours in advance of kickoff then it can’t be shown on local television. It’s supposed to encourage people to buy tickets to see the game in person.

The self-imposed rule is an extension of a law congress passed in the early ‘70’s. Before that, no local games were shown on television but the lawmakers didn’t think that was fair and said if it’s sold out three days in advance, it should be on television. When that law went away two years later, the league kept it up, hoping congress would keep their nose out of the NFL’s business. And so far they have.

There are blackouts all over the league and have been for decades. Almost no games in Los Angeles were ever sold out, so they were blacked out. And in Tampa Bay, the average attendance was around 40,000 so for a dozen years or so, nobody saw the Bucs. Games are almost never on in Miami. But here in town it’s somewhat of a new phenomenon.

People, me included, bought tickets to the games when the franchise first arrived out of civic pride. We figured it was our duty to support the effort the city made to get a team here. There was a lot of buzz about the Jaguars and the visiting team as well. When the team went to the AFC Championship game in 1996, the buzz continued. But for some reason, the Jaguars never seemed to be able to capture that. When the novelty waned, the team could only count on wins to fill the stands, and as we know, it’s a cycle that teams go through in this salary cap era.

And when the games don’t sell out, a segment of the media chastises the locals for not “supporting the cause.” I think that’s really wrong. People don’t want to be bullied into buying tickets. They want to go because it’s fun and it’s the place to be. There’s a buzz. But the Jaguars for some reason have always managed to have that “buzz-kill” when it comes to the fun people want to have.

I hear too many similar stories about trying to buy tickets or bad encounters with team administrators on the phone to think that they’re all made up. I mentioned once that they should be more “pro-active” when it comes to selling tickets at training camp. On hearing that, one senior Jaguars official asked me if I wasn’t “too old to be still having my (menstrual cycle).”

A friend went to the stadium and bought club seats season tickets and was asked “Why now?” he said, “Because you cut Byron Leftwich.” “What’s your problem with Leftwich?” the ticket seller snorted at my friend.

When the announcement was made that Leftwich was being released and David Garrard was named the starter, there was a “buzz” around town. But if you wanted to buy tickets after hearing the news at 5:30 on Friday night, sorry, the ticket office was closed until next Tuesday, after Labor Day.

The next week the office was open on the weekend and in fact up until halftime but the “buzz” was gone for many people by Tuesday. If you wanted to buy season tickets but not club seats, there aren’t any of those left, a good friend of mine was told. “But we have the four packs,” he was reminded. Only to be told, “but one is just a three pack because the Indianapolis game is sold out.” “So I can buy a season ticket but I can’t go to the Indy game?” my friend asked. “Exactly,” was the curt answer? As I said, I hear too many of these stories to not think at least part of them are true.

I know plenty of people who aren’t going to a game because of the “criminal element” in the NFL. Others need some time after a Florida, FSU or Georgia game to recover. The Jaguars haven’t developed enough of their own fan base here in town yet in order to fill the stadium. They need some of the Gator, Seminole and Bulldog nation in the stands to fill the rest of the seats.

Maybe they’ll get there, maybe they won’t. But don’t tell us we must buy tickets just because. It’s a party, not a penalty.

Isn’t it funny how interest in the Olympics ebbs and flows every four years? The Sydney Games, arguably the best games ever to attend in person were not a bit hit on television here in the United States. The Athens games, considered a potential disaster, have been very popular on television in America, up 8% from four years ago.

Maybe the hype over Michael Phelps and his quest for eight medals has helped raise the numbers in the first week. Maybe it was the gymnastics, or the fact that NBC has been showing the games all over the place. Bravo, USA Network, CNBC and their own NBC, so people can tune in almost 24 hours a day, raising interest in the prime time show every night. Or maybe the opening ceremonies were so good, that it’s inspired people to keep tuning in. Whatever it has been, the games are a big success on television.

It certainly doesn’t hurt that the Americans are all over the place when it comes to the competition. Besides Phelps, it seems that every event has an American in it with a chance to win, or at least medal. My friend Lex says the Olympics stopped being fun as soon as the Soviet Union broke up, since there was no more “us against them” mentality. That could be why the US is so competitive all over the place, since the other countries have a smaller pool of talent to draw from.

But still, the US has made a committment to being competitive in Olympic sports, creating the training center in Colorado and putting athletes in a position to succeed. Give George Steinbrenner some credit for that.

Really.

Steinbrenner was really upset in the ’80’s when it looked like we were going by the wayside when it came to the Olympics. So he prodded the USOC to do something about it, and in turn, the training center and success followed.

Still, it takes a special talent to be the best in the world, no matter what the competition. And to stand on that podium and hear the Star Spangled Banner must be a life altering experience. Nobody knows how that feels, unless you’ve been there, so that’s a pretty elite group.

NBC likes to show the medal ceremonies anytime an American wins gold, obviously their research shows that’s what viewers want. So we get to see these athletes stand on the podium in the prime of their careers, having shown they’re the best in the world while representing their country. I like it when they sing. Or even mouth the words. But how do they not cry!? Maybe they’re so caught up in the moment that it doesn’t occur to them to be emotional, but I’m sorry, I’d be crying like a baby standing there listening to the Anthem.

And the wreaths! They’re great! When the guys take them off and put them over their hearts when they’re playing the Anthem that’s enough to make any American spectators cry. The wreaths should be a permanent part of the Games, one little nod to Greece as the founding country.

So what if you don’t care about diving or fencing or track and field any other time every four years? Enjoy the games, you deserve it.