Thursday, September 13, 2007
Insertion of Taylor a real gas
Randy King
Randy King's Tech Insider is exclusive to roanoke.com and is posted by 5 p.m. Thursdays in season.
See Doug and Randy talk sports every week with the Sports edition of the TimesCast
Recent columns
Three weeks ago in this space, the headline read: "Here's wagering Taylor will play."
Within a couple days, I had received approximately 20 responses from loyal readers on my prediction. While a handful could be listed in the "I hope you're right" classification, the majority of the feedback fell into the "What in the hell do you know?" category.
Ha, imagine that! Talk about a career first there.
I recall laughing incessantly as I combed through the e-mails. Wish I had kept them on file, but I had to nuke 'em when a prompt came up on my computer stating: "Your mailbox has exceeded its size limit!"
Here's my best Cliff Notes version of the naysayers' most volatile punches:
-- "I know Frank Beamer a lot better than you do and there's no way he plays a freshman quarterback. You're so dumb!"
-- "Yeah, if you buy Frank is going to play a freshman quarterback, then I've got some swamp land in Florida I want to sell you."
-- "Just want to thank you RK for wasting another five minutes of my life with such worthless dribble."
-- "No wonder you still drive a 1995 Lumina. You should never get a raise."
-- "Seriously, how do you keep your job?"
-- "If Tech redshirted Michael Vick, why you think they're going to play this kid? You're a $#@&)%* imbecile!"
Suffice it to say, I couldn't help but snicker when No. 5 trotted onto the field with 6:39 left in the second quarter last Saturday night at Tiger Stadium in Baton Rouge.
Congratulations to those who took the insider tip and beat some sucker out of a side wager. I wish I could have gotten a C-note down, too, somewhere. For amusement only, of course.
That said, I didn't come away totally empty. I won gas. What?
Yep, the next day after the Aug. 23 column, I received an e-mail from pinkcadillac47@msn.com, who responded: "Randy, I'll take your bet ... unless [Sean] Glennon and [Cory] Holt go down, Tyrod doesn't play this season. How about a tank of gas in the old Lumina?"
I immediately responded with a "you got it!"
Of course, I would have bet the ranch that I would never hear from the dude again. Then, this Tuesday at 5:26 p.m., a message from pinkcaddy man rolled onto my e-mail list.
"You win the bet... sooner than I had expected! So, tell me ... how big a tank does the Lumina have? Runs on regular, right? Will you take a check?"
Hey, pinkcaddy, you're all right, man.
Only one problem, David. The Lumina is officially dead. The ride was so beloved here that I didn't have the guts to release its passing.
Cause of death? The automatic transmission gave out, leaving me a car that would start and run great, but wouldn't move a lick. When I figured out I had no use for a simulated car parked outside my home, my wife called the Kidney Foundation folks. The sent a hook out and towed it into oblivion in exchange for a $750 "charity donation" write-off on last year's taxes.
The new ride? How about an exquisite 1996 Oldsmobile Ciera. Tidy four-door sedan. White. Old ladies' car. Perfect for flying under the radar, which is the safest height a guy like me should cruise.
So, pinkcaddy, for being so honorable and owning up to your debt, I'm going to let you off the hook this time. Forget the check. That's a town near Floyd, isn't it? I have no idea where you're at, but I don't think you can't FedEx me a tank of fuel. However, if we ever do bump into each other somewhere, I will take a cold Bud in the bottle. On second thought, make it two, sir.
Don't want to hear it
So you think Beamer and the Hokies had a bad trip to Baton Rouge? Yeah, I know they got their heads handed to them on a platter, and then had their agony extended when their charter plane was late arriving for the postgame trip home.
And, yeah, I heard about the Tech radio crew -- Bill Roth and the ageless Mike Burnop -- not getting back to Blacksburg to midnight Sunday.
Well, my travel partner, columnist Aaron McFarling and myself, finally arrived back home at 9:30 p.m. Monday. That's only 33 hours after Saturday's game ended.
It was probably a pick 'em proposition we could have almost walked home quicker.
Just a few notes from our travel fiasco:
-- Fly out Friday out of Greensboro airport and arrive in Baton Rouge at 7:30 p.m. EST, only to make multiple laps around the city before locating the bucolic Holiday Inn South.
-- McFarling gets pancaked at thecraps table at Belle's Casino later in the evening, while I'm winning $600 at the blackjack table on a run of cards a chimp could have turned into a gorilla stack.
-- Leave the Holiday Inn South four hours before kickoff for what the desk clerk said was a short 8-mile haul to Tiger Stadium. Well, it was 2 1/2 hours later before we found the media parking lot. Nice scenery made the trip survivable, must confess.
-- Nearly 90 minutes after the game's conclusion, a glance from the pressbox window reveals car lights stacked in a conga line for miles and miles. McFarling says he's not going anywhere. Stays in pressbox, where they had tubs of free ice cold beer. Being the risk-taker I am, I take the keys to the rental car, get a hot insider tip on how to back-door the traffic snarl and, with no delay whatsover, drive back to the Holiday Inn.
As I'm laboring away in the room, going through a tape recorder I had to shuck $20 to a courier to take to the locker room since I was still writing my game story in the box, McFarling calls from the casino. "Where are you? Thought you were going to bet something!"
Not wanting to leave the young lad on his own, I steam down the highway towards the city. After exiting into the downtown area, I run smack into a DUI checkpoint. Talk about a sobering experience. Good thing I hadn't hung in the box and tipped some free ales, hey?
-- We check out of the hotel on Sunday and head to the airport around 1 p.m. I'm hungry and suggest we hit this Texas Steakhouse on left side of I-10. McFarling, however, steams past exit, and we see no restaurants until we get to airport exit. I'm hot. He knows it. So we tool on to wonderful Natchez, home of Southern University, where we eventually find an International House of Pancakes. Just what I wanted, but better sure beat a pack of Nip-chees. I had a side of pancakes in honor of my boy, Tech right guard Sergio Render.
-- After leaving IHOP, we hop quickly back to Baton Rouge airport. I drag a chair approximately 100 yards so I can start writing a follow-up story on the game for Monday paper. I was still stuck at BATON ROUGE, La. -- when the the airport spokesman announced that our flight for Dallas had been canceled because of thunderstorms and lightning. No later connections available. Figures. So we hail a cab -- the Yellow Cab that American Eagle gave us free vouchers for our flight being canceled never showed -- and check back into the Sheraton downtown.
-- After finally getting into our rooms -- neither wanted no part of scoring the hat trick of a putting up with each other for a third consecutive night in the same room -- and filing our Monday stories, another laborious evening in the casino. McFarling gets a big chunk of his cash back thanks to me fronting the ante, and I grind my way to another $50 in earnings despite never hitting black jack once.
-- With a solid 90 minutes of sleep in the book, I get up for 5:30 a.m. cab to airport. Of course, it doesn't show, so we take the Sheraton shuttle van -- we didn't know that was an option -- to airport. Driver says he loves the Tech fans. Nice bunch, he said. He adds, "I kept thinking Frank was going to pull something out of his hat ... a statue of Liberty play or something" last night. He's a Tennessee fan. He rips Phil Fulmer to death most of ride.
-- Arrive at airport and scurry to Delta desk. American Eagle had moved our reservations to Delta so our trip wouldn't be further delayed. Well, Delta lady says the plane we were scheduled to take had been "downsized" and we had been bumped. Great!
Finally, about 40 minutes later, she finds us a flight out of New Orleans that would stop in Cincinnati and then get us back to the Greensboro Airport around 4:30 p.m. There was a hook, however. How do we get to Nawlins? She hands each of us a voucher and we hop in this minivan cab with a driver who was a dead ringer for Gallagher, the stand-up comedian. Ten miles into trip, he says, 'y'all can all smoke if you want.' Minutes later, the van is billowing with smoke.
-- OK, got to get to end here, folks. I know I'm burning up valuable minutes of your life. We whisk through Cincinnati, but not before the columnist drains five Samuel Adams and his eighth big burger of trip. Arrive in Greensboro at 4:45, and I'm thinking, 'great, we can be back to Roanoke in time to listen to the 'Hokie Hotline.' "
No such luck. Less than 2 miles after leaving Greensboro airport, our car -- my wife's 1996 Firebird that I had never driven in the six weeks she's owned it -- begins to wheeze and choke, and finally dies on the right shoulder of Rte. 68 in rush-hour traffic. The fuel gauge showed an eighth of a tank left. But tank is tapped. Thanks for telling me, love!
No problem, I tell the columnist. I have a AAA card. Well, guess what? I can't find my cell phone. Must have left it on the plane in pocket of seat in front of me. McFarling's phone? It's dead as a door nail. Lovely. So the two wore-out, beaten scribes then sit on side of road beside disabled vehicle as the traffic blows by us like its the Talladega 500. Finally, a policeman tools by and stops.
"Well, I've got another call I've got to handle first ... some guy has a car stuck in middle of road, and I'll be back for you guys as soon as I can," he said.
Thirty minutes later, the cop shows back up and politely volunteers to get us out of the trap. While McFarling keeps tabs on the wife's ride, I get in back of police car for ride to go get some gas. No leg room. Have to sit sideways in the car. At the stop light, the kid in the next car is pointing at me like I'm some kind of ax murderer. Plus, no air conditioning behind the thick window guarding back seat from cruiser's front seat. Seriously, it had to be 120 degrees back there. My shirt looked like I had taken a Gatorade shower. Get gas. Cashier has no idea what it costs. I leave her $20. Policeman takes me back to the car. Load the 1.1 gallons of gas into car. Forget Appalachian State winning at Michigan. In the upset of all upsets, the Firebird amazingly cranks right up. On our way again, finally.
Stop at Bojangles in Collinsville. Columnist buries a three-piece chicken dinner in record time. We both sing "I Love This Bar" with Toby Keith heading out of Collinsville when our effort to pick up the 'Hokie Hotline' is futile. We hear one out of every 10 words Roth says. Fades in and out constantly. Finally, we can finally pick up decent audio of show around Oak Level, just as Jim Weaver makes his earth-shattering announcement that he had banned the popular "Stick It In" chant from the Tech band.
That's OK. We were done. The forks had been stuck in us way back down the road.
