Puerto Vallarta

“Senor John, Your Covid-19 test is negative.”

Whew, I breathed a huge sigh of relief when my ears heard those soul-lifting words. My daughter Katie and I just happened to be hunkered down in a makeshift testing center off the lobby of our hotel in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. When we initially booked this sun-splashed sojourn south of the border, we had no clue that a guaranteed return to the good old USA would require such a nerve-wracking nasal swab and sweat. Horror stories about Yankees retained due to the ‘Rona had understandably piqued our pucker factor.

Remember now, I was also coming off attending Super Bowl LVI in Los Angeles—a veritable international super spreader event. Combine that with travel to a country the CDC strongly advised against visiting, and you can see why I had second thoughts about going. Irresponsible? Perhaps it was. In the end, the lure of tropical eighty-five-degree weather, delectable Mexican seafood cuisine, and pristine sandy beaches proved too difficult to resist. Plus, Katie and I were both vaxxed and boosted, and—most importantly in our minds—the money we plunked down was totally non-refundable.

So, off we went—like Dumb and Dumber—for our father/daughter getaway.

Taking all that Covid angst and apprehension into account, this mid-winter respite still rated five stars in both our books. Puerto Vallarta, a beach resort city located about halfway down the west coast of Mexico, is an easy three-hour flight from Los Angeles. The city expanded to about 300,000 inhabitants in the 2020 census, but there’s an understated elegance and small-town charm you simply can’t find in other tourist meccas such as Cabo or Cancun.

There’s a boardwalk downtown—a seaside esplanade set apart from the narrow cobblestone streets, the bustling traffic, and the multitude of restaurants and shops radiating up the adjacent hillside. The cityscape has a bit of a European flair—like a poor man’s Portofino without any of the haughtiness, pretentiousness, or multi-colored buildings.

Occasionally, a whiff of cannabis penetrates the nostrils, but it’s quickly overcome with the aroma of grilled chorizo and peppers wafting from a nearby grill. Street vendors hawking sombreros and jewelry are everywhere. They politely keep their distance from me, as if somehow suspecting I’m tight with my pesos.

Closer to our hotel is the marina district—a more upscale cornucopia of shops, spas, and restaurants hungry for your tourist dollar. The walk around the waterfront harbor is spectacularly elegant, perfect for burning the extra calories from that double scoop of dessert gelato that you really should have skipped.

Remember, it’s also Valentine’s Day, so couples are everywhere, romantically strolling hand in hand along the numerous pedestrian pathways. Katie’s biggest fear is that we’ll be mistaken for one of them. She makes it known to everyone within shouting distance that I’M HER DAD—not some over-the-hill sugar daddy on a secret tryst with his floozy.

The Puerto Vallarta weather and beaches certainly didn’t disappoint either. What’s not to like about mid-eighties, perpetually sunny, with a light ocean breeze? The food was even better—seafood ceviche, squid ink paella, and the most tender steak fajitas this side of Guadalajara.

If you’re not already relaxed after my narrative thus far, I’d highly recommend a Mexican massage. This is nothing like the Thai version, where you’ve got Attila the Hun mercilessly twisting your torso. Nope, this is more the Swedish adaptation—soft, sensual, and soothing. Be sure to leave your modesty at the door. I guarantee you’ll leave with a smile on your face.

Beware of the dry-heat saunas, however. Five minutes in, I was sweating like Richard Burton in Night of the Iguana (filmed nearby). Ten minutes later, the coating on my prescription eyeglass lenses melted right before my eyes—literally. Sometimes you’ve got to live and learn. Thankfully, I brought a spare.

For the outdoor enthusiast, there are all sorts of sea excursions, four-wheeling, and ziplining adventures from which to choose. Katie and I elected to swim with the dolphins. Please don’t judge—the last thing I want to do is exploit animals. But I was a huge Flipper fan growing up, and I wanted nothing more than to pal around like Bud and Sandy.

Say what you may, the Aquaventuras Park—home of the Dolphin Discovery—has seen better days. It’s primarily a waterpark, with the usual assortment of slides, chutes, and flumes all bleached and faded by the relentless Mexican sun. Like many other tourist destinations, Covid has sucked the life out of the cash registers. There are no lines, so we hop on for a couple of quick, refreshing rides. One of the lifeguards looks like Enrique Iglesias, so Katie takes her time with an extra leisurely lap around the lazy river.

I’m here, however, to learn about dolphins. We’re paired up with Dorie—and she’s a beauty who’ll steal your heart in a second. Sleek and rubbery to the touch, Dorie’s nearly half a ton of cartilage, muscle, and pure love. There are six “Dories” here, and they all seem quite content. They dine on fish imported from Canada and they’re protected from other marine predators. In return, performing a few tricks and hobnobbing in the water with gringos like me seems like a pretty fair tradeoff.

But did you know some dolphins can live over fifty years? That’s a long time to be corralled in a small pen with no hope of escape. After forty-five minutes, I’ve had enough. I wash off all my guilt and shame with a quick shower before high tailing it out of there. How about some photos (at an outrageous $80 a pop) to document your experience? Thanks, but no thanks.

Four days in paradise passes quickly. On our final morning by the pool, I watch as a family frolics happily by the water. I can’t help but think of our prior travels together as family—Katie, Kanisa, and myself—the three of us together on some wild harebrained adventure without a care in the world. Now, sadly, it’s just Katie and me.

It’s bittersweet traveling alone with my daughter. On one hand, I treasure this time together and wouldn’t trade it for all the tea in China. On the other hand, there’s an unspoken sense of blame and remorse for always leaving Mom at home—well taken care of with food and protected from predators, but still trapped in her own corral of depression, psychosis, and mental illness with no hope of escape.

I’ve grudgingly learned over this past decade, however, that life must go on. You have to take the good with the bad. Soldier on, regardless of circumstances. You never know what the future will hold. Ironically, because of the bad, I find myself really savoring the good. I believe it was King Solomon who said, “When times are good, be happy; but when times are bad, consider this: God has made the one as well as the other.”

King Solomon was much smarter than me.

By the way, as I passed through passport control and customs on the return to the States, the border agent never asked for my Covid test results. All that dread and uneasiness amounted to nothing after all. How often does our fear of the future ruin our enjoyment of the precious present? If I’m honest with myself, it’s happened way too often in my lifetime. I promise to do better.

My final connecting flight into Lexington was late, arriving just before one o’clock am. At that bewitching hour, there are no Ubers or Lyfts available, and a taxi was going to take an hour and a half. I thought about calling my brother, but he needed the sleep, and I figured I could use the exercise. So, I walked the two miles back home. If you saw a dark figure wheeling a carry-on suitcase along Man O’ War boulevard early Friday morning humming La Bamba, that was me.

You gotta love life. You gotta love Lexington. It’s good to be home.

If you enjoy my writing, you can follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs. Also check out my latest book KENTUCKY PASSION at https://www.amazon.com/Kentucky-Passion-Wildcat-Wisdom-Inspiration/dp/1684351669

Super Bowl Dreams

The Cincinnati Bengals are Super Bowl bound—and Lord willing, SO AM I!

As someone who has faithfully covered the team for the past five years, the National Football League has graciously granted me an official media credential for the press box at SoFi Stadium. For a football junkie like me, that means a journey to the pinnacle of the NFL, a once-in-a-lifetime visit to the mountaintop summit of the entire sporting world.

Ever since Jim O’Brien kicked the Baltimore Colts to a 16 – 13 win over the Dallas Cowboys in Super Bowl V, I’ve dreamed of going to this iconic event. Year after year, for over half a century, I’ve longed to experience the world-renowned glamour and pageantry with my own eyes and ears.

The undefeated Dolphins, Pittsburgh’s Steel Curtain, Joe Montana and Jerry Rice, the ’85 Bears, America’s Team with Aikman and Smith, the Greatest Show on Turf, Brady and Belichick—all viewed through the lens of that distant and detached boob tube screen.

Regardless of who was playing or where I was, I’d always make it a point to somehow tune in. Whether at a large social gathering or alone in my man cave, I simply couldn’t miss. Those 1:00 am kickoffs while stationed in Germany were especially difficult. One year while traveling, I remember frantically searching for a television at a seaside bar off the coast of Thailand (early on a Monday morning) just to get my Super Bowl fix.

Each year, after the final credits rolled, I promised myself that next year would be the one that I would finally make the in-person plunge. And yet, the plunge never came. Like so many other well-intentioned plans, this one careened into the backburner of misplaced priorities and dashed hopes. As the Super Bowl itself ballooned in stature and as ticket prices subsequently soared, my dream coincidentally vaporized.

And just as suddenly—as improbable as it sounds after all these years—I’m riding triumphantly to Super Bowl LVI on the backs of the Bengals. It’s a serendipitous ride of sorts, the Super Bowl venue at SoFi Stadium beckoning to me like a fairytale fantasy of my pre-adolescent youth.

You see, the Bengals are playing the Los Angeles Rams in LA. I’ve always loved the City of Angels. When I was young, my dream was to move to Los Angeles and become a movie star. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the talent, the looks, or the teeth to be a Leonardo DiCaprio—so I became a dentist instead. I guess things worked out okay, but I always wondered how different my life would have been as an Asian Brad Pitt.

Having missed out on Hollywood, I did the next best thing. I became a fan of everything LA—including the Los Angeles Rams. Yep, those Rams—the early Rams—the Rams who played in the glorious LA Coliseum. Posters of the Fearsome Foursome, Roman Gabriel, and Jack Youngblood adorned my bedroom walls. Vince Ferragamo, “Hacksaw” Reynolds, and Eric Dickerson populated my card collection. My daily moods and outlook on life sadly fluctuated with the fortunes of Pat Haden and Jim Everett.

When the team moved east, however, the Rams lost a bit of their luster for me. Budweiser Clydesdales and Gateway Arches couldn’t hold a candle to the glitz and glamour of the Hollywood Bowl, Rodeo Drive, and Venice Beach. I discovered that my love for the team was as fleeting as my hopes for movie stardom.

Therefore, there’ll be no divided loyalties this coming Sunday. I’ll be cheering wildly for the Cinderella Bengals. What a heartwarming story it will be when the midwestern team of my midlife sports-writing career takes on the west coast team of my youthful Hollywood dreams. It’s funny how things work out sometimes.

Here’s what else has worked out. My daughter, Katie, lives in LA. Unlike her dear old dad, she followed her heart and took the west coast plunge early on. Now I get an unexpected visit with her while working the game of my dreams–in the city of my dreams. It simply doesn’t get any better than that. I feel so blessed.

Super Bowl LVI, here I come. Please don’t wake me up.

Dr. John Huang covers professional sports for Sports View America. His latest book, KENTUCKY PASSION, is available in bookstores and online at https://www.amazon.com/Kentucky-Passion-Wildcat-Wisdom-Inspiration/dp/1684351669

Weekend at Tourneys

Okay, the SEC/Big East Challenge isn’t technically a “tourney,” but I needed a clever title to lead off this blog post. I’m hoping you get the movie reference as I bask in the heartland of America this weekend between the sports doubleheader of my dreams.

You see, I’m officially credentialed for the AFC Championship game on Sunday in Arrowhead Stadium between the Cincinnati Bengals and the Kansas City Chiefs. However, I cruised into town a day earlier just so I could slide over to historic Allen Fieldhouse on Saturday to watch my Wildcats spank the Jayhawks in what was supposed to be college basketball’s game of the year.

The buildup for this one had been huge, with ESPN’s College GameDay crew salivating in anticipation of a titanic tussle between the top two blueblood programs. The Jayhawk fans were also jacked. Their team had won four of the last five against the Wildcats, and they fully expected to be feasting on Kentucky fried chicken before the final horn sounded.

Haha, by now you know the ending: Kentucky 80, Kansas 62, in a game totally dominated by the Wildcats from beginning to end—a brutal beatdown for the ages. Forgive me if I gloat.

Mind you, today’s win was extra special because it took place in Allen Fieldhouse. I’ve never been to “The Phog” before. It’s on my Mount Rushmore of iconic basketball venues (together with Duke’s Cameron Indoor Stadium, UCLA’s Pauley Pavilion, and—of course—Kentucky’s Rupp Arena). By most everyone’s standard, it’s a bucket-list destination.

To begin the Allen Fieldhouse experience, you walk into the hallowed halls of what looks like an airplane hangar. Immediately, you’re thrust into the distant past through a collage of exhibits and display cases. Trophies, personal mementos, and championship paraphernalia dating back to what seems like the beginning of time bombard your senses. The original rules of basketball are etched on the northwest annex of the building. You feel as if you’re standing on holy ground.

For this is where college basketball started. It’s like the “big bang” of big-time hoops with the ghosts of James Naismith, Phog Allen, and Adolph Rupp still roaming the various nooks and crannies. “Pay heed, all who enter: Beware of ‘The Phog,’” says the sign over the tunnel leading into the arena. Placards listing every single player who ever wore the Kansas uniform line an entire concourse wall. There’s definitely a sense of reverence and tradition you don’t get walking into Rupp Arena—or anyplace else for that matter. Lambeau Field perhaps? Maybe Fenway or Wrigley? Wimbledon?

There’s also no pretense with this place. It’s old and decrepit—and it doesn’t care. Forget about keeping up with the Joneses. Built in 1955, the building remains perfect just as it is, comfortable in its own antiquated, creaking skin. It’s hard to believe it seats only a couple of thousand less than a massive Rupp Arena. The stands are compact, the bleachers vertical in scope, with nary an extra inch of extra space for proper ingress or egress.

It’s also hot today—nearly unbearably hot. With outside temperatures approaching sixty, inside it’s ninety degrees and humid. It’s a breeding ground for Covid I’m sure. But unlike Rupp Arena, at least ninety percent of the patrons don masks.

And it is loud in here. From what I’ve been told, it’s consistently loud—not just when the Wildcats come calling. It’s a piercing type of loud too, whereas Rupp is more of a roar. I’ve heard it louder in Rupp (Minniefield to Bowie half-court alley-oop and dunk, Unforgettables beating Shaq, Tayshaun’s five threes). But to be fair, it’s hard being vocal when your team’s getting slaughtered. However, I will concede that when the 17,000 or so on hand started swaying to the singing of the KU alma mater and then morphed into the “Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk” chant, goosebumps broke out on everyone, including myself.

Today is also the first time in six years that I’m watching the Kentucky team play as a fan—with absolutely no media obligations. It’s liberating for sure to be able to cheer openly, loudly, and freely again with no repercussions whatsoever from the press box police. I’m even boldly brandishing the blue, shedding any specter of objectivity or impartiality that team media allegedly bears.

To be honest, I’ve missed this feeling more than I thought I ever would. I forgot what it’s like to feel your heart race or the angst rising in your gut right before tipoff. As the game begins, you’re straining as never before with every single misfire, contorting your body as if willing the shot to go in or grabbing that next rebound yourself. When things go well, you’re high-fiving others and yelling “Go Big Blue” at the top of your lungs.

My seat purchased from StubHub isn’t bad at all. It set me back a couple hundred, but it’s better than my usual media seat at Rupp. Of course, I’m surrounded by Kansas fans. A mom and daughter are seated next to me on one side. They’ve got their faces painted and are loaded for bear. On the other side of me are two old curmudgeons who apparently have been following the Jayhawks for decades.

By the time the final horn sounds, the mom and daughter are deathly quiet, their painted faces dripping with frowns. The two curmudgeons are lamenting about what Bill Self did wrong and how Calipari outcoached him. I’m all smiles.

As a fan, there’s nothing more exhilarating than charging onto an enemy’s homecourt and taking their hearts. To do it in an environment considered by many to be the best in all of college basketball makes this a memory I’ll forever cherish.

If the Bengals win their game against the Chiefs today, perhaps I’ll retire permanently from this media gig. It’s much more fun being just a fan.

If you enjoy my writings as a basketball fan, check out my latest book, KENTUCKY PASSION, available in bookstores and online at https://www.amazon.com/Kentucky-Passion-Wildcat-Wisdom-Inspiration/dp/1684351669 . Follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs.

The Prince Turns Six

For my sixth birthday, my parents gave me a new pair of tennis shoes. These were nothing like the latest Air Jordans you can buy online nowadays for over $300 a pop. But rather, these were your friendly K-Mart specials retailing for the fabulously low price of $4.95.

You see, Mama and Baba just weren’t much into frivolous gift-giving when it came to birthday presents for their children. Don’t get me wrong, they’d sacrifice the world to pay for practical things like our college educations or a down payment on our house. But if I asked for something like a fanciful trip to the beach, they’d probably just laugh in my face. I knew better than to even ask.

So, when my brother and his wife said they were taking their son, Gabriel, out to Disneyland in California to celebrate his sixth birthday, I couldn’t help but cringe. I asked Michael and Michelle if I could come along. I realized that I’d become more and more like my mom and dad—a royal Scrooge when it came to acknowledging milestones in life and significant rites of passage. That shackled me more than I cared to admit, and this trip with Gabriel was going to be my ticket to freedom.

For those who don’t know him, let me tell you a bit about my nephew. The kid’s predictably precocious and smart as a whip. He’s the sole male descendant on this side of our family tree. I was there when he was born and appropriately appointed him at the time as the “emissary of the Huang family jewels.”

I was part joking and part serious. Gabriel doesn’t quite grasp it yet, but our expectations for him are through the roof. As someone who’s getting ready to be put out to pasture, I’m already rolling all my unfulfilled hopes and discarded dreams into the opportunities still lying ahead of him. That’s a heavy burden for anybody to bear—and it’s certainly not fair to Gabriel. In his six short years on earth, he’s already brought our family enough smiles, hugs, and joy to last two or three lifetimes.

When you see the word “spoiled” in the dictionary, however, you’ll see Gabriel’s picture as part of the definition. His mom calls him “The Prince,” if that tells you anything. Whenever there’s a new toy that’s the latest and greatest craze, there’ll be two of them in Gabriel’s playroom by Tuesday. There were times that he had so many toy cars strewn across the family room floor that I was sure my ninety-year-old father would undoubtedly slip and fall to his death. Whether stuffed animals, air rifles, or model rockets to the moon, nothing was too expensive, too outlandish, or too good for The Prince.

Not even a Disneyland trip—a blow-out-the-budget foray that would have his grandparents rolling over in their graves. This journey of extravagance was my best chance of vicariously experiencing everything that I had missed out on in my youth of parental-denial. For once, I’d finally see how the other half lives—squandering my life savings with nary a thought for tomorrow.

As if Disney itself wasn’t enough, we’re scheduled for a Pre-Disney day at the neighboring Knott’s Berry Farm in Anaheim. Bubbling with anticipation, The Prince is up early with his royal entourage trailing in his wake—Mom and Dad, Uncle John, Cousin Katie, Aunt Mary and Uncle Robin—all ready to indulge and coddle.

Here’s my beef with Knotts Berry Farm. For a place that started out as a roadside berry stand, it has way too many thrill coasters for a six-year-old prodigy. Gabriel won’t ride many of them, and neither will I. The Prince pines instead for the rigged arcade games, and he predictably melts down when his daddy can’t bring home the hardware. Fifty bucks for park admission and the kid’s whining about missing out on a fifty-cent CLAW toy. Jesus, help us!

The next day, it’s more of the same at Disneyland—only it’s Gabriel’s daddy who’s doing most of the sulking. Missing out on the 7 a.m. virtual queue for the Rise of the Resistance ride sends Michael—a Star Wars fanatic—into the throws of depression. He walks around the park with an unrelenting frowny face as he misses out on the noontime virtual queue also. It seems our best laid plans have been unceremoniously hijacked.

The Prince, however, seems totally unfazed. He’s happy as a Jedi cruising Galaxy’s Edge. And why wouldn’t he be? His dad just dropped $150 watching him build a droid. He’s munching on $10 corn dogs and sporting a new $24 hat. An overpriced character meal with Goofy at the Disneyland Hotel is also lurking in the wings.

But you know what? As his late Grandpa would often say, “Gabriel is a good boy.” Despite the apparent over-indulgence, I find myself marveling at the kid, nonetheless. He waits patiently in interminable lines for rides, walks over ten miles crisscrossing the park without a single complaint, and keeps us all entertained with his never-ending commentary and wit. Most importantly, he makes everyone around him happy. And it is his birthday after all.

Even the Disney gods relent. Miraculously, we get a last-minute call-up for the Rise of the Resistance, and we hightail it over to board with our group. As I look over at Gabriel wondrously eyeing the Death Star, I can’t help but see my child-like self in him. Fifty years ago, I walked these exact same streets of Disney. I remember those magical moments with my family like they happened yesterday. I treasure those memories more than life itself. I’m hoping that Gabriel will treasure his time with me in the very same way.

His mom was right. There’s nothing too good for The Prince. I love you, Gabriel. May the force be with you.

Dr. John Huang is a columnist for Nolan Group Media and editor-in-chief of JustTheCats.com. His two newest books, KENTUCKY PASSION and FROM THE RAFTERS OF RUPP, are now available online and wherever fine books are sold. If you enjoy his writing, you can follow him on Twitter @KYHuangs.

Why I Do Stupid Things

I just returned from a grueling road trip to Columbia, Missouri. It’s the home of the University of Missouri Tigers, and my Kentucky Wildcats were matched up with them on Saturday afternoon at the midpoint of this year’s 10-game SEC gauntlet of a schedule. For the record, Kentucky laid an egg and got pummeled—but that’s not the point of this post. Or maybe it is?

It’s a Dud!

The question I’ve been asked time and time again is why would a guy like me continuously invest the time and energy to follow a football team that is known for ripping your heart out year after year in the most perplexing manner possible?

Let me try to explain because I think that’s a fair question.

You see, it’s a 14-hour round trip to Columbia. The drive through the flatlands of the Midwest is ridiculously boring. The traffic around St. Louis can be stifling and the weather this time of the year is already cold and dreary. Missouri isn’t a big foodie destination either. I’m not a big fan of those cracker-crust pizzas, and the steamed dumplings in Columbia weren’t worth the bamboo chopsticks my carryout order came with. Wouldn’t my weekends be better spent working towards world peace or finding the cure for cancer?

To add to my misery, I made the trip alone. A good buddy and colleague bailed out at the last possible minute. I get that—things come up. Plus, don’t forget there’s still a pandemic going on, gas and hotels still cost money, and media outlets are more selective than ever now in who goes where.

Speaking of which, I was the only UK media person—outside of the normal UK staff and broadcasting network—to cover the game. I don’t think that’s ever happened before. It’s a whole different media world out there than it was just a few short years ago. No Herald-Leader, no Courier-Journal, no Cats Pause, no local TV stations—no nothing.

Only me. Wouldn’t it have been better to drown my sorrows from the comfort of my basement couch? Was I nuts for going?

I don’t think so…and here’s why.

It’s simple. I’m a fan. I’m no different than most of you. For die-hard Kentucky fans, it’s always about the journey rather than the destination. Sure I want Kentucky to win just as much as the next guy (probably more), but after a half century of heartbreak, I’ve finally realized that it’s not the won-loss record that ultimately tickles my fancy.

Nope, it’s the realization that—as a sports fan—regardless of the misery I may be currently experiencing, that tantalizing jolt of euphoria could be just around the corner. That game winning kick, that season-saving interception, or that once-in-a-lifetime comeback victory could be just a road trip away. AND I DON’T WANT TO MISS IT!

So I go—to out of the way places like Columbia the week before Halloween, through the backwoods of Mississippi to hamlets like Starkville, and Auburn, and Fayetteville—all because I want to witness with my own eyes the next great iconic moment in Kentucky Football history.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not equating momentous football victories with the moon landing. However, we all know that—as fans—there are certain moments that will always be a part of our hearts forever. Following the Cats to the end of the earth is part of our DNA. It’s an integral part of who we are, a perfunctory rite of passage, our unalienable right to the pursuit of happiness within our Big Blue Nation.

Because despite our travails, every once in a blue moon, we stumble upon those magical moments of heaven on earth. Like in Gainesville two years ago when Kentucky broke that 31-game losing streak against the Gators. Or like in Knoxville the weekend before last when the Cats dismantled Rocky Top and ended that ignominious 36-year losing streak.

So I’ll pack my bags, download some podcasts, and hunker down for some monotonous travel, greasy fast food, overpriced hotels, and bad football.

I know there’ll be plenty more duds like Missouri lurking in the future. But hidden among them will be those memorable gems you simply can’t miss. It’s the price you have to pay.

Trust me—it’s absolutely worth it.

Derby Sober

(LOUISVILLE, Ky.) – Truth be told, the Kentucky Derby really isn’t about the horse race. What really captures one’s imagination is the spectacle of the entire Derby Day experience. Oh sure, history will note that Country House won the 145^th annual “Run for the Roses” after Maximum Security was disqualified for interference. But the real memories of the first Saturday in May always fall back to the pageantry, the traditions, and the pomp and ceremony taking place in and around the race itself.

“It’s a great moment,” said winning jockey Flavien Prat. “It’s a dream come true…it’s amazing. I mean, there’s no race like the Kentucky Derby. And I was hoping to ride it, ride the Derby, and to win it.”

Few venues in the sporting world dare to rival the iconic twin spires of Churchill Downs. The ivy at Wrigley Field, Notre Dame’s Touchdown Jesus, or the Green Monster at Fenway you say? Those are decent choices, but they usually conjure up images of specific teams or season-long events. You show anyone a picture of those quintessential Churchill steeples, however, and all thoughts zoom directly to the Kentucky Derby. For one specific day out of the year, the entire sporting world focuses on our little corner of the Bluegrass State—our ultimate claim to fame. For you see, it’s not the regal, four-legged, three-year-old thoroughbreds that make for the most exciting two minutes in sports—but rather the bourbon, the burgoo, and the big hats that end up capturing our fanciful imaginations.

I grew up in the Commonwealth, but this is only my second official Kentucky Derby—my first as a credentialed media member. Like your first dog, your first car, or your first wife, it’ll forever be hard to top the sentimentality of that initial experience.

https://huangswhinings.com/2016/04/21/kentucky-fried-derby

But being part of the press corps this time around definitely has its advantages. As a scribe for Sports View America, I’m getting in for free.

According to StubHub, the Derby’s not cheap. A general admission ticket for a spot in the infield usually runs you eighty bucks—an option I wouldn’t recommend, unless you’re someone under thirty with a bon-a-fide death wish. Want to upgrade? A decent seat in the grandstand will likely set you back three to four hundred dollars. If you really want to waste your money, try Millionaires Row—where for a cool six grand, you’ll likely rub elbows with celebrities like Tom Brady, Jennifer Lawrence, or one of the Kardashians.

Speaking of celebrities, the Derby’s really just a glorified fashion show. Both sexes dressed to the nines—or tens for that matter. Seersucker suits, oversized fascinators, and hideous hats grace the walkways. It’s at events like the Derby when you suddenly realize that one man’s fashion is another man’s clown suit. Regardless of perspective, you can dress like a bum if you’re a member of the media. No need to spring for outlandish suspenders or Gucci shoes. Faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and that prized credentialed lanyard hanging around your neck will get you up close and personal to the horseflesh at hand.

Parking, food, and accessible toilets are additional media perks for me this year. Unlike before, I’m not paying thirty bucks for a two-mile hike to the track with porta potty privileges along the way. Instead, I’ve got a reserved spot in the media lot, just a short jaunt to the hallowed front gates. Once inside, I’m treated to quite the spread at the Derby day media buffet. Meats, salads, and desserts all laid out for you to grab and go. No alcohol, though. If you want a sip of that $15 mint julep, you’re on your own. Which begs the question: Can you really enjoy the Kentucky Derby if you’re completely sober? I’m about to find out.

Everyone at this Derby appears just a tad bit tipsy. It’s one big party—and who doesn’t enjoy being the life of the party? Even so, there are two lines of inebriation you simply can’t cross. Don’t get sick, and don’t get naked. Abstaining from liquid courage, I wisely avoided both—leaving the cookie tossing and wardrobe malfunctions to those far less inhibited.

You’d think bad weather would have discouraged some of the crowds today. That wasn’t the case as 150,729 filed in despite the chilly and messy rain. It made for some long and soggy lines at the betting windows—and even longer ones for the food kiosks and bathrooms. Often times, just walking around became a challenge. The pungency of the spilled liquor, grilled meats, body odor, damp air, and ubiquitous cigar smoke became noticeably more unpleasant as the day wore on. Looking around, trash piled up everywhere. The only thing messier was the postrace traffic—horrifically long shuttle waits, Uber lines, and jumbled backups tripling the usual time needed to get home.

Can you enjoy the Derby while sober? If you don’t like crowds, gambling, long lines, drunk people, sick people, loud people, bad traffic, bad weather, bad smells, bad internet, and bad steward rulings, then the answer is a resounding “NO!” But not all events in life are meant to be pleasant. It’s the unique experiences that we so often covet, and many aspects of the Kentucky Derby remain distinguishingly unique. The pre-Derby singing of My Old Kentucky Home is still one of the most sentimental and memorable experiences in all of sports.

When I asked winning trainer Bill Mott what the most memorable aspect of his Kentucky Derby experience was, here’s what he told me. “You know what I enjoy the most is just training the horses. I mean, that’s what I live for—get up in the morning, come out and see the horses…I woke up this morning and said “Oh (bleep), this is here. It’s finally here…When you finally reach a point when the training goes well, it’s actually very memorable. That part of it means the most to me.”

“…walking into that circle at Churchill Downs, it’s a pretty special event,” Mott continued. “Why do it the easy way, you know what I mean?”

Having just covered my first Kentucky Derby and seeing history being made, I know exactly what he means.

Dr. John Huang is lead writer for Sports View America. This column was featured in the Apr/May print edition of Sports View America Publications. If you enjoy his writing, you can follow him on Twitter @KYHuangs.

Let Freedom Ring

This blog posting really isn’t about basketball at all—which is exactly my reason for writing it.

Final Four? I don’t care. I guess I’m a sore loser. The minute Kentucky gets eliminated in the NCAA tournament, I just want to get as far away from basketball as possible. Two years ago, after UNC’s Luke Maye sent the Wildcats prematurely packing, I immediately started packing for my own trip to Turks and Caicos. When Kansas State upset the Big Blue last year, I booked the first flight out for the Florida gulf coast. This year, unfortunately, I’m headed out early again—to someplace far away from Minneapolis, where I can put overtime losses to Bruce Pearl completely out of sight and out of mind.

You see, less than twenty-four hours after returning from the disappointment in Kansas City, I was stuffing my suitcase for Washington, DC. I’ve been there many times over the course of my lifetime, but never while the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. I’m killing two birds with one stone on this trip—making my wife happy and NOT watching basketball during the first weekend in April.

Ah, the memories come flooding back. My first visit to our nation’s capital was with my mom and dad back in the mid-1960s. As newly minted, starry-eyed, first generation immigrants from China, my parents wanted to show first hand—to their number one son—the sights and symbols representing their personal pursuit of the American Dream. Where better than Washington, DC, where founding fathers and freedom fighters named Washington, Jefferson, and Abraham Lincoln stood sentinel over democracy? Granted, I was only six years old at the time, but something deep down inside of me still resonated with this Land of Opportunity. Even back then, the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness sounded pretty darned good to me.

I returned to DC again in the early 1980s, this time as a recent college graduate, indoctrinated with the liberal agenda and misguided cynicism flowing out of all university campuses. The city had a different vibe for me this time around. Thoughts of American imperialism, social injustice, and racial inequality sadly replaced the wide-eyed innocence of my earlier visit. With malice towards none; charity for all suddenly became a slogan that pipedreams were made of. Not going to happen in this America, I surmised at the time.

I returned to Washington again in the early 1990s, a thirty-something professional with a beautiful wife and one-year-old daughter in tow. Ten years in the military with a stint living overseas, and my thoughts on America had changed. The good ole’ USA was now all about capitalism—making a buck, keeping up with the Joneses, and paying off your mortgage. To me, DC represented all that was worth striving for—the money of the Federal Reserve, the power on Capitol Hill, and the status of the West Wing. I have a dream. It was a different dream than Dr. Martin Luther King had, but it was my dream, nonetheless.

And now, nearly three decades later, I’m back again—armed with a lifetime of experiences and a bucketload of supposedly new wisdom. It’s somewhat bittersweet. My mom has since passed, my daughter is all grown up, and I’ve been retired and put out to pasture. On a beautiful sunny weekday morning, I stroll leisurely along the National Mall, with plenty of time to ruminate about life’s regrets, growing old, and what America has meant to me.

Over a half a century as a naturalized American citizen gives me a perspective grounded mostly in gratitude. I’m grateful for many things—a fine education, access to health care, and languorous walks with my dog. But as I pause in front of all the different war memorials, I realize that the thing I’m mostly grateful for in America is freedom. Freedom to speak, write, gather, and worship as I choose. The United States of America still has its faults, but in terms of individual freedom, it remains the greatest nation on the face of the earth.

Walking up the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, I’m reminded that with freedom comes responsibility. Freedom isn’t free. Many have died fighting for it. May we think of freedom, not as the right to do as we please, but as the opportunity to do what is right.” (author unknown)

Our Founding Fathers got it right in the beginning. We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…” May Washington, DC remain forever a bastion of liberty and a beacon for democracy. Let freedom ring!

By the way, the cherry blossoms were beautiful in April. My wife is happy. Final Four? Who does Duke play again?

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist living out the American Dream covering University of Kentucky Sports. He is a columnist for Nolan Group Media and lead writer for Sports View America. If you enjoy his writing, you can follow him on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @KYHuangs.

Ben and Jerry’s

When it comes to food worship, everyone has an idol. For many, a juicy steak paired with a properly aged Cabernet Sauvignon is what drops you to your knees. For others, it may be freshly grilled Maine lobster that triggers a Damascus Road conversion experience. Still others bow down to the golden altar of french fries, chicken wings, and barbecue brisket.

Whatever your individual heart may desire, there’s one food that’s sure to be found behind St. Peter’s heavenly gates. It’s sweeter than salvation and purer than silver or gold. It’s like a lamp to your feet and a light for your path, with flavors as sharp as a double-edged sword.

What is this heavenly nectar, you ask—a food so universally praised, exalted, and glorified by both the calorie conscious and lactose intolerant? I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream—OF COURSE!

With that said, I’m going in search of the holy grail of dairy delights…and where better to make my sacred pilgrimage than to the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream factory in Waterbury, Vermont. This ain’t no Baskin Robbins castoff. No, this is the real thing—a 900-mile journey to the birthplace of Cherry Garcia and Chunky Monkey.

In the interest of full disclosure, I know I’m heading up to the Green Mountain State right smack dab in the middle of leaf viewing season—but that’s neither here nor there. I assure you that my search for spiritual nirvana and the salve for my sweet tooth remains my singular focus. I’m also fully prepared—armed with the proper discipline, metabolism, and genetic make-up to survive any thousand calorie assault on my cholesterol count and waistline. Bring it on!

I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but I was a bit disillusioned pulling into the factory grounds. When one approaches Mecca, you anticipate enlightenment—or at least neon signs, costumed characters, and a shuttle ride to the shrine entrance. Instead, all I was greeted with was a packed parking lot and a 50-yard trek up to the summit mount.

Once crested, I was met with a veritable madhouse of lost souls, all looking to gain entry into the temple of delight. The line for tickets was longer than eternal damnation. Undaunted, I bite the bullet and settle in for the hour-long wait for my ascent into paradise. Paradise today is relatively affordable. For four dollars a pop, I watch a movie where Ben and Jerry convince me that eating their ice cream makes me the most environmentally friendly, socially conscious, and charitably generous consumer ever to grace the planet. I’m then given a sneak peek behind the veil, where I’m treated to more than I want to know about what really goes into my ice cream.

At the end of the tour, our tour guide—who had obviously given one tour too many—delivers four bad cow jokes before serving the requisite samples to the masses. The flavor of the day involved some foreign concoction right off the assembly line—a strange blend of chocolate and orange that left my taste buds frazzled and my mind totally perplexed and confused.

Was this all there was to it? Had I been hoodwinked into false belief? Were the Ben & Jerry cows really just golden calves? Where were the baptismal vaults of my favorite Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch? Was it truly a flavor forever dead and buried—never to be resurrected?

The only way to seek truth was to taste it. Making my way to the holy kiosk, I go all out and do something I’ve never done before. I order a quintuple scoop. Diabetic coma be damned. You only live once, right? If my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, I’m filling it with caramel swirls and cookie dough.

Obviously, this ordeal did not end well. Excessive pursuits never do. Like many other things in life, moderation is the key. I REPENT! Next time I get a hankering for Ben & Jerry’s, there will be no thousand-mile sojourn to the promised land. A five-minute drive to Kroger is all I’ll ever need. Haagen-Dazs anyone?

John Huang is a retired orthodontist who worships both God and ice cream. He’s currently working with former LEX18 sportscaster Alan Cutler on his new book. If you enjoy his writing, you can follow him on Twitter @KYHuangs.

Check out his most recent UK Sports coverage at http://www.themanchesterenterprise.com/category/uk-live-breathe-blue/

Check out his most recent Cincinnati Bengals and other professional sports coverage at http://www.bluegrasssportsnation.com/category/writers/john-huang

IndyFabulous 500

(INDIANAPOLIS, In.) — When I was 10 years old, I got an Aurora AFX electric racing set for my birthday. I remember spending hours running my toy cars around the dual slot courses, often pretending I was behind the wheel of some jacked up Formula One racer. If it was Monday, then I was Jackie Stewart, expertly negotiating the hairpin turns of Monaco. On Wednesdays, I was Emerson Fittipaldi winning another Formula One Championship trophy. Come Friday, I was one of the Unser brothers, or maybe even A.J. Foyt on my way to a coveted checkered flag at Indy.

Fast forward fifty years and I find myself once again at the famed Indianapolis Motor Speedway. This time, however, it’s not some fantasy concocted from my years as an AFX driving legend—this time it’s for real, as an on-site correspondent for Bluegrass Sports Nation. Together with a boatload of rabid racing fans and hundreds of other sports journalists of every ilk and breed, I’m taking in all the sights and sounds of a once-in-a-lifetime bucket list experience. It’s the Indianapolis 500–exciting, smoking hot, and LOUD!

Those of you familiar with “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing” know that the Indy 500 isn’t just a one-day event. In fact, the lead up to the race itself is frequently referred to as the “Month of May” because of all the painstaking preparations prior to the green flag. Pole Day, Bump Day, Carb Day, and Fast Friday all comprise a twisted conglomeration of testing, qualifying, and positioning for the 33 cars that will be eventually vying for the gigantic Borg-Warner trophy. It’s a combination of a global sporting event and a local state fair, with the pungency of burning rubber mixing pleasantly with the cooking oil aroma wafting from a perfectly crafted batch of deep fried elephant ears. Mix in the occasional dose of fetid body odor and you’ve got all the ingredients necessary for a memorable world class gathering.

The media credentialing process for this 102^nd running of the Indy 500 was akin to vetting for senate confirmation. Approval required disclosing everything from your eighth-grade math scores to your current underwear size. Once approved, race officials then required you to make an in-person advance trip to their offices for the requisite photos, waivers, and officially issued race IDs. Forgive my exasperation, but a six-and-a-half hour round trip car ride to stand in a line reminiscent of the DMV just isn’t my cup of tea. Only a chance elevator encounter with David Letterman kept the day from being a total washout. The former late-night TV host turned racing team co-owner dished up his best elevator etiquette—surprisingly polite and friendly while smirking behind those gapped central incisors and that bushy white beard.

Race Day dawns early as I’m inside the gates just after 6 am. Even at this early hour, tailgating is already in full force as I make my way through a mass of RV’s, portable toilets, and revelers in various levels of undress. Photographers stationed at the famous third turn of the speedway track have been camped out in their precious slots since midnight. They’ll be no such shenanigans from this old scribe, as I make my way to my reserved seat inside the monstrous four-story, air-conditioned media center directly across from the finish line. The entire set up reminds me of Mission Control on launch day, with rows and rows of journalists huddled over their computer monitors amidst the backdrop of the picture plate glass windows overlooking the cosmos that is the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

The thing that immediately strikes me is the size of the complex. A two-and-a-half-mile oval is huge enough, but there’s also a modern infield road course and four holes of a neighboring golf course shoehorned into the raceway grounds. Two hundred and fifty thousand permanent grandstand seats together with room for 150,000 additional patrons in the infield makes the IMS the highest capacity sports venue in the world. Slathered in sunscreen and armed with earplugs, on the second hottest day in race history, I’m ready to take it all in.

I make my way down to the garage areas just down Gasoline Alley. It’s here that I get my first up-close glimpse of the mechanical wizardry known as Indy cars—single seat, open cockpit, open-wheeled, purpose-built beauties utilizing 2.2L V6, twin-turbocharged engines, tuned to produce a range of 550-700 horsepower, and designed to travel at speeds well over 200 mph. It’s surreal seeing them in such a dormant state, as if they’re silently and prayerfully meditating before being unleashed into battle like gladiators into the coliseum.

Speaking of gladiators, Indy car drivers all appear larger than life—regal, majestic, and dignified—as if sitting in the cockpit of these supercharged rockets automatically endows them with a sense of superhero strength, stamina, and good looks. In reality, they’re just mere mortals, susceptible to the purposefully unspoken possibilities of injury and death as they’re hurtling around the track at such ungodly speeds. Fourteen drivers have been killed in the actual race, the last being Swede Savage in 1973, who ran over a patch of oil that caused him to hit the inside wall in turn four, which shot him to the outside wall where he crashed again.

I’m fortunate to meet up with my friend Del Duduit, Zach Veach’s youth basketball coach, whose connection to the 23-year-old Verizon Indy Car driver gave us all a special rooting interest for his Andretti Autosport team. As we wander around, it’s like a Who’s Who of racing, a virtual racing legends hall of fame with the anticipation of surprising encounters lurking around every pit bay corner. I’m introduced to George Del Canto, the owner of the Kingdom Racing team. George is a true man after God’s own heart. He gave up a lucrative career in finance and now uses his platform on the racing circuit to spread the Gospel of Christ.

As the massive crowd continues to filter in together with the oppressive heat and humidity, I catch a quick glimpse of Sage Karam, a cocky-looking 23-year-old whose fastest post-qualifying speeds makes him a legitimate contender. I don’t know—maybe I dreamed it—but I thought I also saw Danica Patrick, who’s competing in her eighth and final Indy, surrounded by an impenetrable crowd of security and neck straining well-wishers. And of course, Roger Penske and his Team Penske, with their 16 Indianapolis 500 victories and the litany of big-name drivers driving for the Captain himself. Gary Bettenhausen, Mark Donohue, Bobby Unser, Rick Mears, Mario Andretti, Tom Sneva, Danny Sullivan, Danny Ongais, and Al Unser—all names from the past transporting me back to those fun times around the little toy track in our basement back home.

When Jim Cornelison belts out his version of Gomer Pyle’s “Back Home Again in Indiana,” I can barely contain my emotion and excitement. Following the ear-splitting fly by, the green flag mercifully drops and I’m revved up higher than a souped-up racing tachometer. It’s goosebumps galore as the crescendo cheers of more than 300,000 racing fans vie greedily with the incessant engine roars zooming rhythmically before my very nose.

For the record, the winner of the 102^nd running of the Indianapolis 500 today was 37-year-old Australian native Will Power of Team Penske–the one driver who zoomed around the track just a little bit faster than everyone else. Power started in the 3^rd position and led 59 of the 200 race laps. Afterwards, he celebrated with the customary swig of winner’s circle milk–the innocence of the simple tradition belying the intricacies of his hard-earned, long-awaited, first-time victory.

“It was the last box to tick to be considered as a very successful driver,” Power said, referring to the win today. “I still have plenty of time left to win more 500s and championships and races…It’s what I needed so badly and wanted so badly and it came true. Anyone here knows how that would feel if you want something so much and it comes through to you through hard work and determination.”

As for me, it wasn’t the race results that captivated my fancy today. It’s seldom the results. For me, it’s always about the experience of the moment. In that respect, the Indianapolis 500 certainly did not disappoint. I’ll be honest–the sheer size, pageantry, and celebrity of the venue took me a little by surprise. The dizzying speed of the cars set me a bit on edge and the massiveness of the crowd became a tad bit intimidating. But that’s exactly why it’s the spectacle that it is. A bucket list item for sure—with plenty of drama, intrigue, and pomp for everyone lucky enough to attend.

John Huang is a columnist for Bluegrass Sports Nation and Nolan Media Group. If you enjoy his writing, you can read more at www.huangswhinings.com or follow him on Twitter @KYHuangs.

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Category: Travel