MAT OREFICE IS A STAND-UP GUY

''It's never too late to be what you might've been."

                                                          George Eliot

 



 

On March 20, Mat Orefice walked onto the stage at the Ridgefield Playhouse to make
his comedic debut. He had taken a eight-week course to prepare for this moment, but in
reality, it was more like 47 years in the making.

 

"I have been a stand-up comedy junkie since I was seven," said the 1979 graduate of

New Canaan High School. "I always scoured the TV Guide looking to see when Steve

Martin, George Carlin, or Flip Wilson would appear on Merv, Johnny, or the Michael

Douglas show.

 

The TV Guide? That went out long before the Rubik's Cube, acid-washed jeans, and the

Sony Walkman. At 54-years-old, Orefice knew he wasn't getting any younger, so in

January he decided to go after his dream.

 

"I just never had the guts to try it myself," said Orefice. "But I made a resolution

to toughen up and go for it. That, and I was waiting for my parents to die to avoid

disgracing their good names," he said jokingly.

 

If Orefice was nervous, he certainly didn't show it. He was relaxed, confident, and

downright funny as he entertained the lively crowd. At 6'6", Orefice is an imposing figure

and with a last name like his, there is enough material to bring down the house.

 

"Yeah, my dad's name really is Dick," he said. "Some things just write themselves."

 

Everyone who saw Orefice's stand-up debut posted on Facebook wrote complimentary

things about their friend's performance. They weren't just being nice, they were being

honest because Orefice has some real talent to make his own mark in the industry even
if he is just a rookie.

"The best time to plant a tree is 20 years ago," the Fairfield resident said. "The second-best
time is today." Orefice added. "I try to put fear in the backseat so I get to drive the car.
And I'm a notorious late-bloomer, so this stuff isn't totally out of character."

No, it most definitely is not.

Orefice had another obsession growing up: punting a football. His hero was Ray Guy,
the Hall of Fame punter of the Oakland Raiders. In middle school, Orefice competed in
the annual Punt, Pass, and Kick competition and spent hour after hour booting footballs.

He never punted a single one for New Canaan High School because as Orefice puts it,
then-coach Harry Shay didn't want anyone on the team "who would just stand around
to kick and punt."

After graduation, Orefice headed to SMU, which was on the cusp of building a national
contender, thanks to a lot of $1,000 handshakes, flashy sports cars, and two spectacular
running backs named Eric Dickerson and Craig James. Without punting a single football
in high school, Orefice thought it was time to chase a dream.

"I tracked down the special-teams coach (Jeff Kohlberg) in the fall of ’80 to ask for
a tryout," he said. "I punted barefoot, but stopped and put on cleats soon after it got cold."

Orefice got to walk-on, but the coaches would often try to make him walk-off with
killer workouts that were not meant for the faint of heart.

"I had never lifted weights or done sprints before and I would be so sore and barely be
able to walk for two weeks, but I stuck it out," Orefice said.

 

Orefice ended up sticking it out for three years and there were perks that came with
his perseverance. The Mustangs won bowl games, competed for conference titles, and
while he didn't receive any $100 handshakes from boosters, because after all, he was
just a punter, Orefice got an all-access pass to one of the country's best football
venues.

"Coaches gave us the keys to Texas Stadium where the Cowboys played because they
figured if we were going to punt footballs around, we might as well do it where we played,"
he said. "We'd do pretty much whatever we wanted at Texas Stadium."

Even in today's game, kickers and punters aren't thought of as 'real' football players
who get their craniums busted up every day in nutcracker and Oklahoma drills designed
to 'toughen' players up, and back in the early 80's, the punter from New Canaan
didn't get special treatment from one the team's most special players.

"My locker was right next to Eric Dickerson's for three years and he always used to
say to me, 'Man, you are NEVER sweaty,' recalled Orefice.

The NCAA eventually caught up to the "cash-and carry" scandal and put the program
on probation during Orefice's junior year. A few years after Orefice graduated, the
NCAA gave SMU the 'death penalty', shutting down the football program.

"Was it deserved? Yes. But it was devastating and the program is still feeling the effects
of it today," he said.

Today, Orefice is the founder and president of Wordplay Inc. He is married with
two children and still plays drums and writes songs for a band called, "The Zamboni's."

Orefice is also a stand-up guy, one with unlimited potential and enough time to
be who he still wants to be.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 



THANK YOU, MOM

One day isn't long enough to honor the women who mean everything to us.

There isn't enough space on a blog or page to contain all the superlatives needed to
describe our mothers.

No chocolate is sweet enough to match the contents of the most important person in our
lives.

There isn't a bouquet of flowers or gift, no matter how expensive it is, that can match
the real value of those we call "Mom".

Charlene Devlin is my mom. The most important person in my life, as well as my brother,
Patrick, and sister, Kara.

She is more than just a mom, though. She is our best friend, confidant, cheerleader, and
inspiration. She has been the walking, talking, and living manual on "how to be a great
mom" for my sister, Kara. My sister observed, took great notes, and now embodies
everything our mom is all about.

My mother has always lived by her own "Golden rule." She does everything for everyone
else and never asks for a thing in return. Never.

She's never been in a bad mood. If she has, we have never seen it. Ever.

Mom has held us up, calmed us down, and always steered us in the right direction. Her
moral compass is perfect, unquestioned, and guides us for every decision we have to make.

My mother was blessed with many gifts: beauty, sense of humor, and great personality.
But her greatest gift is a heart of gold.

When her husband of nearly 50 years, and our dad, got Alzheimer's, one of the most
dreadful diseases, mom became his caretaker 24/7. It could have broken her, but she
remained strong, determined to give everything back to the person who gave her such
a wonderful life.

With her six grandchildren, mom has, in a way, gotten to be  a mother all over again,
getting to do what she does best: giving joy and happiness, not to mention an endless
barrel of gifts to them. Every day is Christmas to my mom and she always wants to
play Santa.

I can go on and on and on about what mom has meant to all of us, but it still won't
do her justice. I can only say, "Mom, thank you for being you, the best mother anyone
could ever ask for. I love you."

Happy Mother's Day.

BOSTON AND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE STRONG

I grew up with ABC's Wide World of Sports. No matter where I was in the house, I always
rushed to the television set on Sunday to hear Jim McKay utter the words he made famous:

                                       "The thrill of victory...and the agony of defeat"

As soon as McKay said "agony of defeat..." a ski jumper had the mother of all wipeouts,
losing his balance close to the end of the ramp, knocked unconscious, and seemingly headed
for the valley of death.

That image and those words became etched in my memory when I was a 6th-grader, the point
in my life where I knew exactly what I wanted to be: a sportscaster just like Jim McKay.

I'd eventually fulfill my dream of working in sports television, but as I moved through the
ranks and wound up in great cities like Boston and Atlanta, "the thrill of victory and the
agony of defeat"  became less and less important to me. I quit rooting for teams when I
was 16-years-old and my favorite teams were only the ones I was playing for.

As I became more of a grizzled veteran as a sports anchor, the scores became just something
I had to givefor those fans anxiously awaiting for them. (Yes, this was long before the
Internet provided everything instantaneously.)

The human drama became my fascination. I was near-obsessed with telling how athletes
overcame obstacles and adversity to find success in high school, college, and professional
sports. I loved bringing the emotion of it all to viewers, giving the blood, sweat, and tear
count of the athletes, and the sacrifices they made to achieve their dreams.

When I was perusing all the pictures of Monday's Boston Marathon, there was one that
jumped off the page and encompassed everything I love about covering sports and the
human spirit.

Jeff Bauman, who had his legs blown off in the marathon bombings in 2013, was captured
by a photographer embracing his wife, Erin, who had just crossed the finish line.

What a powerful photograph. What a tsunami of emotions.

Erin was running in the 2013 Boston Marathon but didn't get to finish because two homemade
bombs rocked Boyleston Street, just before the finish of the 26.2 mile race. People died,
lives were forever shattered, and Erin's boyfriend at the time, lost his legs--and nearly his
life.

The photo of Carloa Arredondo, who became known as the man in the cowboy hat,
rushing Bauman to the hospital while holding an artery in Bauman's leg so he wouldn't
bleed out, became the iconic photo of that terrible event.

Like the skier wiping out on the Wide World of Sports, it's one that I will never forget.
It's become part of the fabric of the Boston Marathon and helps define the city as tough,
courageous, and caring.

The photo of Bauman and his wife is another one that has been seared into my memory.
There is Jeff, with two titanium legs, sharing a moment with his wife who finished the
marathon in just under six hours without even training for it.

The picture illustrates love, strength, resolve, and most of all solidarity. It shouts out
loud that no matter what happens to us in life, we can never be broken. Everybody else
may move on and forget about us until next year, but we will always have each other,
no matter what.

It says we are Boston Strong. Terrorists can try to attack and disrupt us, but they will
never get the best of us. This is our city. They can take away my legs, but I am stronger
than their strength.  

Most importantly, the picture says, don't feel sorry for us. We are OK. Our lives have been
changed forever, but we are changing it for the better.    

                                             

OPENING DAY: RE-BIRTH OF BASEBALL & A BEAUTIFUL JOURNEY

From Little League to the major one, there are few things in sports like Opening Day.

Freshly-cut and perfectly manicured grass stimulates the senses, baseballs gleam
like white pearls, the spring air feels remarkably clean, and the seeds of big dreams
get planted in our imagination.

As a baseball-obsessed kid growing up in Harrison, New York,  Little League Opening
Day was the biggest event of my young, 9-year-old life, far more exciting than
Christmas and 100 times more electrifying than a birthday party with 15 of my best friends
at Rye Playland.

This was real baseball and the beginning of a journey I hoped would eventually take me
to the major leagues and the mother of all Opening Days.

Some 43 years ago, I was just a rookie, playing with Little League "veterans". There were
no tees to hit off or coaches carefully aiming pitches at your bat, hoping a few of them
lead to a line-drive that lands safely in the outfield grass.

Nope, the baseball training wheels were off, and you were finally on your own,
ready to prove yourself on what is now your field of dreams.

Parents disguised as know-it-all baseball experts lined the fences or settled into aluminum
bleachers, waiting to unleash blood-curdling screams for reasons they weren't even quite
sure of.

Yes, this was Little League and Opening Day, which would signify the start of my
baseball journey. The gates seemingly burst open as if it were the Kentucky Derby
instead of just a game with excited kids playing purely for the love of it.

For the first time in my life, these games really counted, and many of us treated them
as  if they were the most important things on earth. Winning meant ice cream on the
way home, losing seemed worse than getting grounded for failing to bring home a good
report card.

As MLB rips the wrapping off its new season on Thursday, Opening Day brings the
little kid out in many of us once again. It'll put big smiles on our once baby faces, now
accentuated with wrinkles, which are quickly becoming deep grooves like the rings you see
on the downed oak tree in the backyard that had seemingly been around forever.

However, this year was a little different for me. I not only celebrated the renewal of the
game, but I also realized just how lucky and blessed I was to be a part of baseball for so
long and in so many different ways. The great times I had in the game and special people
I met because of it, are just something you can't measure by money, awards, or anything
else for that matter.

There were great struggles and hard times, too. But they were teachable moments and
adversity that nearly everyone who puts on the spikes, has to deal with at one time
or another. It's just part of the reason why it's called baseball and not Twitter or Facebook.

However, I had been guilty of what so many of us are in this country: focused
on the final results instead of really enjoying and appreciating the journey.

Oh, sure, I've heard motivational speakers spew their golden words about things
in life "not being about the destination, but the journey." I had seen all those placards
posted on Facebook shouting out to everybody that it's not all about the wins, losses,
and failures, but the road you traveled.

It never really resonated me. It never sank in no matter how many times I heard from
the messenger. I was just too obsessed with how it all ended to let the words marinate
into a beautiful lesson.

Thursday, it finally hit me like a ton of bricks thrown by Aroldis Chapman. There is greatness
in the journey. Even if you don't land on the moon, playing amongst the stars can be
a wonderful experience.

I finally figured out what others saw and knew. Or perhaps, I just let my guard down
and accepted what is, and what was.

The journey I had in baseball and covering it was truly amazing. I mean, really freaking
amazing. I had focused on the destination for so long and so hard, I failed to see the
greatness in the journey. And looking back now, I am sorry for that.

Baseball took me to Taiwan as part of Team USA, representing my country. I had
the opportunity to play in a land so far away against those same players who had beaten
our Little Leaguers in Williamsport seemingly every year.

Baseball took me to Chapel Hill on a scholarship to play for UNC and with not only
the best players in the country, but some of the best people, as well. I made friendships
that have lasted a lifetime and the stories that came out of that program are priceless.

I experienced failure in baseball for the first time in my life at UNC. Failure led to
doubt, lack of confidence, and what I call 'robotics.' Baseball had always come so
natural to me. I had watched it, studied it, and became obsessed with it long before
I arrived on campus. But everything became so mechanical and anything but second
nature. My swing was so screwed up, I started hitting left-handed my junior year.

Shockingly, baseball at UNC was no longer fun.

It was all part of the process and the journey. Struggles come at different times
for different players, but in baseball, those struggles always come. It's how you
battle and fight through it that matters. Those who want to end their baseball
journey, usually get off when the struggle becomes too much.

I never really wanted the journey to end.

Baseball made me a part of the movie, "Bull Durham", something I shied away
from initially because after all, nearly every sports movie before the late 1980's
had been a bust. Remember "Bang the Drum Slowly"? There's no question Robert
DiNiro can act, but the man cannot ball. Not even close.

I was simply in the right place at the right time of my journey for "Bull Durham."
Somebody told me to get a bat and listen to what Kevin Costner instructs me to
do. A number of cameras, lights, and Hollywood 'artists' were angled about 15
feet from the batter box where I stood. A large piece of plexiglass protected them
from line-drives in their direction.

It was no big deal to me.

I just figured the scene would end up on the cutting room floor. I was so
unfazed by it and so sure of its insignificance, I didn't bother to tell my family or
close friends about it.

However,  the scene made the movie and the ball I hit went "so far it should have a
stewardess on it", according to Costner,  became something I could not outrun and
for those who have seen me run, that shouldn't be all that surprising.

As fate (and the journey) would have it, I was in that same batter's box in that same
park where the real Durham Bulls play less than eight months later. I had signed
a free-agent contract with the Boston Red Sox on Christmas Day and was assigned
to the Carolina League. Yep, the same Carolina League the Durham Bulls played in.

And of course, it just happened to be "Bull Durham Night" when we played. I wish
I was making all this up, but I am not. I had zero home runs heading into the game
against the Bulls. With the premiere showing the next afternoon, I was hoping to get
one or risk hearing, "You can only hit home runs in Hollywood, Devlin." until I actually
hit one.

I hit one that night. A grand slam. It was divine intervention. Had to be.

When I hit the ball, I  thought it was a pop-out to right-center field. The ball must've
been juiced or something because I certainly wasn't.

If the fence was 310 feet, the ball must've carried 310 feet and half-an-inch. I kid you
not. But hey, it went down as a bomb on the scorecard and in the movie, I guess.

The magic of Hollywood was fleeting and I ended up on the Red Sox cutting room
floor, released a year later. I went to minor-league camp with the Atlanta Braves and
a few days before camp was over, I hit a home run off Gordie Hershiser, the not-so-famous
brother of Orel. Where was Hollywood when I needed it?

Shortly after getting out of the shower that day, I found out my baseball career was
over. The late Bobby Dews, the Braves minor-league director, called me into his office
and told me I was done. I'll never forget that moment. Dews had more tears in his eyes
than me. They may have been crocodile tears, but god dangit, they were tears.

Ironically, years later when I was working as a sportscaster for Fox Sports Net in
Atlanta, Dews was the bullpen coach for Bobby Cox and the Braves. We had a bunch
of laughs about the day he released me and he'd jokingly tell Cox that if I could hit,
field, throw, and run, I'd be playing in the big leagues.

I had the opportunity to stay around the game and covered many Opening Days
as a sportscaster. I worked for the Red Sox flagship station in Boston in the late
90's, covering their run to the playoffs in 1998. To cover the organization I once
was a part of, was simply electric, which is what Pedro Martinez was when he
started the All-Star game at Fenway Park.

I was in the second row that night as Pedro was throwing mid-90's fastballs with
a wicked curveball and a stop-your-heart change-up. He struck out five hitters in
a row, including Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire back-to-back. Inside, I was still
that 9-year-old kid back in Little League on Opening Day.

Baseball didn't get much better than it did that night---until Ted Williams came out
to the pitchers mound on a golf cart mid-game! Ted Williams back in Boston?!
The roof at Fenway Park almost blew off.

Seeing Williams brought back a ton of memories for me. In spring training of 1988,
Williams stopped by the cages and worked with me for about 15 minutes. I was
that kid on Opening Day of Little League. Wide-eyed with the biggest smile on my
face. OH. MY. GOD. Ted Williams is talking to me about hitting. Wake me up when
this is over.

It was all part of the baseball journey that I had put into a box and stored away for
years. It all came back to me on Opening Day and it was tremendous. It made me
feel so alive.

I was lucky. I was blessed. My baseball journey was incredible.

While working for Fox Sports Net in 2001, I reported on the Arizona Diamondbacks
as they rode the powerful arms of Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling to the World
Series title. The only thing more memorable than Arizona winning it all in the third
year of existence, was seeing President Bush throw out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium
shortly after the 9/11 attacks.

That was powerful. I had chills watching it from just behind the third base dugout
back then, just as I had them while writing this now.

I went back to Boston to work for NESN, the Red Sox flagship station in 2004. Our
offices were in Fenway Park, which meant I went to the cathedral of baseball every
single day.  That year, the Red Sox ended their 86-year curse. All the pain, frustration,
and heartache was flushed down the toilet when the Boston swept St. Louis in October
of that year.

This baseball journey just keeps getting better and better.

Opening Day in Boston in 2005 was truly special. On a picture-perfect day, the
Red Sox raised the World Series banner and gave out their championship rings,
all in front of their hated rivals, the New York Yankees.

Dennis Eckersley and Jim Rice, both Hall of Famers and analysts with NESN, were
part of the journey as well. I'd see them nearly every day during the baseball season
and soaked up every ounce of their knowledge and experience.

My baseball journey also took me to MLB.com where baseball was always on.
The company was loaded with incredibly talented people and baseball men like
Billy Sample, Jeff Nelson, and former Mets GM Jim Duquette, who I came to know
while he was the Mets minor-league director and I was a sportscaster in Binghamton,
where the Mets had their AA affiliate.

I'm not a name dropper or star-crossed, but they were all part of my baseball journey,
and influenced me in one way or another. Incidentally, in 1994 when I was in Binghamton,
the team invited me to play in the exhibition game between AA Binghamton and
AAA Norfolk.  I guess I can say I finally made it to AA right?

What blast. I hadn't played baseball since the game said good-bye to me in 1990.
Hadn't picked up a bat or thrown a ball. Yet, there I was in full-catching gear playing
against the AAA Mets. Hilarious.

You only live once and you never quite know when the baseball journey will end, so
I played. And it was awesome. Oh, sure, that left-handed pitcher I had to catch, looked
like he was throwing 93-mph when it was actually 88-mph. It was a challenge, but it
was something I'll never forget.

However, it wasn't all good. There were a ton of struggles along the way. But that's
what makes the journey so complete. Good or bad, there are always stories I can
now laugh about.

I had the opportunity to throw out the first pitch during a Braves-Diamondbacks
game to my former college teammate, BJ Surhoff. That was a story in itself.

Yep, it's all part of my baseball journey that has enriched my life in so many ways.
The experiences, both good and bad, helped me grow as a person. But the people
I met along the way were, and have been, truly incredible.

It didn't matter where they ended up, most of us started out in the same place.

In Little League with an Opening Day.

All the baseball journeys have to end at some point. I was lucky and blessed that
mine was able to continue long after my playing days were over.

There is nothing like baseball.

And there is nothing quite like Opening Day.

DEAR UNC: IT'S TIME TO HONOR GRAFTON GARNES

UNC raised almost $26 million to renovate Boshamer Stadium, a wonderful playground
for its baseball program constructed on a spectacular piece of real estate in Chapel Hill,
North Carolina. For any baseball player dreaming of playing for the Tar Heels, it was love
at first sight--and that was before the school broke ground in 2008 to make it even better.

It was that special.

When it reopened in 2009, the Boshamer Stadium got a stunning facelift that would make
any plastic surgeon in Hollywood envious. A 35-year-old stadium looked brand spanking
new with all the amenities and bells and whistles. The field (Bryson) got a new name thanks
to a large donation by a former first baseman.

The courtyard in front of the stadium is "Steinbrenner Court",  thanks to a $1 million gift
by the Steinbrenners. Yes, those Steinbrenners, as in the New York Yankees, who played
in the old Boshamer Stadium in the late 70's.

There are family names on a number of other rooms and features, depending on how much
they gave to the program for the renovation project. I chipped in $500 to get my name on
a list with many of my good friends and former teammates that is etched on a piece of slab
out in front of the stadium.

However, there is one name that is missing who contributed far more than me and even
the Steinbrenners who wrote that check for a cool $1 million:

                                                          Grafton Garnes

Garnes never played a game at UNC but he was as valuable to the program as B.J. Surhoff,
Walt Weiss, Scott Bankhead, and Matt Harvey. Garnes spent 20 years as the equipment
manager for the baseball program and helped make the Tar Heel experience really special.

After every game and every practice, Garnes made sure the uniforms were fresh and
clean. He was the person who handed you the nearly pristine Tar Heel uniform to wear
for game day, making you realize it truly was a privilege to put it on and represent
the great University of North Carolina.

Garnes was the steady ship in waters that would often be rough and challenging. He never
got too high nor too low. He treated every player the same, whether he was a superstar like
B.J. Surhoff or the last guy at the end of the bench. Former Tar Heel Jeff Bradley said,

"You could trust your life with him. What was said in The Cage stayed in The Cage.
And he saw and heard a lot."

Garnes was cooler than the other side of the pillow long before former Tar Heel and the
late Stuart Scott made the saying a household phrase. He served our country in Viet Nam
and helped make our home away from home, Boshamer Stadium, an incredible place.

Garnes was usually the first person we saw entering the clubhouse and the last one upon
leaving late at night. He burned the midnight oil washing more than 35 uniforms and
accessory bags every single day for almost 10 months.

It's not hyperbole when I say that nobody, not even the coaches, spent more time in
the old Boshamer Stadium than Grafton Garnes. He was part of the fabric, concrete,
and steel of that stadium.

Unfortunately, there is nothing to signify Garnes' place or contribution in the new stadium.
There isn't a picture, plaque, or award dedicated in his honor. Every Tar Heel who knew
Garnes has a special place in their hearts and minds for the guy we called, "G-Man" or
simply "G."  But there is nothing of Garnes in the place they call the "Bosh."

Garnes died several years ago, but he will never be forgotten by any of us. But it's time
UNC baseball does something to let everyone know how special and important Garnes
was to the program and the old and new stadium.

It's time to make a plaque in his honor.

When I went back to UNC last fall to tour the stadium, I sincerely felt Garnes' presence.
I almost expected him to come around a corner with his stylish hat, sunglasses, and
tooth pick hanging out from his mouth. I was ready to say, "What's up, G?"

But Grafton was gone, off to the Southern part of Heaven in the sky. However, there
should be something in the dream stadium to make sure Grafton Garnes will always
be remembered and given the credit that is due.

CRAIG SAGER IS COURAGEOUS LIKE ALL CANCER VICTIMS

By the time I settled in to watch HBO's Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel Tuesday night,
I was emotionally prepared for the story I tuned in to see. Craig Sager, the longtime
and quite colorful sports reporter for TNT, was losing his battle with leukemia. Earlier
that day, various media outlets, in advance of that night's show, stated Sager was told
by doctors he had just "3-6 months to live."

Sager, 64, is an icon in Atlanta, the place he's called home for several decades, but as
we've long known, cancer doesn't discriminate. Black, white, rich, poor, famous, or just a
regular person, the devastating disease goes on the attack and rarely loses.

Sager's saga became national news because society has dubbed him a celebrity because
he's on television reporting on a basketball game. As often as he's been on television
over the years, Sager is really no more special or important than the millions who
are in the same position he is, battling the terrible disease.

Last Friday, I was assigned to cover a story on a former teacher who was heading to
Mexico for 'alternative' treatments for her cancer, a rare form of sarcoma. She and her
doctors had exhausted every option and treatment and were in search of a miracle.

This 45-year-old woman who stood nearly 6-feet tall, had endured 29 chemotherapy
treatments and nine surgeries. Her estranged husband called the trip to Mexico, "the final shot"
which really put everything in perspective.

A one-time contestant in the New Jersey beauty pageant, she was still quite stunning on
the outside, but on the inside, tumors were ravaging her body. She tried to put on a
happy face with her mega-watt smile, but it was clear she was very much in pain.

The family, including her 12-year-old son, Rex, who alerted our television station of
the fundraiser at her house, was trying to raise the final amount needed to help her
cover three months of treatment. There was an elaborate spread and well-known
comedian Rob Magnoti, a lifelong friend of the woman,  was invited to add some levity
to a most difficult situation.

Asking questions about one's mortality and shrinking life-span, isn't the favorite part of
a reporter's job, but they are questions that have to be asked. Others in the business say
they get used to it. I never have. It's life. It's death. The TV thing is not that important.

The woman had tears in her eyes as she embraced her 12-year-old son while on-camera.
She cried knowing that unless she gets a miracle in Mexico, the time with her son is
running out quickly, like sand through an hour glass.

That is tough, like a sledgehammer hitting you in the gut.

That former beauty queen is tough. So is Craig Sager. And so are the millions of
cancer victims who've had to battle the disease and do it away from the cameras. Outside
of their family, they don't get the sympathy of a Sager or the former beauty queen. They
don't get the attention or called "courageous" to thousands or even million of viewers.

They are courageous. They are special. They all drew a bad card in life, but they
stare down chemotherapy treatments, lose their hair, weight, and in cases, their self-esteem.
They battle, they fight, they rebound, and hope their cancer goes into remission. Sager's
cancer went into remission twice. After it came back again, doctors didn't offer very
much hope, shrinking Sager's time on earth to about six months.

Preparing for death just doesn't seem right, especially when there are young kids who
have to face a future without a mother or father. It's daunting all the way around. Sager
wanted to see all his kids grow up and get married. So did the former school teacher.
Both know it's not going to happen.

Millions of people share a common bond with Sager and the former beauty queen in
that their cause of death will be the same. But even though they aren't celebrities on
television, they are just as courageous and just as special. They fight the good fight,
hoping against hope every single minute of every single days.

They are warriors. They are special. Every single one of them.

MY 15 MINUTES WITH TED WILLIAMS

March 15, 1988.

30 years ago, I experienced one of the most incredible days of  my life. It was like a
wedding or the birth of a child for most people, where everything is so vivid, so easy to recall,
and filled with moments that stay with you forever.

I was in my first full week of spring training with the Boston Red Sox organization in
Winter Haven, Florida. I was that kid in the candy store, the one with the huge smile on my
face and not a care in the world. I was playing baseball while wearing a Red Sox uniform and
loving every second of it. Heaven, I thought, couldn't be much better than this.

But things on this sun-splashed morning in a baseball facility lined with palm trees, were
about to get even more special and somewhat surreal. It was something that has stayed
with me until this day and an incredible experience that nobody can ever take away from me.

Never

I  just finished up catching what seemed like a hundred pitchers beneath the Florida sun.
Perspiration met the lotion lathered on to protect my face, but ended up causing a burning
when it dripped into my eyes.

In the early days of spring training, there are 10 pitchers to every catcher and you spend
most of your time squatting and blocking  88-mile an hour sliders in the dirt. I had made
the position switch to catcher during my junior year at UNC, and long regretted not donning
 the tools of ignorance sooner. I loved everything about the position, which is the most
physically and mentally demanding one in the game.

After catching a litany of pitchers for close to two hours, the camp coordinator told us to
get some swings in the cages, which were located smack-dab in-between the major and
minor league clubhouses. While catching, a fastball in the dirt ricocheted into my wrist,
forcing me to take a detour to the trainer's room to get a bag of ice to reduce the pain
and swelling of it.

There was a large gathering in the trainer's room as the pitchers,  who had thrown earlier,
were icing down their arms. Catching and blocking baseball's in 85 degree heat for
almost two hours is like running  a half-marathon, so I wasn't in any hurry to go hit.

The ice pack the trainer had given me combined with the 20 minute wait to receive it,
 seemed to rejuvenate me before I had to make the trek over to the cages.

Once I got there, a few minor-league players were just milling around trying to decide if
they wanted to take a few more swings or head to the golf course to take a few more there.
Most of them traded in their lumber for their clubs and went to the showers to clean up
before making their tee times.

I stepped into the cages and took some swings off a coach who was positioned about 45 feet
away, the shorter distance forcing hitters to react quicker and develop more bat speed.

As I was taking my swings, I noticed a large figure walking down the alley between the
cages, out of the corner of my eye. This powerful-looking figure was coming from the
major league camp where he had been  offering instruction to players like Wade Boggs,
Jim Rice, and Dewey Evans.

I kept swinging as he kept walking toward the cage where I was. An adrenaline rush
washed over my entire body, as I had a good idea who was coming my way.  I became
more focused on the pitches that were traveling my way, the echo of rawhide meeting
lumber reverberated throughout the aluminum-covered cages.

The footsteps of this large figure got louder and louder as I went through my hitting drills.
My heart started racing faster and faster as I was swinging harder and harder, drilling balls
into the nets of the cage. All of sudden, those footsteps stopped and the cages became as
quiet as a church long after Mass had ended.

This imposing figure, which stood about 6'4" had stopped to watch me hit. There were only
three people in this area of the cage now: the coach throwing me batting practice, myself, and
one of the greatest hitters in the history of the game.

He shouted out to me with this booming voice, "Now, open those hips, swing up, and drive
through the  ball". 

His voice was so unique and oh, so very strong. It sounded a lot like that of John Wayne.
But I knew damn well who it belonged to. After my follow through, I turned around to see
Ted Williams staring back at me.

I locked eyes with the greatest hitter who ever lived.

It was a moment that was so surreal, yet so powerful. I had seen Williams on tape and
in books, but I had never seen him in person, and here he was, about to talk to me about
hitting. The one thing he did better than anyone in the world.

Just me and him.

Me and Teddy Ballgame.

Having Ted Williams talk to you about hitting is like a musician getting tips on how to play
the guitar from Elvis Presley. This was unbelievable. I'm not star struck and never got
intoxicated by celebrity. Three months earlier, I was standing in a batter's box with Kevin
Costner filming a scene for "Bull Durham." I didn't consider that a big deal.

This was a big deal.

It was like Moses telling  me about the Ten Commandments. This was Ted Williams, a true American hero, talking to  me about hitting. I said to myself, "Oh my @*#$ God". Is this really happening?"

I stared at Williams as he was telling me about swinging with a slight uppercut, which I had
read and memorized from his book, "The Science of Hitting." Incredibly enough, I didn't
see him as a baseball icon. I saw him as a living legend. One of the biggest in the world.

Williams was telling me about finishing high with my hands, but I wasn't really listening.
Thoughts of him going through, not one, but two tours of duty in the military during his baseball career, rushed through my head.

That would be like Mike Trout taking a break from baseball right now to fight for his country.

Twice.

Williams was a fighter pilot in World War II and the Korean War. He had the opportunity to
take a position that kept him out of battle, but Williams pretty much said, "screw that". He
flew 39 combat missions in the Korean Ward. 39! The great General Douglas MacArthur was
a big fan of Williams and for his 40th birthday. MacArthur sent the Splendid Splinter a painting
of himself with a note that said,:

"To Ted Williams — not only America's greatest baseball player, but a great American who
served his country. Your friend, Douglas MacArthur. General U.S. Army.

Wow.

I continued to take swings in the cage with Williams shouting out instructions to me. I said to
myself, "This is unreal. Nobody is going to believe this." After a few more swings, Williams
entered the cage, took the bat from my hands, and talked to me about the science of hitting.

I looked around to see nothing but a row of empty cages. If was just Ted Williams, the coach
throwing batting practice, and me. I said to myself, "Wow. Here I am with the last man to hit over .400 in a season. Please, don't anybody wake me up."

Williams told me to keep working on my swing. He said I should think about hitting "even
when you sleep. To be a great hitter," he commanded, "you have to hit all the time.
Morning, noon, and night."

I didn't say anything, but just nodded.

Williams said he had to go but I didn't want this moment to end, so I said  matter-of-factly,
"I'll walk out with you."  I may have sounded cool, but deep down inside I was humbled just
being in the presence of an American hero. I feared Williams looking down on me and saying,
 "Don't push it, son."

He didn't.

As we left the dark cages, the world seemed so much brighter, the sun proudly bursting
as spring time approached. I was walking on sunshine, just having one the greatest experiences
of my life.

Talking about hitting with Ted Williams.

There were a lot of fans who had lined the fence outside of the batting cages. Once they saw
Ted Williams appear, their eyes lit-up like bulbs on a Christmas trees. Mile-wide grins
broke out in the presence of a legend, pens were at the ready, hoping to get the autograph
of a baseball God.

One of those fans was my grandfather, who had made the journey from Sarasota to see me
suit up in a Red Sox uniform in spring training. He was a former ballplayer himself, a strong-
armed pitcher in the minor-league system of the New York Yankees.

This was a big thrill for him. I asked Williams if he could say hello to my grandfather and
the Splendid Splinter obliged. With my heart-pumping through my Red Sox jersey, I thanked Williams for the time, and told my grandfather I'd meet him after I had showered up.

It was a moment I wanted to bottle up and stash in a security vault someplace very far,
far away. I didn't want anyone to ever touch or disturb the moment. It belonged to my
grandfather, Ted Williams, and myself.

Years later, in 2004 , just before he died, my grandfather sent me a letter via mail. I opened
it and out came a picture of me from my college days at UNC. On the back of the picture,
in the neat lettering of my grandfather, were the words and numbers: 3-15-88 Winter Haven,
FL. Training camp. And under it was the autograph of Ted Williams.

I did not know my grandfather had gotten Williams' autograph on the picture that day. He
just told me what a thrill it was for him to meet him. I've kept the picture and autograph in
my wallet ever since that day 12 years ago.

It's a reminder of the special moment that both my grandfather and I shared with Ted Williams
that day in mid-March.

The late Andy Warhol famously said that everybody gets their 15 minutes of fame. I may
have received that for belting a home run in the movie, "Bull Durham", but the 15 minutes
of time I had with the most famous hitter who ever lived, is pretty hard to top.

It definitely was special.