Memories
This will NOT be the type piece written by me and read by you. Rather, this piece will be a jog down the track, remembering as I go and passing along some thoughts to you. We're moving and, in the process, taking down a great many credentials and T-shirts from meets past, dinner invitations, VIP passes (tough to get) and various and sundry other items I've collected along the way. Just as the song goes, 'Every picture tells a story don't it?' my collection is the same. Every piece of plastic, every T-shirt, every old picture - tells a story, or, more accurately put, reminds me of a story which I am passing on to you. Most are humorous, at least I think so, and I hope you do as well.
It was 1988, just about my last year of coaching. I'd retired from teaching the year prior, disgusted that the new AD decided to resurface my track w/o consulting me. Vividly I recall walking out to the gleaming new surface and asking the workers, 'What size spikes can you wear on this?' The man looked up at me and replied, "Spikes? Not on this asphalt, this is street asphalt." Stunned at this incomprehensible action, I quickly realized it was time for me to move on and I left my track, my team and my school, never to return. You see, I was considered by my AD to be a pain in the ---. Why? I demanded the kids who ran track and cross country be treated just as well as those playing football, basketball, etc. When the AD attempted to shrug me off, I took my fight to the parents, asking, "Are YOUR kids just as good as anyone else? Do YOU think they should be forced to wear three-year old uniforms when the football team gets new stuff every year? Are YOU content to have them treated as second-class students?" We both know what their answer was and so they went to the Board of Education meetings and demanded answers. The Board members wanted no trouble and the track/cross country teams began getting the same budgetary treatment as the rest of the students. BUT, I became a marked man. I was…A TROUBLEMAKER! For many years I paid the price. IT WAS WORTH IT!
With my teaching-coaching career basically over, I jumped at the chance to take the offer from TRACK & FIELD NEWS to cover the Second World Junior Championships in Sudbury, Canada. It was my first Press Credential! I was a real journalist writing for the finest track and field publication in the world! My buddy JIM SPIER was with me on the trip to the Far North (about three hours from Toronto) and I convinced him not to get tickets taking us to Sudbury but to deplane in Toronto and drive the rest of the trip. "Think of what we'll see," I enthused, Moose, deer, gorgeous scenery!" Our flight was delayed and we arrived in Toronto after dark. That was 1988. To this day, Spier still reminds me of "…seeing the moose, HA!"
We arrived at our hotel about two in the morning and were informed by the clerk, "Sorry, we had to cancel your reservations. The IAAF took over the entire hotel." He then smiled and said, "Good luck on finding something, everything is pretty well booked." Spier, perhaps the greatest detail man in history, pointed out he'd booked the rooms eight weeks in advance. "Yes you did," replied the cheery clerk, "but the IAAF takes precedence, sorry." I began taking off my clothes. The clerk asked what I was doing? My answer…"Getting ready for bed. I'll sleep here on this sofa." NOW the clerk looked worried. I was now preparing to take off my pants. "Hold on" he said, with a note of alarm in his voice, "You can't do that." I continued to disrobe. He got on the phone. In ten minutes we were on our way to a better hotel at a better rate and my career as a strip-tease artist was over.
There are too many stories and I can't tell them all but one truly stands out. When we applied for our press credentials, we were had to submit enough proof of who we were to satisfy Interpol, the FBI, the Surete and whom ever else could possibly be interested. Several photographs had to be sent, birth certificates, you name it, they wanted it. Of course, we complied. We arrived at the credentialing site more than a little apprehensive, had we forgotten anything? No, we were fine. We left. Outside we met one of our sports great guys, Jack Pyrah, Assistant Coach at Villanova. "Hey', he asked, "Can I get a credential in here?"
After a few questions which indicated he hadn't applied, sent no pictures, provided no documentation of who he was, nothing – we told him he was probably out of luck. Pyrah smiled, entered the building, told them he was representing the Philadelphia Inquirer and walked out credential in hand. We were agape. Airily he asked, "Where you guys staying? I need a room." He got one at the hotel that had thrown us out the night before.
My "career" as a journalist is too long to tell every 'good' story I could. So here's what I'm going to do, I'm going to browse through this large box of credentials, at my wife's insistence, throw some (too many) away and save those with special memories, memories that bring along some great stories.
Here's one, the World Cross Country Championships in Stellenbosch, South Africa. Here's my problem, there are too many great stories! As much as I'd love to, I can't tell them all. Now I may meet up with some of you older gents along the way and over a few pints I may find the time to tell a few more than are here, especially some of the…forget those, not important.
Stellenbosch begins a year earlier in Durham, England at the same event, the World Cross. I met a terrific fellow, great conversationalist, and we settled in at a lovely bar to talk and enjoy the priceless English beer. I digress, forgive me. No country in the world offers better beer than Great Britain. In the smaller towns and villages, one enters a rather smoky pub and immediately eyes a large chalk-board on which are listed 8-10 different libations. OLD TOMMYS BEST – 14.8 – and the price. MARY'S LOVE – 17.6; THE LAME DOG'S PAW – 22.5, etc. Each is a brew made by the locals in very small quantities, far too little to sell nationally. So you have these splendid beverages not to be found elsewhere. The number listed above is the alcoholic content for each brand. And, the higher the alcoholic content, the higher the price.
I fancy a LAME DOG and pay. The beefy (all British bartenders are 'beefy) gent behind the bar asks for my name. I extend my hand while thinking what a friendly guy, he takes it and then writes my name on a list on a second chalkboard with the letters "P" and "Q" atop the board. There are 5-6-7 names and mine is added to the list. Puzzled, I stare quizzically, my confusion apparent. The man next to me, smiles and says, "A Yank eh?" I nod and he continues, "Well, Mike (my name is at the bottom of the list) Have you heard the expression 'Mind your P's and Q's? "Yes," I answer. "Do ye know what it means?" It dawns on me; I'd often heard my Grandmother say it to my Dad and others while they played pinochle at the kitchen table. It refers to 'pints' and 'quarts' typically the way beer is served in Great Britain. Each time you order a pint/quart, a mark is made beside your name. When the marks start to mount up, the bartender says to the drinker, "Mind your p's and q's now." Thus, an instant sobriety checks.
Sorry for the digression but I think it was worth it. Anyway, my friend and I decide to skip the official visit to some castle to view several historic tapestries and to continue our conversation. He asks, "Will you be in Stellenbosch next year?" "God willing, I'll be there," is my reply. We finish up and go our separate ways.
Fast forward to 1993. I've arrived at my destination after a splendid flight, window seat on the second story of a BAA 757 (I think) and head to a VIP reception for the Press and other, far more important luminaries. While sipping a glass of absolutely wonderful white wine, I am introduced to the wife of the Honorary Secretary of the IAAF Treasury, lovely woman. In the course of the conversation she asks where I'm from in the States. "A little town you've never heard of, I'm sure. Culpeper, Virginia." Immediately her husband turns and says, "Culpeper, Lee camped there prior to leaving for Antietam. The following year his command was involved in the largest cavalry engagement ever fought in the Western Hemisphere, after which he left for Gettysburg. Culpeper, quite a bit of history." I stand there, jaw loose, mouth open, speechless! He knew more about my town than I did!
I'm browsing through a large box of press credentials ferreting out those that strike a chord. Here's one that brings back memories, SEOUL, 1992. Jim had taken over the announcing job and I'm along for the ride. The Koreans are the most inflexible people on Earth and it seems I MUST have an official position. Accordingly, I'm appointed as the Press Box Coordinator. Within the Press Box there are always three announcers, one representing the IAAF speaking French, the second from the host nation, speaking the native language and the third, and chief announcer, appointed by the IAAF and speaking English. All three know what the protocol is so I have little to do. One of the quirky items, the weather. For some reason announcing the weather is of vital importance to our Korean host. Thus, every fifteen-twenty minutes or so, he leans over, smiles apologetically and says to Jim, "Jeem, weather please, weather."
Things go quite well…almost. On about the second or third day, our hosts invite a representative from each nation to a VIP luncheon. Attendance is almost mandatory. Since Jim and I are the only Americans, one of us must attend. Jim is the logical choice but Jim hates these things and will be forced to miss the opening of the meet, something he cannot do being the Chief Announcer. Thus, I will attend.
I arrive at the luncheon room dressed to go to work immediately after this affair, shorts, golf type shirt and Nike sneakers. I enter the room and am an object of instant and intense scrutiny, everyone is wearing a dark blue suit (all expensive), regimental tie (also expensive) and black dress shoes. I panic. I look frantically for a seat. One is open next to one of the elegantly dressed gentleman. With a sigh of relief I slip into the chair. On the other side of me is a lovely woman who serves as the IAAF Press Secretary. She looks at me slightly askance but says nothing.
We chat and I strike up a conversation next to the blue suit next to me. When his attention is elsewhere I quietly ask my other seat mate who is my new friend is? She looks at me with an amused look on her face and tells me, "He's the President of Korea." I fill my pants with razor blades! Have I committed some unpardonable breach of international etiquette? Timidly I apologize to him for my lack of deference. With a huge smile he reassures me I've done nothing of the kind and he's enjoyed our conversation immensely. I relax.
As the luncheon draws to a close, he rises and proposes a toast. We all sip from our champagne flutes. I turn to the IAAF lady and ask would it be proper for me to also propose a toast? I'll never forget her response, "Why not? You've done everything else wrong!" Thus encouraged, I rise and tap my glass with a spoon, the room quiets, the President smiles broadly and, raising my glass, I say, "To Korea, may her glorious past be exceeded by the greatness of her future," The room erupts in applause, the President gives me a hug and I escape with my pride intact and the honor of my country upheld. That night when we return to our room, a case of delicious Korean wine has been delivered. The note accompanying it reads (and I'm reading it now as I write this) "Thank you for a most interesting luncheon. Enjoy."
On that note I'll stop; more in a few days. Enjoy.
