"Being a sports journalist can be fun and electrifying. It can also be dull and tedious. It can be unpredictable and unforgettable, stressful and challenging. This book is about those kinds of stories. It chronicles things that happen along the way in my race to deadline.

Yes, I'm a sports reporter. I cover athletic events for a living. It may sound exciting and different. It is – in ways you would never imagine. Just read on and find out."

...  From Sidelined 

Lights Out

I find myself in the dark - again

I rushed out of the office, making a typical mad dash off to some football field on a typical fall Friday evening.

I stopped momentarily. I was hitting the road for a game out of town. I had to be sure I had all I needed. I had pens. I had football game sheets, which we use to chart each play of the game. I had my tape recorder. What about a computer, I thought to myself?  Being nearly an hour away from the office, I quickly contemplated the need to bring a laptop along in case the game ran late.

I still recall my thoughts at that very moment. "Naw, it's not like the lights are going to go out two weeks in a row."

Convinced fate would not prove me wrong and that a laptop computer was unnecessary, I continued on my way. Of course, I was wrong. What couldn’t possibly go wrong again actually did. It was an evening that  left me fearful of flickering stadium lights for years to come.

The previous week I had covered an Oxford Hills football game at Gardiner. It was the same as any fall football Friday evening. I sat on the Vikings' bench as they went through their pregame warm-ups. Being a half-hour drive away, I wasn't even concerned about deadline. I could be back in the office a full hour before my story would be due at 11:15. I just sat calmly on the bench awaiting the opening kickoff.

Then the stadium lights went out.

There was no flash, no boom, no warning. In an instant, the lights hoisted above the field on large poles went dark.

 I've seen similar problems at Portland Sea Dogs games when an electrician was brought in to fix one of the lights prior to a game, but this was a new experience at a high school game. The lights faintly came right back on again. To this day, I don't even know what happened. It was announced that the lights would be back on completely in a half hour or so, and the game, despite a late start, would begin.

Usually, those stadium lights take a good half hour to return to full glory. So whatever made them go out, started the process all over again, and it would be a wait before they were at full strength. I found a pay phone and made a quick call to the office, saying that I might be running late - unless the lights went out again.

The game got started after the delay and was played without further illumination problems. I got my quotes and rushed to my car only to check the time. It was just before 10:30 p.m. I had about a half hour drive back to the office, and they needed my story by 11:15 or so. I did the math in my head. It was obvious that I didn't have much time.

I drove as fast as my compact car and the law would allow, maybe even exceeded the latter slightly. I sat down at my desk at about 10:50 p.m. I quickly did my stats, punched out a quick story and was finished by 11:15 p.m. I exhaled and called it a night.

The following week, the road trip was taking me to Augusta. Oxford Hills was playing at Cony. This game would be further away, and after the frantic moments the week before, I wondered if I should protect myself with a laptop. I dismissed the notion.  There was no need, I was convinced. Lightning doesn't strike twice like that.

The game started on time. I was walking the Oxford Hills sideline. I was a little anxious about deadline, as I am with any Friday night where a delay can turn an easy night into chaos. But, I was less than an hour away and could be leaving Augusta between 9:30 and 10 p.m. What could go wrong?

Then the stadium lights went out.

Oxford Hills coach Ted Moccia had the same reaction I did it, except I may have revealed a little more panic. He shouted "You've got to be kidding me" or something to that effect. How this could happen twice in back-to-back weeks to the same team was inconceivable. I was equally dismayed, convinced that somebody was tormenting me on purpose. Some coaches, convinced of my propensity to bring bad luck with me to games, might have immediately assumed it was my fault.

This delay wasn't as long. They got the lights going soon enough and the game continued. I left the field a little after 9:30 p.m. I felt a bit of relief knowing that I had plenty of time to get back and get my story done.

I don't think anyone in the office believed me when I recounted the fact that the stadium lights went out for the second week in a row. Fortunately, I had plenty of witnesses.

To this day, I still flinch a bit when the stadium lights flicker just a little. It's as if they're toying with me, letting me know that they can black out at any given moment.

But, I learned my lesson. Now if I stop to think whether I might need the laptop with me, there's no hesitation. "Yes," I'll say. "I just might need it.

Not Him Again

Mike Bordick just can’t seem to avoid one particular sports scribe

I have no idea where Mike Bordick lives these days.

That's probably a good thing as far as the former Major League shortstop is concerned. I’ve had numerous occasions to interview the former University of Maine and MLB infielder. Most of them were not the conventional interview. It makes me wonder if Bordick moved away from Maine, fearing that he just never knew when or where I might show up with pen, paper and recorder in hand.

It has been more than a decade since I hounded the poor guy, and he’s probably glad for it.

The first time I met Bordick was at a car dealership. The then Oakland A’s infielder was buying a new car. It wasn't exactly a newsworthy event. People buy cars all the time and don't get front page news stories because of it. On this day, however, the dealership called the paper to tell them that Bordick would be arriving there to pick up his new Ford Bronco.

 I'm sure he was pleased to do business with somebody that would sell him out just for a little cheap publicity at his expense. I hope he got a good deal on his wheels. 

 Since Bordick had just established himself as a regular with the A's, it seemed like a good opportunity for us to talk to him. The sports editor sent me and a photographer over there for a story.

His new car purchase included an interview, a story about his season and a tacky photo of Bordick sitting behind the wheel in his new car on the sports’ front page. There were probably a couple of glory hound car salesmen in the picture as well. Bet he never thought he'd get the shifty and unscrupulous likes of car salesmen and journalists under one roof on the same day.

Fortunately, the next time I talked to Bordick at a car dealership, he was signing autographs not lease agreements. And the car salesmen were kept at arm’s length of both of us.   I also talked to him at an appearance at the Boys' and Girls’ Club in Auburn. Those were pretty ordinary.

But Bordick didn't just run into me at car dealerships, autograph signings or public appearances, he'd also see me at the gym. When he'd return to Maine in the offseason, he'd often work out at the YMCA in Auburn. I also had a membership there. That's often how I knew he was home and in the area. I'd see him there working out.

When Major League Baseball went on strike, there was Bordick appearing at the Y regularly when he'd normally be in Oakland. I chased him down one day and set up an interview with him. We'd talk later in the week at the YMCA. Sure enough, a few days later, we sat down at a table outside the weight room and talked about the strike. The story was picked up by the Associated Press and run all around the country.

After stalking him at car dealerships, public appearances, workout sessions, you’d think that maybe the grocery store, the post office or the gas station might be the next places I followed him to. No. I just went to his house, unannounced.

 I had been busy doing work on something else on the day that word broke about Bordick going to Baltimore. I was about ready to go home, but there was talk that Cal Ripken Jr. was going to be replaced at shortstop. The legendary Oriole was moving to third base and Bordick, who had established himself as one of the league's best defensive players, was signing as a free agent.

 A friend of his told us that Bordick was in Maine and was at home. We tried to reach him through his friend, but he said he hadn't been able to get a hold of him. The next step was to send somebody to his house. I was elected because I had dealt with Bordick before. It was hoped he might be more willing to talk to me than sic the dogs on me.

His friend told us where his house was. So I went looking for it in the dark. I came across one or two that I thought was it, but was wrong. Those people are probably still recalling the night some idiot came by thinking Mike Bordick lived there.

A little further down the road, I finally found his house. It was obvious it was the right house. The description fit, and there was his Ford Bronco in the driveway. I knocked on the door. His wife and daughter came to the door. His daughter smiled and seemed pleased to see me. His wife was not so enthused.  She didn't exactly say "How dare you show up at my house like this." But, I'm sure she thought it, and the look she gave me relayed such a message. I can't say as I blame her.

I explained that I was sent there to talk to him because we had heard he was going to sign with Baltimore. I said we had tried to call him but couldn't get through. She told me to wait. His daughter waved to me and smiled. A moment later, Bordick appeared on his front porch.

He was polite and understanding, but he wouldn't talk. All he would say was that he couldn't comment until the next day. I explained that we had confirmation that he was signing and had the story. We just wanted to get a few comments from him. He didn't budge. He said he wouldn't comment until the following day - when he had a scheduled press conference in Baltimore.

I understood. I thanked him and apologized for bothering him. I found the nearest convenience store and called the office. I explained that he wasn't talking, and I continued on home.

I don't think I ever talked to Bordick again after that. He soon bought a summer home out of state and didn't return to Auburn in the offseason. Can you really blame him?

Look for Sidelined onsale in 2010