It began with a phone call 15 years ago on Groundhog Day, thus the triggering of this great memory moment to share. I’d just gotten home from a bowl game. It was our late great friend Art Pepin on the line.

“Tom, I’m on our Budweiser bus at St. Pete Beach at Mr. Busch’s place. We are heading your way,” said Art. “I have Mr. James Michener with Stan Musial, Red Schoendienst, and a friend of theirs. Mr. Michener is thinking of writing a book about retirement and wants to see Tampa. Need a guide and you are it, if you can. Be there in 30 minutes.”

I couldn’t get an okay out quickly enough. James Michener? Musial, I knew, and the Cardinal manager, Red, but Michener? The terrific author. The prolific author of Hawaii, Caribbean, Poland and so many others. The great American writer… my, I was in awe, as were we all in this writing business. Any business. I knew most of Art’s celebrity buddies. I would write his biography. James Michener. Yipes!

No time later, the bus pulled into my drive. They got out and came into my house, one at a time: Artie, Musial, chanting his “whattaya say, whattaya say,” Schoendienst just a “Good Morning”, Pepin laughing.

I waited at the door when the great man got out, jacket and hat with a brim, cane. He came to the door and I introduced myself. Said he knew me. Said he often read me. Didn’t matter that he did or did not, he said it, and looked to the right to my pretty comfortable office and he said it was much like his. Sure. And then, the great James Michener lifted his cane a bit in gesture, and asked:

“May I ask you a question, Tom?”

Well, sir, of course, sir, I think I stammered. Him, Mr. Michener, asking me a question? I knew something he did not?

“What is the matter with Vinny Testaverde?”

He, newcomer, meant the Buccaneer quarterback of those years. He was a bit of a puzzle to us all.

Quickly, I answered: “He’s colorblind.”

He nodded. Seemed satisfied. I was. He got an answer, at least. We had just learned of this matter of practical fact. The great sportswriter, Jim Murray of the Los Angeles Times, was colorblind. Still, he insisted on driving out there. I had to tell him when the signal lights changed, to go or stop.

We went onto our Davis Island waterside room. He admired that, met wife Linda, admired her and autographed the books that Linda had bought for signing.

After a bit, we got back on the Bud Bus and began our tour. Soon, Stan the Man said to Pepin, “Art, I have been on this bus an hour and a half and you have not offered me a beer. Not feeling well?”

Pepin quickly fixed the problem, when Mr. Michener asked:

“Got any bourbon, Art?”

He had a drink in his hand in no time and my job got easier, but it was lunchtime. Art took us to the now departed A. J. Catfish Place on North Himes, across from Carmine’s. It is missed. More beer and bourbon were about, and pasta. Mr. Michener said, “I do believe the good Lord created pasta as a gift to all Italians. They love it so. Beautiful dish.”

Pepin said he’d drink to that and pasta, and the Italians were toasted a couple of times before we headed north. I wanted Mr. Michener to see Carrollwood, Avila, and the new Tournament Players course.

On the way, here, I thought, I was spending that day, and there would be a night the next day as well. Here I was with an icon of our craft who did not write much until he was 60 and was at his zenith in his 80s, which was then. Between 1986 and 1991, he would write eleven major books and have others underway.

He would write at three different sites, one Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, on three different typewriters, three different secretaries, three different editors on those spots but one key editor who would pace him and legions of researchers.

He wrote each morning and reflected and checked research all afternoon. When he was at it, he was at it. All out. But he had time for his friends. Musial was one. Stan went with Michener to Poland. Pepin was another. As you can tell, he was choosy.

Now, on that tour, we moved to the TPC area in north Tampa. At the golf course, site of a seniors tournament, then and now, a press day was being held. When the bus arrived at the clubhouse, the defending champion was holding a press conference. The defending champ was Jim Colbert, an old friend of mine, who had long lived at Saddlebrook. I asked the driver if he would see if Jim could come out to see us in the parking lot.

Colbert came. Jim is brainy. Quick. When he got to the bus door and saw us all there, he said to me:

“McEwen, ordinarily I’d say you are best writer in the crowd.”

We guffawed.

It was the capper. The day was done. We went home. Some slept on the way home, as expected. Had more to do the next day. It would be a birthday for Jim Michener. Yes, we went to the Vinoy, in St. Pete. Talk about it another time. Stan and Lil Musial gave it for the Micheners.

Dios.