I've always loved the name

I must have had a few run-ins with dogs in 1983, because I was leery of dogs I didn't know. And I was really leery of Holly.

I'd called this woman who raced motocross in South Carolina and was going to interview her for the local newspaper. But when I pulled my Ford Pinto up to her house, I was looking up at a big, black dog that was all legs and ears. Even standing with all four feet on the ground, the dog's Batman-like ears rose just above the top of the car window!

I opened the window a cracked and yelled to the woman. She yelled back that Holly was friendly. I replied that I wasn't getting out of the car until the dog was moved.

So Holly was banished into the house.

We talked on the patio and then went out and checked out her bike. When I lay down on the driveway to get a closeup photo of her working on my bike, I realized I was being attacked!

Actually, I wasn't; Holly was out, and she she had me on my back, licking my beard.

We went in the house, and the woman put a bowl of dog food down, and she explained that Holly was a four-and-a-half-month-old Great Dane/lab mix who weighed 147 pounds. I didn't argue with the math; she was big and beautiful. And, as it turned out, she was also quite sweet.

As the interview continued, Holly would take a bite, and she'd chew as she watched us talk. Back and forth, her head went; she was like a spectator watching a really slow tennis match.

When we were done, Holly and the lady accompanied me outside. The woman waved from her doorstep; Holly walked me to the car. I got in, rolled the window down and scratched her muzzle. I wasn't afraid at that point; this big girl had reminded me that I was at heart a dog lover.

And I've always loved the name Holly.

(NOTE: I met my wife Holly two years after I met the four-legged Holly.)

The Duke

My wife Holly and I were watching John Wayne's "Angel And The Bad Man" last night, and it occurred to me that it might be Wayne's second best early movie, following "Stagecoach." We've turned into big fans of western movies, and I've collected several anthologies featuring Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, the Cisco Kid, Hopalong Cassidy, and others.

I have several modern TV westerns, including "Conagher," "Last Stand At Saber River," and "Monte Walsh." Sam Elliott, who plays Conagher, and Tom Selleck, who stars in the two other movies, are two of my favorite western actors. Along with Robert Duvall, they're probably the best current western actors.

I have several Wayne westerns on DVD, including "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence," "The Searchers," "The Shootist," "Hondo," "The Sons of Katie Elder," "El Dorado," "Rio Bravo," and "Rio Grande." When I can find "Red River" and "She Wore A Yellow Ribbon" on DVD at a decent price, I'll get them, too.

I also have some of Wayne's non-westerns like "The Quiet Man" (my favorite Wayne movie), "Hatari!", and "Donovan's Reef"; I watch each of those two or three times a year.

Oh, before I forget, I also have a DVD of "Lonesome Dove", which stars Duvall and Tommy Lee Jones. That may be the best western ever made; certainly, it's the best long western ever done. And I think Duvall's Augustus MacRae might be the most likeable character I've seen. In any form.

Thanks

I'd like to thank all of the people who sent their condolences for the loss of Katie. We still miss her just as much, but all the kindness makes it easier.

Katie Cried

God, I miss Katie Darlin' terribly; let me tell you about her.

Nearly four years ago, my wife Holly and I were at Collie Rescue of the Carolinas, in Winston-Salem, N.C., and we were looking to adopt a collie to be a companion for Lady, our No. 1 dog.

When we first saw Katie, she was a mess. They had cut off all her hair because of hot spots on her hip; her belly hung low, probably from a pregnancy, and she looked more like a calf than a collie. But those big brown eyes looked into mine, and she wiggled forward among the dogs to get petted.

I knew she needed us -- few people would want an older dog who looked or smelled like that -- and she obviously was choosing me, so we took her home.

Katie was traumatized at first. She'd lay on the couch in the basement for hours at a time. She'd go into the backyard to do her business, then head back to the couch. Or she'd head to the dog bowls. Katie had been a stray in Virginia when Collie Rescue found her, and she tried hard to make up for lost meals. She eventually ballooned to 86 pounds, and I put her on a diet that included a lot of green beans (healthy filler), and she lost to 83.

But she'd lose a lot more. Lady and Katie never hit it off, and it got worse when we got our boy, Buddy. The girls would fight over food, or Lady would just try to dominate. Katie, who outweighed Lady by 40 pounds, might "win" the fight, but afterward Lady would put her front paws on Katie's back. And Katie, who wasn't competitive like Lady, always gave in.

One day, it got worse. Without noticeable provocation, Lady attacked Katie five times. I later figured out that Lady was showing me that I couldn't protect Katie and that she'd do what she wanted. The fifth time, Katie was lying in the hallway with her back to us. Lady eased up to her from behind and sniffed her; suddenly, she pounced and grasped the back of Katie's neck in her powerful jaws. Katie howled in pain while Lady applied full pressure. It was obvious Lady had murder, not justice, in mind.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I forced my right calf between Lady's jaws and Katie's neck. Lady was still applying pressure, but she realized something was different. She looked up at me, saw that it was my leg, and backed off. A few days later, we noticed blood oozing from Katie's ruff. We took her to the vet, and, when they shaved the hair off the neck, she had a scab three inches wide and six or eight inches long on the back of her neck.

It was obvious they had to be separated. So Lady and Buddy stayed downstairs in the basement, and Katie became the upstairs dog. When Lady and Kate had to be in the same room together, Katie stayed in her "condo," a wire dog crate. But since Katie had started having trouble climbing stairs, staying upstairs was a good thing. By then, Katie had dropped to 72 pounds.

But things changed again. We noticed that she dragged her left back foot sometimes and never sat down. She groaned when she had to get up or down.

A year ago, Katie suddenly started losing the use of her hind legs; the vet said it was because of arthritis in her back. We'd have to wrap a towel around belly to help her outside so she could do her business. Eventually, though, we couldn't even do that. Katie would make a mess in the hall long before we could get her outside, so we'd just clean it and her up as best we could.

Katie started crying every time she had to move. She'd wail when she had to pee or poop. We never knew if she hollered because she had to do her business and was frustrated by not being able to go outside or because she was in pain. By then, she was down to 60 pounds.

Along the way, I started calling her Katie Darlin'; it was a way to remind myself that Katie was just as wonderful as Lady (or Buddy).

The last time Katie cried was Tuesday, March 13, 2007. We had to take her to the vet for tests and grooming. We used a towel to pick up her hind end, but she didn't want to go. She tried to bite, and she laid down in the carport and refused to move. We finally got her in the van and took her to the vet's office. Once there, we needed help to get her inside, but we left with the assumption that everything was all right.

We did a chore or two and headed home. On the way, I got a call from the vet, who said that Katie was dangerously weak, and she thought we ought to put her to sleep. Katie's heartbeat was erratic, and she was so lethargic, the vet said, that she feared that Katie would die from heat exhaustion when they put her under a dryer after grooming her. Holly, choking on tears, said that we agreed -- reluctantly -- but we wanted to be there to say goodbye.

I felt like I was going to an execution when we returned to the vet's office. They ushered us into a room, where Katie lay on the floor with bands on her paws and a catheter in her leg. We spent a few minutes with her, and both of us fed her a Cheerio with Cheez Whiz.

When the time came, Katie lay on her side, as she had much of the last few weeks. The vet was sweet to her and told her that she was a good girl, and the injections worked within a few seconds. The vet checked her heart and said it was stopped; Katie made one final sigh and lay still. We patted her one last time, then made arrangements to have her cremated. The staff whisked her away.

I was wracked with emotion as I paid the bill, and I walked to an empty area outside to be alone with my thoughts. Finally, I rejoined my wife, and we went home alone. To make it worse, I realized that it was four years to the day that my dad had died. I cried most of the day, off and on. So did Holly.

Now Katie's ashes are in a box on the mantle; we'll bury her soon. I'm tearing up as I write this, realizing again that all we have left are the memories. I know I'll think of those big brown eyes imploring us to take her home with us; Katie crying when we took her back to Collie Rescue months later for a visit (and her happiness when we took her home again); running across the street to find someone to pet her; peeing in the front yard and doing a stiff-legged but triumphant pee dance; laying in the hall and looking expectantly for a treat every time I walked by.

I'll remember joking that Katie was always willing to give it the old-collie try. She would have made Lassie proud.

We're putting together pictures and mementos of Katie, including my favorite, a shot of Lady and Katie leaning over my lap, looking more like sisters than rivals. And there's the shot of Katie being washed, with a grumpy "I wish I were somewhere else" look on that long face. And the posed shot with Santa Claus holding their leashes as Katie and Lady looked at the treats being held by the photographer.

Mostly, I'll remember the feel of her tongue when she took that last Cheerio.

Goodbye, Katie Darlin'.

Wipeout

In 1984 William "Refrigerator" Perry was the biggest thing on campus at Clemson, and Ethan Horton was an all-Atlantic Coast Conference tailback at North Carolina.

The Tigers and Tar Heels were doing battle, and I was taking pictures on the sidelines at Clemson's Death Valley.

Tar Heels quarterback Kevin Anthony pitched the ball to Horton, who raced around the right end, right at me. Perry hit Horton around the waist; 6-foot-7 defensive lineman James Robinson grabbed Horton around the legs, and defensive back Mike Isaacs went over the top.

I was in the corner of the photographers' box as the pile of humanity and pads slid toward me. I turned but had nowhere to go, and the pile thudded into the backs of my legs. I wasn't hurt, but my legs were pinned in the pile, and I tottered back and sat down on Perry's shoulder pads.

Robinson stood up, grabbed me under the arm pits and lifted me into the air. I hung there with my feet dangling as 80,000-plus fans roared in laughter. After a second that seemed like a half-century, Robinson put me down.

As soon as my feet touched the ground, I bowed to the crowd and waved. My improvisation drew a cheer from the big crowd, and Perry patted me on the shoulder.

For the day, I wound up with a nice shot of Perry catching Anthony's jersey with a couple of fingers and merry-go-rounding him for a sack, and I got a picture of Clemson quarterback Mike Eppley being surrounded by happy Tigers after throwing a 76-yard touchdown pass to Terrance Rouhlac. The editors at the Hendersonville (N.C.) Times-News had to be pleased.

I was pleased, too. I survived, thrived in a strange sort of way, and I wound up with a cherished memory.

A glimpse of the real Earnhardt

The real Dale Earnhardt was hard to find, but I saw him occasionally during my stint as a NASCAR writer from the mid-1980s to around 2000.

Usually, Earnhardt was surly or standoffish with reporters he hadn't known for a long time, and often he was rough on those of us he knew. Dale valued his time, and the last thing he wanted to do was spend time with us.

Then, every once in a while, he'd show the real man.

In 1991, we had a heck of a storm at Talladega, and the race was going to be run on Monday. One of the reporters had lured Earnhardt into the media center, and Dale was talking about his plane. I eased over, got my tape recorder and joined the impromptu press conference.

Up to that point, I'd never gotten a straight answer out of Dale. He'd always given me a smart-aleck answer, or he'd walked away. Earnhardt must have been in a good mood that day.

I was doing a feature for Winston Cup Scene on drivers' dreams, and I wanted to include Earnhardt, who was a four-time champion at that point. When there was a two-second break in the Q&A, I said something like, "Dale, we don't expect you to win 200 races, but do you have your sights set on Richard Petty's seven Winston Cup titles?"

Without looking at me, Earnhardt answered that, yes, he did want to win seven titles or even eight. Petty was his hero, he said, but seven titles was his goal.

That year, there had been a rumble about Dale's age; his mother said he was 40, and he said he was 39 (my age later that year). After Dale answered my question, he stood up and looked me in the eye and talked to me man-to-man for the first time. He said, "Last week at Martinsville, I didn't know it was my 50th victory until somebody told me, but I knowed it was my 40th birthday, but I wasn't going to tell nobody!"

Dale stayed with us for at least two hours. When a TV monitor didn't work, he climbed onto a table and fixed it. When we played Hangman on a PR man's computer, Dale joined us. He wasn't great with words, but he was competitive. Big surprise.
He regaled us with stories, and he showed me his Rolex, a gift from a friend. I'd never seen one before.

Earnhardt wasn't a factor that day. Kyle Petty suffered a broken leg in a huge wreck that Ernie Irvan started. Harry Gant won the race even though he was running out of gas on the last lap. Rick Mast bump-drafted Gant on the backstretch, giving him enough momentum to cross the line first.

Mostly I remember Earnhardt finally showing his humanity. It wasn't the only time, though. I don't remember what year it was, but Earnhardt had just won an IROC race at Daytona. It was just one of 34 races he won at Daytona, but every victory anywhere was precious to Dale.

I was sitting at the end of the table, closest to the door in the Benny Kahn media center in the Daytona infield. I was typing furiously when suddenly I felt strong hands on my shoulders. Without turning, I looked straight over my head and saw a black Chevrolet cap, a big mustache and an ear-to-ear grin. I went "Whoa!", and the smile got even wider.

Earnhardt squeezed my shoulders again, then went down the line, altering his fists and tapping each reporter on the shoulders.

Another time, we were entering the Indigo Lakes facility at Daytona Beach for an IROC luncheon. I got to the double doors, then looked back to see a bunch of women following us. I opened one of the doors, then looked across and saw Dale holding the other door. He was hunched over and grinning, making us look like a couple of fortyish kids playing a prank.

We rarely saw the real Dale. Sometimes Earnhardt was cross or a bully. But sometimes he was happy and at ease, and he was willing to let the enemy ... reporters ... see the man and the humanity beneath the black myth.

Banks on the front nine

In 1988, I was working as a sports copy editor at the Charleston (S.C.) News & Courier. The sports editor asked me to go to the Turtle Pointe GC to do a story on 16 former major leaguers who were playing golf with airline employees. He said he chose me because I wouldn't have to look up the names of any of the players.

It was also a good perk for me.

I watched Country Slaughter kibitz the gigantic Willie McCovey. Slaughter said that "us left-handers ought to stick together", and I wondered if McCovey realized that Country was, at one time, one of the biggest bigots in baseball. At that point, Slaughter was a shrunken old man wearing a funny hat with a ball on the top.

A woman pointed to McCovey and said, "Isn't that Calvin Peete?" I said, "No, ma'am, that's Willie McCovey. Calvin Peete's not six-five and 250 pounds." "Sure looks like Calvin Peete," she said.

I watched Boog Powell and Joe Morgan warm up and tee off. Eight of the players that day were Hall of Famers, and I believe Morgan was about to join them.

I talked to Al Kaline and Brooks Robinson, but I didn't get anything good. They were polished but dull. A PR guy told me, "Don't worry, Ernie's coming."

Seconds later, I looked up to see Ernie Banks swinging his club and smiling at me.

"I don't have time to talk, but would you like to walk nine holes with me?"

Well, sure. Yeah. That would be fine.

So Banks teed off and we were heading down the first fairway. I asked him if his favorite song was "It Takes Two" by Marvin Gaye and Kim Weston. He said, no, he hadn't heard that one. So I walked along teaching Banks "It Takes Two" and drawing stares from startled bystanders.

We passed a construction site, and Banks decided he wanted a closer look. The two guys working looked up -- we were still singing, I imagine -- and one told his friend that the black guy looked like Ernie Banks. The other guy looked up, then said, no, too tall.

So we walked on, and Banks regaled me with stories. We were having a great time, but it was obvious that his cohorts weren't thrilled with us, since we were slowing them down.

On No. 9, I finally met the other men in the foursome, and I shook hands with Early Wynn. When I left, Banks and I shook hands again, and he gave me a golf ball.

I turned to go, but I thought a moment and said, "Next time, let's play two."

Banks took a second to realize what I meant. He gave me his famous eye-twinkling smile and said, "You got it."