Another Day That Lives In Infamy

   My bag was packed.
   I was ready to go.
   My flight from Charlotte to New York seven years ago was scheduled for 3 p.m. that afternoon.
   I arose from bed about 7:30 a.m. at my home in Mooresville, N.C., poured  a cup of coffee and, as a creature of habit, clicked on CNN to catch the news.
   Suddenly, an astonishing image flashed on the screen.
   There was a huge hole in the shape of an aircraft high up on the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
   Commentators were unsure of exactly what had happened and were ad-libbing uncertainly.
   The date, of course, was Sept. 11, 2001.

   President Franklin Delano Roosevelt said after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor that Dec. 7, 1941 was "a day that will live in infamy."
   So is Sept. 11, 200I.
   The latter is the day I had been invited to New York by veteran ESPN producer Justin "Bud" Morgan to be a guest on the taping of two shows for television's ESPN Classic series on Sept. 12.  One segment was to be devoted to the late Dale Earnhardt, who had lost his life in February of 2001 in a Daytona 500 crash.  The other segment was to be on Jeff Gordon, who was in the process of winning his fourth championship on NASCAR's big-time circuit that year.
   Maybe 15 minutes had passed and I was watching the TV in horror when the phone rang.
   Mr. Morgan, among the most meticulous and  professional men I've ever met, was calling.
   "Tom, I just wanted to make sure you are still on go," he said.
   "Mr. Morgan," I replied, "are you unaware that a plane has hit the World Trade Center?"
   There was a long silence.
   "No!" he said. 
   "I spent last night with friends in Connecticut and we haven't had the news on this morning.  Let me get back to you."
   A bit later he phoned again.
   "From what we can learn, it's a terrible accident," said Mr. Morgan.  "We're going ahead with the taping because the studio we're using is so hard to book."
   That studio was on 42nd Street in Manhattan, not at ESPN headquarters in Bristol, Conn.
   I call the man Mr. Morgan out of the utmost respect.  Forty years earlier he had traveled the globe, producing the wonderful, educational, "The American Sportsman" outdoor series for ABC-TV, mainly with Curt Gowdy as the host.  He had other great credentials.
   Hiding my reluctance, I agreed to fly to New York as planned.
   Mr. Morgan shortly phoned yet again.
   We were talking when, astonishlngly and terrifyingly, a plane flashed into view on the TV screen.  It slammed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center, creating a massive fireball.
   "Tom, this is no accident!  We are under attack!" Mr. Morgan said.  "The taping is off until much further notice."
   The developments were so stunning that maybe I don't remember the sequence of events in order.  Regardless, two more airliners hi-jacked by Al Queda terrorists crashed.  One struck The Pentagon in Virginia, the other hit a field in Pennsylvania after passengers fought back against the hijackers.
   The pictures that continued to flash on TV were beyond belief.
   Perhaps most unbelievable of all were the images of the twin World Trade Center towers collapsing.
   "Thousands of people are dead," I thought to myself as tears streamed down my cheeks.  "Oh, God, how many New York firemen and policemen have died trying to rescue those trapped in the buildings?"
   The phone rang again.
   This time it was my fellow motorsports journalist and best friend Steve Waid calling on his cell phone.
   "Tom, what in the hell is going on!?" he asked.
   In the chaos, I had forgotten that Steve and his wife, Margaret, were flying from Charlotte to San Antonio on vacation that day.
   "You don't know?" I asked incredulously.
   "No," said Steve, obviously upset and perplexed.  "We're sitting on the tarmac, grounded at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport and have no information.  All they will tell us is that there is a national emergency."
   I related to Steve what was happening.
   "Oh, God," he said.
   I'm sure that was the reaction of millions upon millions of people around the world.
   Small matters, but it took Mr. Morgan five days to return to Charlotte, where he was making his home and working out of an ESPN studio at Ballantyne.  It took the Waids almost a week to get home to Concord, N.C.
   Eventually, ESPN rescheduled the Classic taping on Earnhardt and Gordon in New York in late October.
   I flew up there.
   The landing pattern took the plane over The Statue Of Liberty and onward to LaGuardia over the tip of Manhattan.  Below, the ruins of the World Trade Center still smoldered.
   I cried all over again.
   ESPN had made reservations for me and its other guests at a hotel on Times Square.  After checking in during early evening I decided to take a walk down Broadway.  I ducked into a rather famous saloon and restaurant.
   Two guys in very dusty work clothing were at the bar, drinking beer.  They seemed much out of place.
   Both had Southern accents, which I picked up immediately.  I approached them.
   "Where are you from, and what are two good ol' boys like you doing up here?" I asked.
   They caught my distinctive North Carolina drawl, too, and forced smiles for a fellow Southerner.
   "We're from Mississippi," one said.  "And we're helping clear the rubble down at the World Trade Center.  It's pretty awful, but somebody's got to do it."
   I motioned to the bartender.
   "Let me have their tab," I said.
   He stared me straight on and with obvious pride replied, "Sir, for these gentlemen there is NO tab."
   I walked back out to the street and was waiting to cross when a siren wailed.
   A very large fire truck came barreling down Broadway, its cab packed with six firemen in their gear, ready to go.
   "What must those men be thinking?" I asked myself.
   In retrospect, and I really can't explain why, I recall that for some reason I put my right hand to my heart.
   I looked around, and almost every other person I saw on that crowded corner had done the same.
   -30-