Fast typing led to one memorable donkey ride
- Tom Rife: Livin' the Team
- July 15, 2021
- 969
There was a time when being a sports editor in a small town was a darned good gig.
Yes, the job meant long hours, a vexatious late-night occurrence known as deadline, a junk-food diet and a whole lot of schedule-juggling because there were never enough staffers to cover every event on a normal Friday night that was always abnormal.
A thick skin was required too, especially when the pushy parent on the other end of the line insisted you just robbed their son or daughter of a college scholarship and ensuing professional contract worth millions.
On the other hand, there were perks aplenty — not freebies, but let’s just say other “opportunities” that made the job more palatable. I had my own mom for my fifth-grade teacher, and she always instructed us youngsters to open the door when opportunity knocked.
From the beginning, when I served as sports editor of the Sixth Grade Gazette, the rules of journalistic integrity prohibited freebies. And believe it or not, there were those of us who throughout our careers placed journalistic integrity high on our list of promised virtues.
Those who “turned their heads the other way” tried to give us pros a bad name, but at least we could sleep at night — when time allowed.
These days much of the luster of life as a newspaper guy has evaporated, gone by way of the old Royal typewriter and gluepot. We never actually claimed an ounce of celebrity status, yet the respect we earned granted us acceptance when we went to the food court or the hometown barber shop.
We relished being part of the community, and it felt good to pitch in when asked to do so. If the high school athletic director needed riders for a donkey basketball fundraiser, we jumped at the chance. If organizers wanted us to participate in their annual canoe race, we grabbed our Speedos and paddles and hustled to the city dock.
Charity golf benefits were abundant, as were “media events” that invited then-rival members of both the print and electronic trades. Memorable experiences included such things as tennis exhibitions and bowling tournaments. Once I got to face — and strike out against — fast-pitch softball legend Eddie Feigner. I was even taunted by the riotous San Diego Chicken.
Then there was the baseball game at the old Boston Red Sox spring training stadium a few blocks south of downtown Fort Myers. It wasn’t Fenway, but it sure was nice to step onto that perfectly manicured field. A dugout full of overzealous newspaper stiffs lost to a women’s pro team — struck out then too.
Though exhilarating, lawn mower racing was a lot more perilous than ever imagined. The machine had five gears, but second was fast enough for a guy whose only dream on this earth was to type fast. Driving a jalopy stock car on a dirt track built for swamp buggies was a buzz as well.
Never so much as even sniffed the lead in either endeavor. But I did hitch a ride in the Goodyear blimp once.
One night a local sports bar staged a little-known sport called snail racing. They guaranteed it would bring in customers and they would be honored to have me join in the fun. It was interesting, to say the least. The crawling “athletes” were individually numbered and even had colorful paint schemes.
Can’t help but wonder if today’s animal-rights groups would frown on snail races the same way they have protested donkey basketball, citing cruelty to the animals.
Granted, the donkeys refuse to learn the rules. But the biggest argument against the industry is the reluctant four-legged participants are piloted by inexperienced riders who don’t know how to handle the animals with care. The activists insist placing these creatures in a foreign place with loud noises also can cause confusion and panic. Sounds like a D.C. insurrection to me.
Speaking of government, I read where the National Park Service still sanctions mule trips into the sun-parched Grand Canyon. Then again, everybody knows donkeys and mules are not the same. Do we really need to delve into their fertility traits?
Incidentally, I would wholeheartedly suggest declining any invitation to engage in spine-tingling donkey basketball. About 45 years ago, a sorry ass named “Beetle Bomb” deposited my hip on the concrete surface bordering Naples High’s old wooden court.
For more than a year, the knot in my lower back reminded me that seat belts are not standard equipment on donkeys.
It also reminded me that being a sports editor in a small town was a darned good gig.