How Did I Get So Busy?

Football season is only two weeks old, and I think I already need some rest. It wasn’t that long ago I was complaining about being restless and bored. Two nights ago, I was pressed into duty as a public address announcer for two games at a local stadium. Then, the next night I was out until almost midnight hosting a local radio show.



Somehow, I was convinced to return to the airwaves for a Friday night scoreboard show. I thought I left sports broadcasting to get away from all that. (?)
It’s been fun, but I looked up and realized that if you combine the age of my broadcast partners, I’m still older than they are. Ouch. I guess it’s keeping me young.



Then, earlier today I was in the broadcast booth to call a game live on the radio. Let me think about this a little more. Didn’t I leave all this behind?



The real answer is, I guess not. This only happens during football season, and that’s how I like it.
It’s been a long day. I had to change clothes in a downtown parking lot in the middle of the afternoon in order to be appropriately dressed for the football game. I was up at the crack o’ dawn, hanging around the banks of the Red River as one of the announcer/ hosts for a dragon boat festival.

It was a spectacular late summer day, the festival was rollicking and the races were intensely competitive.


The best news: my beautiful bride volunteered to work in a booth near me for several hours, so at least we got to be together.


I’ve had fun, done a little community volunteer work and earned some walking-around money while immersing myself in sports. Who’s complaining? Not me, although I’m kind of sick of the sound of my own voice.
I need a nap.

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Who Dat Fraid O' Dem Automatic Weapons?

(Miami) - How crazy are these people? Ear-splitting "Who Dat?" chants are now filling the concourses. Security forces, replete with body armor and automatic weapons, were surrounded by Saints fans and bullied into submission. The people WOULD NOT LEAVE THEM ALONE until at least one of them responded with a "Who Dat?" of his own. The guy with the gun meekly muttered a "Who Dat?" and he was met with a raucous ovation. Then, the crowd moved on.
It's Carnival season, and a Black and Gold version of Mardi Gras is spreading across the place. People are simply taking leave of their senses. I ran into my boy Jay from Bossier City. This man is a highly-respected surgeon, but this week, he's simply a fan.
From his seat, he can stare right into the CBS Sports broadcast position. He's thrilled to be here.
Meantime, the teams are coming onto the field for pregame warm-ups and Colts fans are finding their voice. "Let's Go, Colts!" is their chant. Somehow, it's missing a a little character.
Now, let me take these beads off and get ready for the Super Bowl.

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The Streets are Crowded and So Is the Sky

(Miami) - We have arrived at the facility formerly known as Joe Robbie Stadium four and a half hours before kickoff. Fortunately, a big bus brought a gaggle of us here and dropped us off near the security checkpoint. Ah, Security. It is thorough. I have been patted down, wanded, inspected and eyeballed. This was to be expected and is the major reason we chose to arrive so early.
I would hate to be an air traffic controller in south Florida today. There are blimps and airplanes circling the stadium. There are also intimidating black military helicopters.My perch is not near my TV friends, but I was on the bus with Roy Lang from the local newspaper and we had time for a pre-game buddy photo:
Naturally, the streets around the stadium are clogging quickly. People are starting to stream into the parking lots. For the first time, we saw more Colts fans than Saints fans, but I suspect that's temporary. Each team got an identical number of tickets, but it wold be a safe bet to believe Saints fans have been willing to pay a higher price on the secondary market to witness history being made.
Adrenaline is starting to build. Looking forward to watching this place fill up.

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I Can Feel My Fingers Again!

Thirty-six hours after a trip to the northeast region of Our Great Nation, full sensation has finally returned to my extremities. The most recent travel adventure basically made no sense on its face, but what good adventure really does? The primary objective was to witness the Army-Navy game, a long-standing tradition that encompasses much more than just college football. The game is played in Philadelphia, so naturally we flew into Washington, DC. Flying into Philly would be too easy!
There were practical and emotional reasons to visit the DC area. I was invited on the trip by a Naval Academy graduate and he wanted to walk around the Annapolis, Maryland campus. Along the way, we also picked up one of his navy friends who lives in suburban Washington.
While anticipating the trip, I should admit several aspects of it intimidated me. My friend had twelve tickets, so my math told me I would be in the company of ten strangers. That’s tough enough, but what really got me was the prospect of days of cold weather. Living 49 years in Louisiana does not necessarily prepare you well for daytime temperatures below freezing. I get the idea of dressing in layers and I knew I wouldn’t die of exposure or lose fingertips to frostbite, but still I was preparing to enter an unfamiliar and (to me) somewhat hostile environment. Moreover, as accustomed as I am to weekenders, shoving all that cold-weather gear into my carry-on bag was some kind of spatial challenge.
I’m happy to say I made it happen and survived the frigid conditions; but I felt them. The Naval Academy sits on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, and while those shores were sunny they were also blustery! Ambient temperatures below 30 degrees with a wind whipping off the water at 25-30 knots does not create a great sense of comfort for a guy like me. I’m glad I saw it all, though. The city is quaint and beautiful. The academy is impressive. I know beyond any doubt that it’s a lifestyle in which I could never have thrived, but I’m grateful and immensely respectful of those who have made it.
When I got back to Louisiana, I was free from the layers which had bound me for several days. I was never more thrilled to put on a sweatshirt and khaki shorts to walk around my neighborhood. I’d like to thank all those rock-solid sailors and Marines who endured the academy and played a part in giving me the ability and freedom to do it.

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Holiday Gift From the Blogoshphere

Imagine my surprise when I stumbled across this:

(Click the link above for the original post and click here for my only previous on-line admission about my involvement in all this.)
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
True Tales of Growing Up Southern: Dialing for Dollars

Chances of winning money while you are eating dinner at home are pretty slim. Still there was a chance and that's why my dad tuned to the local evening news during dinner. My teen-aged sisters and I circled round the big kitchen table. Mom had made fried chicken or spaghetti or chicken and rice casserole. Dad took his reserved seat and we said a quick prayer. If we'd timed everything just right, the local news was nearly over and Wheel of Fortune was on its heels.

Let me point out that having a TV in the dining area was against much of what our family believed in. But the lure of easy money was hard to resist. Each evening, at the end of the local news broadcast, a gifted anchorman named Darrell Rebouche reeled us in with his Dialing for Dollars segment. My dad loved watching Darrell Rebouche and he especially enjoyed the Dialing for Dollars part of the broadcast.

Here's how Dialing for Dollars worked. Earlier in the broadcast, that night's jackpot amount would be revealed. At the end of the broadcast, Darrell would flip through an actual phone book and randomly place his finger on a name. Without divulging the name or number, Darrell made a call to that home in hopes of reaching someone who knew the jackpot amount. If the correct amount was given, we'd have a winner!

We watched Darrell dial for dollars every night we ate at home. We watched as he flipped open that phone book knowing if he opened it to the back someone whose last name began with M or greater would be called. Not us. If he opened it near the front, well let's just say there was a hint of possibility in the air. Some nights we'd tuned in too late and didn't know the jackpot amount. Oh please Darrell, do not call tonight. Try tomorrow. We'll be sure to watch earlier.

Darrell would place the call and we'd listen as the phone rang, amplified for all to hear by the studio's speakers. Most of the time he got someone on the line. Some people were stunned to "be" on television and couldn't pull off an answer. Others were skeptical and didn't play along. Sometimes the phone rang and rang and then Darrell had to hang up. This was always so disappointing to see, knowing that a fellow citizen had missed an opportunity to win money. Occasionally Darrell managed to call someone who could coherently answer the question and win the jackpot. And oh was it exciting when someone won. Even though the jackpots were small (I"m recalling in the hundreds, winning anything can feel so big.

I kid you not when I say that one night during the Dialing segment, our phone rang. We 5 sat straight up in our seats, forks mid-air, big-eyed. Could it be? Is this it? Is this our big payoff for being relatively loyal viewers of this newscast?

It wasn't Darrell. How disappointing. I really think there should have been a town-wide ban against phone calls during the Dialing for Dollars segment. The nerve of someone to place a call and get hopes up. The absolute nerve.

We never received a call from Darrell Rebouche but it was good, clean fun wishing he would pick our phone number and give us a ring. We wanted to be winners. Still our family didn't wallow in self-pity for long. There was always Wheel of Fortune to lift our spirits and challenge our minds and imaginations. Calling out letters between bites, chanting "big money, big money" as the wheel spun, solving the puzzle first and showing off, admiring Vanna's dress and hair and wondering what it's like to be on TV and of course dreaming about spending that prize money or going on those exotic trips.

We never won the big money but I've got a big memory of my family around the dinner table, all five of us healthy and content, laughing, sharing and hoping. A scene I couldn't recreate today because we are no longer a party of five. But I've got the memory and that's worth more than Darrell's jackpots, more than anything.


A Google search led me to Darrell and here's how he remembered it. Darrell calls it Dialing for Thousands. I don't remember the "Thousands" part. I also don't remember needing to know the clue AND the jackpot amount. I guess Darrell would know, it was his show after all.

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Baby, It's Cold Inside

In the mid-1990's, the idea that minor league hockey could attract crowds in north Louisiana must have seemed presposterous. Now, as we apprach 2010, the local hockey club is in its thirteenth season and is simply part of the community. It is fair and accurate to say that the beautiful arena on the banks of the Red River simply would not exist if minor pro hockey had not come to town. The availability of a primary tenant was the catalyst for the construction of the building, which has been a tremendous community asset.
As a local sports journalist, I closely followed the arrival of the team and its early days in the less-than-appealing fairgrounds venue, Hirsch Coliseum. When the team's original owner started making noise about building his own hockey facility, local goverments noticed. Bossier City's leaders brandished their checkbook and something spectacular happened.
I have spent many an afternoon and evening in the facility, so much so that I am flabbergasted when I hear people say they have never been inside. Those are people who just don't get out much, I guess. Concerts, Arena Football, big-time bass fishing, religious revivals, graduations, cheerleading competitions and yes hockey attract tens of tousands of visitors to the place every year. Did I mention rodeos and wrestling matches? How about basketball or mixed martial arts? I have seen all of these things inside that place. How can you not have found at least one thing to compel you to visit?
One of the most memorable experiences of my broadcasting career happened right there. Legendary rock band ZZ Top played the arena. I was fortunate to be assigned to interview them live on the news the night before their show. They invited me to stay for rehearsal. I sat in the arena with about a half-dozen other people and essentially enjoyed a mini private concert. To borrow a rock and roll phrase: Dude, it was awesome!
I've been all over the building: the press box, the video room, the green room, the luxury boxes, you name it. As a broadcaster, a ticket holder, even as a volunteer when the facility has been used as an emergecy shelter during hurricane evacuations, I have strolled the concourses as well as the catacombs.
But until Satuday night, I had never stood at center ice.
The honor of dropping the puck before a hockey game was bestowed upon me. It's the hockey equivalent of baseball's first pitch. They even rolled out a red carpet. For a moment, I was some kind of dignitary. I also got to sit in the penalty box with the team's owner.
There's a lot less pressure involved in a puck drop that a first pitch. You don't have to throw anything sixty feet, you just need to stand there and drop the puck. Pretty simple stuff. The trick is not to slip on the ice. I guess that's what the carpet's all about.

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The Stress of Public Address

Over the last three football seasons, I have been asked on numerous occasions to perform public address duties at local football and basketball games. I have certain standards. To me, it is vital to understand that the PA man is not a play-by-play man. The guys in little stadiums who do play-by-play over the PA speakers just don't understand how obnoxious they are. If you want to do play by play, get yourself a radio deal. This is not my point, but to me it's important to get that out there. Know your role and stick to it. PA does down and distance, penalties, player names after the play, not during it. The PA voice should be a complement to the action, not part of it. Philosophical position statement complete, on with the story.
An old friend had occasion to attend a game at which I was working. Her kid's squad was visiting the team which had hired me. She liked what she heard and asked me to perform similar duties at a special event for her child's school. I immediately agreed, thinking I would do it as a favor. She insisted on negotiating compensation with me. I insisted right back, for many days, that I would do it for her as a favor because her friendship means more to me than money. She demanded a number. I wouldn't give her one. Finally, it came down to this. I said, "I don't want to ask for money because I don't want you to think I'm unreasonable, but since you keep asking, I'll say this: I would truly rather do it for free than do it for fifty bucks. Does that make sense?" I guess it did because her organization came up with something north of fifty and I awkwardly proceeded.
If you can measure value in stress, I earned every penny.
I arrived at the venue armed with a script, other important papers and some binoculars. I was all set. This was all well organized and painstakingly planned. There had been phone calls, e-mails and even a meeting to go over every detail. We wanted to be sure every name was pronounced correctly, every child and parent was appropriately identified. We wanted to leave nothing to chance. All I had to do was read and react.
Someone else was assigned to run the music. It became obvious that great care was taken to plan that aspect of the event, as well. We were poised to work in harmony to make middle school magic! One little detail was overlooked. No one tested the sound system at the stadium. The CD player was broken. Incredibly, even though we are a decade into the 21st century, there was no way to play music from a computer. A solution was discussed: Just get a boom box, turn it up loud and hold the PA microphone up to the speakers. Good idea, but no one had a boom box.
There were frantic phone calls. There was elevated blood pressure, heaving, sighing, borderline hyperventilation. I cowered in the corner with my little microphone, content to contain myself to my announcer duties while chaos reigned supreme in the press box. Moms were getting upset!
I tried to stay out of the fray, but one wigged-out woman just would not let me. A cheerleader mom for the opposing school, she witnessed all the operational troubles which beset our event from the outset. BUT....her daughter and her friends had not been given an opportunity to perform their one minute and 37 second routine.
The fact that the home team mothers and their daughters were in full freak-out meant very little to her. She demanded that I do something about it. Her girls needed to perform!
I explained with politenness and an uncharacteristic abundance of patience that I was simply the hired help; my role was only to make announcements and I had absolutely no authority nor did I have any interest in accepting any. She didn't care. I had to do something. No, I didn't. Calmly, time and again I attempted to refer her to the proper decision-makers. She would not listen. It was an exercise in personal discipline for me to not raise my voice. Finally, she relented and called the right person to work out the details.
With palpable tension mounting among the moms, a boom box was secured and the festivities moved forward, significantly altered but essentially complete. Our overbearing visitor's girls got to perform. Better late than never, I suppose.
The mother who was troubleshooting the music issues left the operational area to participate in her own daughter's activities. Subsequently, the overly assertive visiting cheer mom re-emerged asking to speak with her. I knew this could not be good. Oh, did I mention that the visiting kids were representing a prominent local church school? When church-school cheer mom asked for beleagured music mom, I said "Hey, she went to get a margarita." The response from the woman who witnessed all the chaos? "Really? We don't do that kind of thing." So now we are being rebuked and judged harshly.
She actually flipped open her cell phone and called someone. When her connection was made, she said "She's not here. She went to get a margarita." At that moment, three people wheeled at once and set her straight: "She did not really go get a margarita!" I think there was a "for God's sake" thrown in there somewhere, along with other suddenly appropriate exclamations. I think I said something about Jesus turning water into wine, at which point she said "He didn't get drunk." Now, we're in some kind of Catholic vs. Protestant theological spiral and it has just become preposterous. All the while, I'm just trying to say these kids' names right.
Finally, chastised and suddenly feeling unwelcome (hopefully), she just went away.
The rest of the evening went off without a hitch. It took a while for my breathing to return to normal. I'm proud to say I didn't raise my voice, but I did strongly consider going out for a margarita after the event.
They didn't pay me nearly enough to endure all that.

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