I've met some people and have been on two tv shows, but I'll tell my JFK and John Wooden stories.
It's October 1960. High school. Judy and I are returning from Manhattan on the Staten Island ferry. We take a side entrance out of the ferry terminal to avoid all the crowds. We run smack into JFK and his entourage, who are obviously entering the terminal via this passage also to avoid crowds. He had just been on Staten Island for a 15 minute campaign speech appearance. Judy is wearing a Nixon button on her coat. JFK sees it, stops, tells her that he believes she has the wrong color button to match her outfit, takes off the Nixon button, and pins a JFK button on her--all the while flashing his dazzling smile. His charm and charisma won us over instantly. We were too young to vote.
It's March 1977. I'm sitting in a very crowded hotel bar in Lexington, KY. The NCAA men's basketball championship is in town (either a regional or the final four, I forget). John Wooden walks into the bar. I believe he was retired from coaching and was a tv commentator for the games. You got to recall that Wooden was not only the legendary coach--he was the paragon of rectitude and virtue. He never cursed, never raised his voice, never spoke harshly. He was religious and righteous and morally upright. Saintly.
Yet here he is in a bar. This bar was mobbed. Three deep waiting for drinks. Wooden is standing a few stools away from me trying very hard to get the bartender's attention. Boy does he want a drink. The bartender never even looks in his direction, he is so busy. Wooden is waiving a bill in his hand, unsuccessfully trying to get the bartender. Boy, he seems desparate for a drink. 5, 10, 15 minutes go by. Wooden starts jumping a little to get over the bodies in front of him. Definitely an alky, I'm thinking. This bartender never looks over. No one is getting served on our side of the bar. Wooden tries a low whistle, waiving his money. Jeesh, if he needs to drink this bad, why doesn't he travel with a bottle. A full 20 minutes goes by while Wooden desparately seeks the shots and beers his shaking body so desperately craves. Boy, do I have a scoop on this phony saint.
Finally, the bartender looks over and recognizes Wooden immediately. He doesn't realize Wooden has been desparately semaphoring for 20 minutes. "What can I get you Mr. Wooden." Wooden replies, as I realize it is not money in his hand but a piece of paper: "Nothing, thank you. I don't mean to interrupt you, but the desk clerk mentioned that your son might appreciate getting my autograph, so I thought I'd just stop by and give you this one I wrote on the hotel stationery. I hope that is satisfactory." He then ascended, perhaps merely to his room.
The next morning he sat in the booth next to us in the hotel restaruant having breakfast with his wife. I didn't ask for his autograph.
