In my run-down, no-good, paint-peeled 2004 Chevrolet Cavalier, I slumped behind the wheel in a safari outfit.
This is how I earned a paycheck.
In between spring and fall sessions at the University of Florida, I traveled back to my home of Tampa, Florida, to work at Busch Gardens — an African-themed amusement park bounded by a science museum and a beer company.
Yeah, Florida is really that bizarre.
But dressing like a knock-off version of the Crocodile Hunter and selling admission tickets seemed as good a way as any to pay my way through college.
So I did it for the entire summer. And then the next. And then the next.
Until a phone call changed my life.
“Hey, is this Jon?”
I was driving back from an eight-hour shift, still in my safari garb.
“Yeah,” I sighed, exhausted from standing in the heat and drowning in my own humiliation.
“Hey Jon, this is the Ol’ Ball Coach. How are you doin’?”
Wait, did Steve Spurrier seriously just refer to himself as the Ol’ Ball Coach?
Wait.
Was Steve Spurrier really on the other end of the line with me?
His southern drawl and rhythmic cadence immediately stuck out, even in just the 12 words he spoke. No doubt about it, that’s the Ol’ Ball Coach.
He was returning a phone call I made weeks earlier while I was writing a piece for the University of Florida’s student newspaper. When I wasn’t handing out tickets for $8 per hour, I often pretended to be a journalist while at school.
My rouse finally paid off.
The interview wasn’t anything special though.
I stumbled through a few questions, obviously shaken from the fact that a Heisman winner and championship coach was calling me.
And then Spurrier replied, remaining polite despite my unprofessional tone.
The story that ran with his interview never won any awards. I didn’t land the front page of the New York Times and no one ever gave me a giant check with too many zeros to count.
But I knew I had found my passion.
I couldn’t get over the fact that a man who based his existence on the score of a game not only acknowledged his simplistic moniker, but he also called himself by it: the Ol’ Ball Coach.
Sports are great to watch and even better to write about, but I fell in love with the personalities I found in sports journalism.
Spurrier introducing himself by his own nickname. Will Muschamp losing his temper during a halftime interview. Billy Donovan offering scholarships to middle-aged reporters in the midst of a losing streak.
Because these games offer an outlet and an escape from the “real world,” one will often find the most otherworldly characters either on the field or on the sideline with a clipboard in hand.
And when those bodies of charisma get in front of a microphone to break down exactly why they are the best at throwing footballs or dunking basketballs, well that’s gold, Jerry! Gold!
John Calipari admitting his players were crazy. Geno Auriemma admitting he was crazy. Steve Spurrier admitting something crazy — once again.
Pure gold.
So that’s why I’m in Iola. I’m positive I can report the area’s sports scores as well as any of my predecessors at the Register, but I’m even more confident that I can find the best sports stories among the people of Allen County.
You don’t have to be in the next Super Bowl or Final Four to have a great narrative worth telling in the world of sports. From Riverside Park to Humboldt’s Fieldhouse, there are stories behind every game.
Trust me, I can’t wait to hear them all.
