Temporary Permanent Vacation

Goodbye cruel world. I’m leaving you today. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

This will be the last post for a little while. I’m going on vacation. Which means I’m disappearing. I’m getting away from the world. Putting a giant "Do Not Disturb" sign on my existence. Most won’t hear from me until I come back in three weeks. If I come back. (Don't worry, I always return, even if I don't want to).

Now, I’m not exactly disappearing. Anybody who knows me knows where I’ll be. Finding me or reaching me will be another story. I hope to avoid checking my email. I may not even answer the phone, if I’m even inside enough to hear it ring.

I’m going to be so out of the loop that I won’t have SportsCenter for three weeks. I won’t have cable news. I won’t have Countdown with Keith Olbermann or Hardball with Chris Matthews.

If something significant happens in the world and I’m unaware of it, it is often because it happens during this time of year. There will be a players traded in some sport or some news breaking somewhere. Because my absorption of the news will be to a lesser extent, those details just may elude me.

Who knows, maybe John McCain will have learned how to use the Internet by then or maybe even discovered that Czechoslovakia no longer exists. The way he's been changing positions, and copying Obama, McCain might even be a left wing liberal by the time I return.

Maybe Brett Favre will have made up his mind and we'll be spared the daily babble about his on/off retirement.

Maybe Manny Ramirez will be through with his annual summer tantrum and be ready to play for a contract and/or a World Series title.

Maybe the Red Sox will find some middle relief help.

Maybe I'll be excited about the start off football season and not be reminded of the Super Bowl everytime the Patriots are mentioned.

I'm not going to be disturbed by all that between now and early August. I'm not going to worry too much about politics. I'm not going to think about work. I'll follow sports little by little. I might do some projects around the house, but only if I'm really bored. These will be weeks for drinking - not thinking.

When I return, I'm sure I'll have plenty of things to say on my blog. Maybe I'll make an election prediction. I could size up the VP stakes, if they haven't been selected by then. I'm sure I'll be able to spout of about this or that. Lacking for words or an opinion is hardly a concern for me.

For the next few weeks, all that will matter to me is where I should go on my bike? Where should I go in my kayak? What boats trips with my brother are in store? Is today a grill day? Which concert DVD should I chose - the White Stripes, Saw Doctors, Social Distortion, U2, REM, Dropkick Murphy’s, David Gilmour, Bodeans? Do I play my guitar or my mandolin? Which books do I read? What should I concoct in the kitchen? What kind of cocktail should I make?

It should be a time where my blood pressure drops significantly while my level of happiness soars. I will leave much of my everyday world behind, and most of it, I won’t miss.

At this point, I barely have any plans for my three-week hiatus. I may take in Lou Gramm’s appearance in Rockland. He’s the former lead singer of Foreigner. I hope to take my bike on the ferry to Islesboro, North Haven or Vinalhaven. There’s a gathering of friends that I may attend, even if it means a lengthy drive inland. Otherwise, I’ll see what each day and its weather offers and go from there.

During the spring months when I’m working and preparing my cottage, it are weeks like these that are the payoff. That work is done. Now, it is time to kick back, relax and enjoy the place and forget about everything else. Life will be a beach for the next three weeks.

So, goodbye cruel world. I’m leaving you today. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Get Your Motor Runnin'

This week, I’m a gearhead. Vrooom!!!!
Okay, maybe I’m not much of a gearhead. But, this week is the T.D. Banknorth 250, the richest short track race in these parts. For our coverage area, it’s one of the biggest events of the year. That means this week, we’re all focused on auto racing. Of course, some of us are also focused on an impending vacation, which begins as soon as my computer is packed, and I walk out the door of the press box at the Oxford Plains Speedway.
I’ve said in the past that I’ve always wanted to write an autobiography, but I didn’t know anything about cars.
A lack of motor skills becomes a bit of a hurdle this week. I’m writing about a sport I don’t know a whole heck of a lot about. Yet, being a good reporter means you either know you’re stuff extremely well, or you can pretend that you do. This week it is the latter.
It used to be most of us didn’t have to worry about the Turn Left people. They could go around in circles endlessly, and we wouldn’t care. We had a person that covered the sport and handled all the auto racing coverage on his own. He spared the rest of us the task. That’s not the case anymore.
We have four writers working on various stories. All of us will be at the race Sunday. We’ll have a couple of photogs there as well. Over a third of the press box will be filled by our people. It’s nice that once a year we can flaunt our numbers and destroy the competition.
This has meant that auto racing has to be part of my lexicon. My duty in recent years has been to cover the big name Sprint Cup drivers that come to the track to help bring in fans. It has been Kurt Busch, Matt Kenseth, Kyle Busch, Denny Hamlin, Terry LaBonte, Ricky Craven and Kevin LePage. (That's me lurking beneath the stands in the photo above as LePage's car goes by). This year it will be Kevin Harvick. It’s a bit comical that all these race fans go ga-ga over seeing these guys. Me, I’ve got to talk to them and barely know who they are. Though, since I first started covering the 250, I have paid attention a little more to the sport. I’m certainly more knowledgeable than I was, almost to the point that it scares me sometimes.
I also do a feature here or there on some of the local drivers and work up some other stories or notebook items. I usually have three or four stories during the week leading up to the race and another two or three on Sunday. This year, I’m slated for just one Sunday, a story on Harvick’s day. I’ll probably come up with some notebook stuff as well, just for fun.
It actually has become an event I look forward to. It makes for a long day. I get to the track around 10:30 a.m. and leave somewhere after 11 p.m.. I end up walking a couple miles between trips from the press box around the track to the pit area. I’ll make that trek three or four times in a day.
One year, I was on the infield during the race doing a story on Kyle Busch’s pit crew. It was the only time I truly had a deadline story to write after the race. After Busch’s engine blew midway through the race, I was able to sit in the dark on the infield and write out a story in a notebook as the race wound down. Afterwards, I had about 20 minutes to get back to the press box and get the story filed for Page 1.
It’s a chaotic atmosphere to say the least. I’ve been there during practice sessions the Saturday prior to race day and returned the next day to feel the intensity revved to the max. With engine’s roaring, people on edge, crowds of fans and a lot of money at stake, the atmosphere in the pit area is other worldly. A wrong step could get somebody miffed, get me yelled at or get me run over. Or all of the above in one instant.
Talking to auto racing people is a different experience as well. Needless to say, I don’t get too indepth about racing and all the ins and outs. When racers get talking about their cars and their races, they often talk in a language most wouldn’t understand. They don’t even use technical terms like thingamajig or doohickey. It’s kind of like when skiers or surfers talk in their own gnarly jargon. At least hockey players just talk normal, with the exception of an ability to use curse words in the most creative of ways.
It can be a challenge on this beat to tell a story accurately, completely and without making a fool of myself. Fortunately, I’m pretty versatile, and I like the challenge of covering something I’m unfamiliar with. My goal is to do it so well that you can’t even tell I know nothing of what I write. Of course, when I do that, I just get assigned more of it.
This week has been light compared to other years. I had the press luncheon on Monday and got some interviews done. One feature is already written and ready to run. I’ll finish off another preview feature tomorrow. I interview Harvick on Friday and then will likely do something on his practice sessions Saturday. Then, Sunday, is race day.
Being a reporter is about wanting to cover the big events. You want to be there and write about the games or races that everybody is interested in and talking about.
So, I'll get my previews done. Pick out a computer. Find my earplugs and become a true gearhead for the day. I'll get my motor running and get revved up for Sunday's action.
Then, on Monday, I'll put it in neutral and go on vacation.

Come Sail Away

I loathe a parade.
When I think about parades, I recall navigating around Wiscasset on the Fourth of July or trying to outrun the frenzied parade crowds at Disneyland (Come on Goofy, take my hand, lead me to the world of self).
To me, parades typically mean crowds and traffic jams. Both tend to push me over the edge.
As a kid, I might have enjoyed them. Hey, people dressing up in costumes and throwing candy to me gets my attention and interest.
But the only fond parade memories I've had lately have been at championship parades for the New England Patriots and the Portland Pirates. What made those pleasant were that I didn't even see the parades. I had VIP access, hung out by the stage where the ceremonies were and had little hassle to deal with - other than the confetti in my hair. And, I got paid for it.
Friday, however, I found a parade even I like. The only traffic hassle was finding a parking spot in Rockport. The rest of it was smooth sailing, literally.
I went to the annual Schooner Parade in Rockland. Two years ago, I watched it from the end of the Rockland Breakwater. I was going to do that again, but the salty air and possibility of being on the water was too tempting for me. The schooner Heron was going to take part in the parade and they welcomed me - and my credit card- along.
It was a great way to watch all the schooners in action, and I got four hours of sea time as part of the deal. Anytime I'm floating (unless it's face down), life is good.
We sailed out of Rockport at 12:30. I'd never been on the Heron before, but it's a small two-masted schooner that was built by its owner. It does three hours sails in the afternoons and evening all summer. The captain is called Twig. Yes, it was Twig and Squig on the Brig.
It's a neat, sleek boat, and it was fun to sail on. It was in stark contrast to the behemoth Victory Chimes, of which I'm a proud member of the Captain's Club. I couldn't help but laugh when a person from away helped Twig with the halyards and raise the sails. It was a simple two-man operation. The helper was a bit winded and wasn't sure if he should have volunteered to have to work so hard. On the Victory Chimes, it takes over a dozen of us to raise the three sails. On the Heron, Twig had one of his young daughter's help with the headsails.
Being accustomed to the large deck space of the Chimes, the tight confines of the Heron made it a challenge to maneuver, especially on the bow where the boom of the staysail and I were dancing and jousting all afternoon. I only got hit in the back once and ducked just in time later when it was swinging for my head as I tried to change my camera's media card amidst a tack. Of course, there were no famous Chimes frozen turkeys on the loose either. (You have to be a Chimes veteran to know why that's funny!)
Once the schooners all lined up for their numerous sails past the Breakwater, we got in line as well. Most of the windjammer fleet were there. There were also some small sailboats and plenty of motor boats, kayaks and working vessels dodging each other. It was vessels galore.
Armed with my camera, I bounced between the port and starboard side of the bow, ducking and dodging the boom with every move. Everywhere I looked there were schooners. At one moment, I was torn between shooting this one or that one.
It kind of reminded me of when I'd shoot concert photos. Tour managers would typically allow me two or three songs to get some shots. Then I'd be moved out from in front of the stage. It would be a frenzied few minutes of shooting pictures. Fortunately, schooners mug for the cameras more like Kiss than turn away from them like Alannis Morrissette. I was in constant motion shooting whatever floated by.
I used up most of my digital media, about 200-plus photos, and most of my battery life. At one point, I tried to save on media space by vowing to not take anymore photos of the Chimes, since I have a ton of them already. By late afternoon, we were on our way back to Rockport while the other schooners were anchoring up inside the Breakwater.
Twig's wife brought in the headsails and furled them up. Twig and his daughter's handled the other sails. On the Chimes, it takes close to a dozen on each sail to do the furling, especially if we're trying to reign in the sails amidst a sudden squall in the Fox Island Thorofare. I think we lost one passenger that day when they got swallowed up in the canvas and was never found. More appetizers for the rest of us!!!
I've been watching the schooner parade/schooner races since I was a kid. We'd go out in my Dad's boat and zip around all the vessels. I even have one of those trips on video. The tape ends with the rumble of thunder and my Dad saying "I think we better get out of here." We raced back to Owls Head and got ashore just before the clouds opened up and poured.
I've watched a couple from the Breakwater as well. Two years ago, my brother and I raced up in his boat and watched from the dock. We charged tourists $5 to have their photos taken by the descendants of real lighthouse keepers. Okay, we didn't do that, but we should have.
This experience was different from all of those. It offered a very unique perspective. Even in a motor boat, you can't really be part of the action like you can when you're on a sailing vessel. We'd sail side by side with other schooners and take pictures of people taking pictures of us. I'm sure their photos are better than mine - because I'll be in their photos.
There's just nothing like being on a vessel like that. For those few hours, all that mattered was where the wind was blowing, where the other boats were, what made for a good photo and where I was in relationship to the boom - and the cookies. I can't think of anything that makes me happier. All last week, my back bothered me because I strained it the previous Sunday. That's why exercise should be outlawed. Yet, during those four hours on the water, my back didn't bother me once.
It was a great escape. It helped me escape stress and frustrations instead of be the cause of them. Not many parades can do that.

*By the way, the story on the Chimes frozen turkey is a classic tale of the sea. A loose frozen turkey, dropped by a crew member, rolls down the deck and injures a passenger. That person had to be airlifted off the boat because of clotting. The spouse threatened to sue, and the Captain had to file a report with the Coast Guard because of the rescue call. Fortunately, the turkey passed the required drug test. Like the Captain's Uncle Enoch stories, it's a tale I've heard numerous times but laugh hysterically with every telling.

Well, Doggie

Now this is the kind of campaign promise we need.

I heard Barack Obama’s interview with his wife and daughters the other day. It was revealed that Obama has made the promise that when the election is over, win or lose, the reward will be a dog.

Now, I wasn’t quite sure if that’s a promise of a dog for all of us or to just his kids. I’ll have to look into that because I don’t want to miss out. I’m still steamed because I didn’t get my free taco that Jacoby Ellsbury won for me with a stolen base in the World Series.

Anyway, if a presidential candidate is dangling the possibility of a dog as a campaign promise, he’s likely going to get my vote.

Sure, health care would be nice. Lower gas prices would be helpful. World peace, well that’s not going to happen. Racial harmony, dream on. A vibrant economy would be good, but that won’t entice my cheap employers to throw me anymore coin. So, I know the one way a candidate can truly come through for me is to get me a dog.

I’ll even make up signs. I’m "Barking for Barack". Or "I’m voting for John McCainine".

Obama's already on the record about the dog. I’m waiting for McCain to up the ante. Maybe he can provide me the exact kind of dog I want. It has to either be a German shepherd, that I will name Schultz (as in Sergeant Schultz - I know nothing) or a golden lab or retriever, that I will name Jethro (as in Bodine).

If McCain can make that promise, I might be tempted to sell my soul and actually vote for the Grand OLD Party. But, I’m not counting my dog biscuits quite yet.

Of course, there’s more to the promise than just getting a dog. If I wanted a dog, I'd just go out and buy one. It’s more complicated than that.

I’d need a new job. My work schedule and travels just aren’t conducive to caring for a pooch. Though a German Shepherd would come in handy at a soccer game when some crazed mother wants to complain about why I didn't mention little Susie's name enough times. They'd have to talk to Schultz.

I’d also need a new place to live. I can’t have pets where I’m at now. I’d need more money. Rover’s got to eat, and Squiggy’s got to bring home the Alpo. There’s the added responsibility. The only creature I’ve had to care for and be responsible for is me - and those results are certainly mixed.

So, if a candidate will promise me a dog and assure me of all the other conditions, they’ll get my vote. Let the debate begin.

And, by the way, if you’re running for the Senate, you better be promising me some flea powder.

Squiggy Clean

Time to come clean.

There's been a bit of talk about steroids regarding "older" athletes recently.

With Dara Torres' recent success in the U.S. Swimming Olympic Trials, the debate raged over whether she is just a physical phenomenon or a juiced up Mom with swim fins. One sports talking head went so far to say that we're in such an era now that anybody over a certain age has to be suspected of using when their achievements are so great. That must include me, since I'm a year older than Torres.

So, with that I'm mind, I thought maybe I should make an announcement. I'm clean. It's all me baby. All that I do and all that I accomplish is not a result of me juicing up, pumping up, popping pills, using the clear or any other enhanced substance. I'm just a unique being and freak of nature. I've avoided the roid because I haven't needed them.

Some might wonder how that can be. I’m faster than a speeding mullet. More powerful than the locomotion. I’m able to leap into tall buildings in a single bound.

The speed and magic of my fingers working a keyboard has to be fueled by something. My ability to run a 17-minute mile (on a treadmill) certainly creates speculation.

I can literally row circles in my Sea Goomer. That can't be natural.

I almost passed a car on my bike the other day. Of course, I was cruising downhill and the guy driving the car ahead of me was like 100-something, braking all the way.

I can lift weights, 12 ounces at a time, without getting tired. Heck, I can even lift them when I'm tired.

I bet I can still hit that free throw where I stand back to the basket and shoot the ball facing the opposite hoop. It might take a few tries, but I know a girl that witnessed me hit that shot. Too bad it was the only thing I ever did that truly impressed her.

I still produce a mean pass rush, especially when its my overly anxious four-foot-high nephew that will heave the ball when I start chasing him and growling at the same time.

I can still blast a whiffle ball high into the tree tops and do my home run dance.

Yes, I may possess unbelievable physical gifts, but I'm just your average multi-talented, overly blessed, skilled, intelligent and modest award-winning sports scribe.

There are no needles with my DNA on them - no underage country singers with my DNA on them either. There's no trace of cream on my body, other than sour, ice, whipped or Bailey's Irish - and most of that evidence is internal. I don't like taking pills. I don't like injections. So, if I don't want needles sticking me in the arm, I'm not going to get poked in other places either.

Skeptics will certainly argue, "But you've got a huge head. That has to be steroids." No, I just have a large head, thank in part to genetics - to house my large brain and immense intelligence.

I don't suffer roid rage. I suffer from a temper that might go off if somebody presses the wrong button. Remember, don't frig with Squig.

My body is a temple (okay, maybe a temple of doom). I'm typically careful about what I drink and eat. No, seriously, I am. The only liquids I drink are water, milk and juice. No soda. No sports drinks. No energy drinks. I hardly drink coffee. I do make an occasional exception for beverages of an alcoholic nature or even a bowlful, especially if it's on fire. I rarely eat red meat. I rarely eat eggs. I've often checked out at the grocery store and had cashiers comment how much healthy stuff I buy. No, I'm not kidding.

So when my body is a bastion of healthfulness and cleanliness, there is no need to clutter it up with artificial enhancement. I'm all natural. I'm juice-free, pills-free, roids-free and guilt free. Thought I'd clear up any rumours or speculation.

The Forbidden Fruit

It couldn’t happen to a better fruit.

The tomato has recently been tainted by reports of salmonella. The world is now avoiding it. If fast food places like McDonald’s and Burger King, the bastions of healthy eating, are concerned, that can’t be good.

Welcome to the club everybody.

I’ve been at odds with the tomato for decades. Superman has Kryponite. Squigman has the tomato.

It might stun many to hear that the tomato makes me shudder at the mere thought of one.

Yes, this is the same guy that will eat jalapeno peppers like peanuts, will chomp on a habanero on a dare or take a bite out of raw lemons (stating that if they’re good enough for Stonewall Jackson, they’re good enough for me). Heck, I’ll gladly tip a bottle of Tabasco or Frank's hot sauce and chug it down or slam whatever cocktail friends think of to put in a shot glass for me. (But, I'm partial to kamikaze's, if you're taking notes - and buying)

But, you won’t likely see me eat a tomato.

When the recent news broke about the tainted tomatoes, my Mother reminded me and advised “Don’t buy any tomatoes.” I replied, “I never do.”

Now this phobia goes way back. When I was a kid, I loved tomatoes. I’d put sugar on them and eat them willingly. Then - I can recall it clearly to this day - sitting at a picnic table at my grandfather’s house in South Portland. There were tomatoes for the eating. As I went to devour one, I discovered a bug crawling inside it. I can’t recall what kind of bug it was, but that was the end of my taste for tomatoes - and bugs.

To be honest, I’ve come a long way since then. I will actually eat cherry or grape tomatoes. Even though I’d be hard pressed to pop one in my mouth whole. If I cut them up and mix them in a salad or something, they’re fine. I’ll even slice a large tomato to put on a sandwich or chop up for whatever I’m cooking.

The basic rule of thumb seems to be, if I can’t see it, I’ll eat it.

My father always hated sour cream and vinegar. He’d cringe at the thought of either. But, he’d often eat things with either ingredient, or both, if he wasn’t aware they were in the food item he was eating. He’d gladly enjoy something that had sour cream or vinegar in it, but then complain something was “sour” when it didn’t have either.

Apparently, this hot little tomato doesn’t fall far from the vine. I’m kind of the same way, I guess. If tomatoes are mixed in with foods or I can’t see them, I’ll eat them fine - even when I know they’re there. Yet, just the thought of taking a sliced tomato and eating it sends chills up my spine.

My list of things I’d have to be really drunk to do might not even include eating a tomato. Because no matter how many shots, Scorpion Bowls or Pearl Harbors I drink, I’m pretty sure you couldn’t get me to eat a tomato.

I don’t know why such a seemingly minor trauma at a young age has made the tomato the scourge of my diet. Hey, if I could explain the reasoning behind a lot of things I do, I might be a bit more normal - and boring.

I bet if I found a bug in something now, it wouldn’t faze me in the least. I’d just look for the hot sauce.

But for those of you that have been forced to give up tomatoes because of this Sal Monella guy and his tainted fruit, don’t worry. You won’t miss it. Just kick back with a Guinness, pop a couple jalapeno’s, wash them down with some Frank's hot sauce and try a couple lemon wedges for dessert. Now that’s good eating.

Almost Famous

I see famous people.
The other day, my job was to drive to Portland, wait around, talk to Abby Wambach, drive home and write a story about it. It was as matter of fact as that.
As I thought about the assignment that day, I realized that it really didn't faze me in the least that I was interviewing somebody famous. Wambach is one of the premier soccer players in the world. The only thing that made it different than interviewing somebody else was that I had to go through PR people to arrange to talk to her. Other than that, we sat down and chatted for a few minutes and went on our separate ways. She was a great interview and very nice. I even heard a commercial on TV the next day touting soccer, and I recognized her voice before seeing her face on the tube.
In my line of work, I talk to famous people somewhat regularly. At least a couple times a year, depending on various assignments. In fact, the place I interviewed Wambach was the same spot at Hadlock Field in Portland where I interviewed Olympic wrestler Rulon Gardner a few years ago.
It's a funny thing this job is. Because of my employment, I can walk up to people and ask them questions. Sometimes the people answering the questions are famous. If I had another line of work, it probably wouldn't be acceptable practice to walk up to Abby Wambach and talk to her about the future of Women's Pro Soccer or ask Terry LaBonte about how his car is running or ask Sidney Crosby about the game that night. When I interviewed Crosby, while still a player in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, he was surrounded by fans, autograph seekers and gawkers. Yet, I was the only one in that bunch he was talking to. Same with Denny Hamlin. He had won a race the night before and rushed to Maine for the T.D. Banknorth 250. After waiting for his security guy to let me talk to him, I took matters in my own impatient hands and stalked him to the concession stand and forced myself through the crowd of fans to talk to him. Talk about the power of the pen.
Sometimes, I even get to ask stupid questions. Like, asking Kyle Bush how he handled the lobster he had at lunch or asking Adam Vinatieri how well he can kick wearing L.L. Bean boots. (he didn't know, he'd just gotten the boots that morning). I even got to ask Deion Branch about his opinion on Robert Kraft's dancing. I even got to ask the Hanson brothers (the Slapshot guys) serious questions.
Whenever I get these kinds of assignments, I can't help but think how ordinary fans would envy me. When I've talked to race car drivers at Maine's biggest car race each summer, fans will be hovering around various pit garages waiting for autographs and pictures. There I am being escorted through the ropes to talk to Kyle Busch, Kurt Busch, Matt Kenseth or whoever. I remember the year Kurt Busch was there to race. I hung around his garage the day before the race as he practiced and tinkered with his car. A photographer and I stood around discussing how they had sent "Dumb and Dumber" to cover it. Not sure which one I was. Neither of us had ever heard of Kurt Busch a month prior to that, yet there we were hanging out around his pit crew, something real race fans would love to do. One year, I was even stationed trackside with Kyle Busch's pit crew during the race.
When I was covering the Portland Pirates and pro hockey, I dealt with hockey players all the time. They're the greatest. They're all down to earth and most I've talked to have been pleasures to deal with. To me, Olaf Kolzig isn't the NHL goaltender. He's Olie the goalie, the guy I met while he was trying to photo copy his taxes.
At the NHL All-Star game in Boston many years ago, I was down there to do a story on former University of Maine star Paul Kariya. Then I was working on a story about a potential Major Junior League team coming to Maine. So I talked to a number of players that once played in that league like Denis Savard, Martin Brodeur, Ray Bourque and Mario Lemieux. Many of them were very cooperative and interested in discussing the potential of that league in the United States.
There have been some that haven't been so great to deal with. One of the first times I went down to an NHL game in Boston, I was hoping to talk to Wayne Gretzky about his team's goaltender, who had played in Portland in previous seasons. I didn't bother with the media cluster around Gretzky in the locker room, hoping I might catch him for a one-on-one later. That didn't happen. I ended up chasing him down the hall, but he was rushing out of the building. Such is the case with stars of that caliber. I might still have it all on tape. Me trying to get his attention, and him saying "I got to go. I got to go." I think I even put that on my answering machine once.
The worst had to be former Cincinnati Red George Foster. He was part of a barnstorming baseball team. I tried to talk to him following a game at the University of Maine. He stood by his locker cracking jokes, trying to act tough and cool in an attempt to avoid me. I gave him a disgusted look as if I was saying "Hey, are you willing to talk to me or not?" I asked a question or two and then walked away, figuring I'm not going to waste my time with him.
Most big names aren't like that. You don't have the trust and report you might have with a local athlete or coach, but the famous athletes know the game as well. They know if you talk enough and say what we might want to hear, we might get what we want and leave them alone. They know if they're respectful of me, I'll be respectful of them.
That's why interviewing a personality like that usually isn't that special. Famous people are just people - that are famous. I have to treat them as such and vice versa. I can't go in all giddy and awe struck because I'm talking to some celebrity.
When I had that interview with Rulon Gardner, earlier that evening our intern photographer asked to have her picture taken with him. I couldn't help but cringe. I want to be professional, ask good questions and not make myself look like an idiot. But, that's usually my goal with whoever I deal with. Sometimes I'm even three for three, but something looking or acting like an idiot comes naturally.
If anything, maybe they should be excited to talk to me. Afterall, there's only one Poison Pen. I thought getting interviewed by me might have made Abby Wambach's day, but then I realized that she had met Slugger the Sea Dog and had her picture taken with him. Unfortunately, we all take a back seat to Slugger in that regard.