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Around the sporting world in 45 days
I would give this a dateline but it would likely take up far too much space. Call this instead The Great Huber Tour of 2000. It began June 11 at Atlanta's Hartsfield International and will end there, hopefully, the 25th of July. Forty-five days on the road, interrupted only by a momentary laundry run and a week at a convent. From Pebble Beach to Wimbledon to St. Andrews and back, all for the sake of electronic journalism or something akin. In the waking hours before embarkation, the reaction was even. From my friends outside the industry, a resounding "poor boy, can I carry your baggage?" And from within the business, "that sounds wonderful but that's also 45 days of bad hotel food, lost laundry and wrong turns on the left side of the street on the right side of the car." And in truth, my reaction thus far is an amalgamation of the two. For as many wrong turns, apologies to terribly offended Brits and missing socks, there have been moments that will last a lifetime. And as I write this, on the eve of my final leg of the journey, I can only imagine what must await me at St. Andrews. From the astonishing historical rampage of Tiger Woods at the U.S. Open, to the majesty of Pete Sampras' record-breaking 13th grand-slam title at Wimbledon, what will turn this into a triumvirate for the ages? Perhaps merely my final advancing? For a good ol' Southern boy, with only a few frightening turns at the British wheel over the years, my climb from London up the M1 and through the hills and dales of the East Midlands has been a ridiculous stab at folly. With a week in between the end of Wimbledon and my due-date at The Open, knowing I would need one final gathering of what wits were left, I booked myself into a former priory built in the 1300's and run now by a major hotel chain, rented a car and began the trek. And now as I prepare to leave on the last five hours of the trip, I stand trembling a bit, awfully glad and at the same time stunned I have left the local population as I found it. I'm guessing I'm the only Yank in these parts. I know that's the case at the hotel, for nobody, absolutely nobody, speaks my language. And yet they have treated me as if they're used to people driving on the wrong side of the road. Not a single finger nor an angry mouth the entire week. The occasional horn, a gentle reminder, but nothing more. It's more a credit to their tolerance than my adjustments. But I take with me far more than my life. Moments locked forever inside. From the tear-stained 21-drive salute to Payne Stewart, to the inner-drive of Tiger, to the driven daughters of Richard Williams, to the drunken father of Jelena Dokic, to the modest Mr. and Mrs. Sampras hidden in the shadow of their son, the Great Huber Tour of 2000 -- the longest of my career, for sure -- shall be placed in an inner vault, awaiting only one last week of contributions to be complete. It IS just one last week, isn't it?
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