Tom Talks

Observations from the CIAA tournament

I hope the Sexy Soul Oldies booth returns to Charlotte Bobcats Arena for the ACC basketball tournament. The music hits you when you walk around the corner and fills the concourse at the CIAA basketball tournament with old, slow R & B. If the ACC tries to substitute Sexy Beach Music Oldies, I’m calling a foul. In fact, I’m calling a technical.

Also like to see La’ Wan’s soul food return when Wake Forest and Virginia and the fellows come to the arena the week after next. The cuisine includes home fries with pepper and onions, fried chicken gizzards plate and smoked turkey leg.

The music and the food are two reasons to break away from basketball and walk around the arena. The fashion is a reason not to. No matter what you wear you won’t feel as good about your clothes as you did when you walked in.

I like the way I’m dressed – black shirt, silk maybe, blue jeans and some half boots marked down from $300 to $200 to $100.

Alas, it was evident midway through my first lap that I needed a fedora. I almost never wear a hat or even a cap but that will change. It will change because the only way I can justify walking with my black cane is if I’m wearing a black fedora. Next year. All I need is a cane and a fedora.

Anticipation mounts for Daytona 500

   If I had to pick the driver most likely to be coaxed by Chubby Checker into doing the dance he made famous, the twist, it would be Kenny Wallace. I would have been right. Chubby, who has performed at the Super Bowl, enhances any sporting event.

   I climbed the press box roof to watch the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds fly above Daytona International Speedway. We waited, waited, waited, the anticipation mounting and there they were, slicing through the sunshine. The six F-16s flew within feet of each other. Think of the precision required to pull that off.

   They passed, circled, returned, circled again and returned again, everybody on the roof following every move. Three men in Thunderbird uniforms stood on the roof holding what looked like white pans.
   “There’s a lot of communications going on,” says Robert Skelton, operations officer out of Rome, Ga. “There’s a lot of adjustments with air speeds and timing.”
   Added Skelton: “Part of our job as the Thunderbirds is to help inspire people, and that is exactly what a fly-over at the National Anthem does. We start out about 10, 12 miles away, and we’re doing about 400 mph as we cross over.”

   The Daytona 500 is one long tease. The trick is to avoid trouble and stay in contention. It’s like poker. We wait all afternoon for the final card.

Memorable moment from 1980 Daytona 500 ...

Buddy Baker, who won the 1980 Daytona 500, is 6-foot-6, a big guy. He talks about the time he and Tiny Lund took turns sending each other into the wall. Baker took more turns. After the race, Tiny came walking toward Baker. Thing about Tiny is he wasn’t. He was 6-5.

"He weighed 285 pounds and looked 9-feet tall," Baker says Friday. "Here comes this mountain. Dust was coming from both sides of his feet."

Baker looked down and found a conveniently placed axe handle. He thought about picking it up. He thought about Lund picking his teeth with it.

"I wimped out pretty quick," says Baker.

Tiny reached out and put Baker in a headlock and with his free hand rubbed the top of Baker’s head so hard Baker thought the hair would fall off.

"I didn’t care if I’m bald," says Baker. "If he’s doing that, he’s not hitting me."

If a young journalist asked me for advice I would say this – before you do a one-on-one or group interview, turn off your cell phone. And if for some reason you have to have it on, then turn it to vibrate.

Twice during a group interview Friday, a reporter’s phone loudly blasted a bad song. Since neither guy was young, I’d offer the same cell phone advice to an old journalist.

The unlikeliest of Daytona 500 winners is Derrike Cope, who won in 1990 when the race leader suffered a cut tire on the last lap. The leader was Dale Earnhardt. So Cope won the race six years before Earnhardt did.

Cope said Friday that he really thought, going in, he had a chance to take the race. His town didn’t. His family was watching the race in Seattle, but the local network preempted the 500 for the Seattle Supersonics NBA game. So the Copes headed south to a hotel where they saw their son win one of the greatest upsets in Daytona history.

Frozen treat? No, thank you

One way to tell that you’re getting very close to Daytona International Speedway: You pull into a lot to turn around and see a sign that says, PARKING $60. You turn around.

One way to tell you’re old: A sponsor promotes an appearance at the race track by actress and star Amy Smart and you have no idea who she is. You know only that she’s an actress and a star.

The coldest I’ve been this winter was in Tempe, Ariz., the day after the Super Bowl. And I’ve been in Minneapolis. The Valley of the Sun was a myth. The Valley part, Phoenix nailed. It’s the Sun that’s pretend.

The second coldest I’ve been was Thursday morning in Daytona Beach. There’s a guy at the track selling frozen drinks. On this day, even the warm drinks are cold. Florida and Arizona seduce you with promises of warmth and you believe it and so when they hit you with less than civilized temperatures you feel like Jack Frost.

If you want me to believe in global warming, you have to earn it. Be there for me, Al Gore. I didn’t bring a coat.

Have you heard Kyle Petty on PRN? He’s smart, he has presence and he’s funny. Several drivers were introduced Wednesday night at the network’s stage at Volusia Mall. Before fans could boo, Petty told them they were in a boo-free zone. So they didn’t.

NASCAR fans produce more moustaches than fans of any other sport. At football and basketball games, on the street or in the mall, you don’t see a lot of moustaches. But at the race track they are almost as common as bags of free stuff.

What do you think would have happened if instead of a moustache Dale Earnhardt had worn a beard?

NASCAR fans would lead sports in the production of beards.

The Clemens hearing was compelling

Road trips have always offered freedom, and that's how the Wednesday afternoon drive from Charlotte to Daytona Beach, Fla., began. I finally got my satellite radio fixed, grabbed 15 CDs and my iPOD and was ready to roll.

The sunshine broke through on I-77 in South Carolina and I was listening to Bluesville as I approached Columbia. But I had wanted to learn more about the he/said, she/said Congressional Hearings Wednesday morning, which I had missed.

I turned to C-SPAN and got lucky; the network was replaying the hearings in their entirety and I caught them from the start.

The hearings carried me all the way to Florida. I found them absolutely compelling. When I had to stop, or when the signal was blocked, I pleaded for C-SPAN to return.

Whether government should be investigating Roger Clemens and what he did or didn't do is debatable. But this was a steroid train wreck that was impossible to turn off, and Major League Baseball is to blame.

Some of the lines of questioning were brilliant. Some weren't. Some of the questioners were buffoons, all but asking Clemens for an autograph.

I wish I had seen it on TV so I could have matched faces with voices.

What I concluded was this: (A) It's a beautiful thing when you can drive all the way to Florida without playing a single CD; (B) government can be compelling; (C) Roger lost.

Chris Justice to serve higher power

My old friend Chris Justice wrestled with the same decision many of us in the Charlotte media do. Should we serve viewers, readers and listeners or should we serve a higher power?

Chris chose the latter. He'll leave WCNC, where he is a news anchor, to become a Southern Baptist minister.

Although I am a former Altar Boy, I'll stay. Just as a politican who doesn't vote has little credibility, so does a pastor, priest or minister who doesn't go to church.

In the late 1990s Chris and I began doing a Saturday morning show at WFNZ called Weekend Warriors. You remember, don't you? Brings back great memories, doesn't it? If you want to stop reading and grab the highlight CD or DVD, I don't blame you.

Weekend Warriors is still talked about, primarily by the third member of our team, Mark "Fatty" Mazzone.

Chris was the star. He's smart and funny, graceful and relaxed, and is the only commentator I've ever heard who can praise Ohio State without sounding terribly obnoxious.

Chris just sounded regular obnoxious.

Even back in our radio days, he had network hair. Every Saturday morning the headphones would beat it down and squish it. If Chris had to go from the station to a TV assignment, he would simply add water and his hair would instantly sprout to its former glory.

Along with network hair, Chris has network talent. He could do anything in broadcasting locally or nationally.

We all have dreams and Chris had the courage to walk away from a good gig, good money and lots of attention to fulfill his.

Good luck, Chris. If I'm not intruding, I'd love to catch you some Sunday morning. I'll invite Mazzone.

We'll take separate cars.

Excitement -- from start to finish

Man, what a game.

When you bring a laptop, camera equipment or bag of any kind into University of Phoenix Stadium, you are first patted down, then your credential is checked by a machine to ensure that it’s real, and then you go through a metal detector, and then your machine is assessed.

The precautions are necessary, of course, and anybody that complains has not been paying attention. Almost nobody did.

As we awaited our bags, each was tested twice, first with a machine and then by a black dog, I think a labrador.

The lab was not stoic the way some police dogs are. This one was jumping around, bouncing and having a good time. The Super Bowl is a big deal for dogs, too.

What would happen if one of us, I’m not saying me, put a dog treat in the bag of somebody he didn’t like?

-- If you’re the Washington Redskins, why wouldn’t you make New York defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuolo your next coach?

MVP so far: Giants coordinator

I told you it would be a good game. The MVP of the first half is New York defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuolo.

New England quarterback Tom Brady was one of the last players to leave the field at the end of the half, helmet in his right hand, blank look on his face and a limp in his stride.

He was sacked three times. He was sacked on consecutive plays and, when the Patriots got the ball back, he was knocked down after throwing an incomplete pass to Randy Moss.

The short passes to Wes Welker and deep passes to Moss aren’t as pretty when you lack the time to throw them.

The Giants drove 63 yards in 16 plays the first time they had the ball and the Patriots drove 56 yards in 12 plays the first time they had it. The Giants scored three, the Patriots seven. And nobody scored again.

It was a great, taut, surprisingly low scoring first half.

You can tell the dancers in front of the stage were getting paid the way they reacted to Tom Petty’s first three songs. Yo, acoustic Tom, give us the real Tom Petty and play your good song. So far you’ve been the musical equivalent of a punt.

Go deep, Tom Petty.

Yes, Runnin’ Down a Dream. Finally, he did.

Super Bowl begins with Flair

The New York Giants are the first team on the field, running out at 6:11 p.m. as a thousand flashbulbs flash. Then come 24 dancers in a neat single-file line. At 6:13 New England joins the dancers and the Giants.

New England coach Bill Belichick wears an orange, short-sleeved hoodie. It's not a look that works for everybody.

The topic at our press box table an hour before Super Bowl XLII revolves around Ric Flair. The other writers at the table live in Florida, California and New York. The New York guy isn't interested in Ric, but the other guys find the man and his sport compelling. I don't think I brought Ric up.

Note to self: Shut up and write

  At noon, Sterling Sharpe, the former South Carolina and Green Bay receiver who is now a TV guy, stepped outside his downtown Phoenix hotel. As he did, a man stepped out of a black Cadillac Escalade with the Super Bowl symbol on the door.

"Mr. Sharpe," he says.

"Are you ready to go now," Sharpe asks. "I've got my stuff in the lobby and Dick Stockton is there, too."

"We can go anytime you want," the driver says.

I walked back to my hotel and looked for my driver and couldn't find him. Then I remembered. I don't have a driver.

But a woman did hand me a plastic glass full of champagne when I walked into a party at the Air Force museum Friday night, so life is good.

Even though it's good I found myself complaining Saturday night because my email betrayed me and my laptop was attacked by a rogue firewall and I couldn't get into my webmail account and I lost a 10-inch blog.

I was telling this to a co-worker by telephone and, as I did, I paused to listen to myself talk.

I'm in Phoenix.

I'm at the Super Bowl.

I'm complaining.

So shut up.

And I did.

• I was in the elevator with a football player Sunday afternoon. He's a big guy, has to be pushing 375 pounds, and I should recognize him but I don't. He looked out the glass elevator at the valley below.

"What a lovely view," he said.

There's something about a huge football player looking wistfully into the distance and saying "lovely" that will surprise you every time.

• I wrote in Sunday's paper that no matter where I go Andy Rooney is there. If Andy has a blog – short for web log, Andy – he's probably saying the same thing about me. I saw him twice Saturday. Then I left the hotel about 8 p.m. Saturday night and there he was again.

When I returned to my room, I paused after I opened the door.

"Andy?"

Good. He wasn't there.