Michael Ludden's Blog

I’m getting what they call an orientation flight. With the Blue Angels. Public relations.

Who cares? I would cut off my arm to get in this thing.

Friend of mine drives me out to the airport, a smallish place south of town where they can do stunts and not be in anybody’s way. She’s gonna watch. From the ground.

Safety lecture first… parachutes, etc.

I sit in the back. We’re getting ready to hammer it and he says… “What I like to do to start is called a performance climb. I’m gonna lift the wheels off the runway, put the jet on its tail and hit the burners. We’ll go straight up, very fast. Are you cool with that?”

Are you kidding?

We do the climb, we run around up there, sitting atop a jet engine that can knock down a house, destroying the clouds. He catapults, stunts. And I dunno if the jet jockeys do this for everybody to make em feel special, but at one point he says, “I’m gonna put it into a high-G turn. We’ll see how you tolerate it. If it’s too much, call out on your mic.”

I watch the meter roll up to about 6 and half Gs. I’m flexing my stomach hard, to keep it where it’s supposed to be. You do not see this flying Delta, but in turbulence, these wings rock like whitecaps in the wind.

“How was that?” he says.

Do not stop on my account, I say.

At which point, he says… “It seems like you’re real good with it. I was supposed to practice today and ran out of time. If you don’t mind and you got no place to go, we could run through the show. Take about a half hour.”

I was figuring my flight would be 10 minutes, at best. I tell him it sounds something along the lines of spectacular.

We are booming a pirouette into the sky when he says… “You wanna take the stick?”

Three guesses, pal.

So I get to climb and dive and spin and bash my frickin head against the sides of the cockpit from pushing the thing too hard. We go into a steep climb and he tells me to level it off, at which point we go weightless.

“You need to be a little more sensitive with the stick,” he says.

“I am available for more practice,” I say.

I am flying with a guy who spots a smokestack miles in the distance, says we’re gonna stick our nose in it (after a few intermediate steps). Proceeds to hammer inside loops, outside loops… a whole lot of stuff where I cannot see the ground and, in fact, have no idea where it might be at that particular moment.

We are screaming out of a high speed turn when I see our nose is now pointed straight down, dead center on that smokestack.

Finally, we gotta quit.

I am trying to find some way to thank the guy.

Can I buy you a house?

We float lightly onto the runway, climb out. My friend and chauffeur runs outside, wants to know if I threw up.

Hell no. Are you kidding? That was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Wish I could say the same, she says.

But that thing you did, going straight up off the runway. That was bad.

One of the great perks of Florida journalism was covering the space program during the heydays. Back in the day, people used to line up along the beach in Cocoa to see a launch.

And when it was time for the first shuttle to go up, a million people crammed in, shoulder to shoulder. Got there early.

That was as close as the public could get, but it was miles away.

If you had the right creds, you could get to the press site, 3.5 miles across Mosquito Lagoon from the launch pad. Now, if 3.5 miles sounds like a long way to be from a rocket launch, you’ve never been that close.

Let’s just say whatever you see on television is a ridiculous imitation of the blinding light, the roar, the thunderclap-pounding, chest-bruising barrage that is about to wash over you like a tidal wave. The folks who wanna stand lean into it.

The first launch had been a ticking clock for years. Delays… safety concerns… debate… fixes.

Money.

More delays. Like a lot of folks, we went and came home, went and came home, camped out in the parking lot with buckets of fried chicken and large quantities of unauthorized sustenance. Always waiting for Go.

Generally, the countdown’s gonna run down to mebbe nine minutes and some change, even on a bad day. It’s when you start getting into those final-minute checks that you’re most likely to see red lights start to blink.

Well on April 12, 1981, the lights stayed green. The clock kept ticking. And in the concrete bleachers, under that galvanized roof, a sea of reporters and tv guys from all over Florida and the U.S. and the world started to get out of their seats, started walking, quickly, down toward the water.

Stopped talking.

And then it ignited. Main engines hammering so hard you could see the frickin engine nozzles shaking like they were about to fall off and even the damn tail was shaking. (Something else to fix later.) And then it started to lift off the ground.

Slowly at first, as if it were too big, too heavy to compete with gravity. And then unimaginable acceleration… glorious, stunning, violent. The flames underneath, so brilliant it was painful to watch. And yet it danced into the heavens as if it weighed nothing at all. Disappearing all too quickly.

Look around at all the hard-case journos. Screaming, tears flooding down their faces, sobbing, arms raised, hands clasped. Somebody’s hanging on to a railing. And then the shouts.

“Oh my God!”

“God bless America.”

“Brezhnev… kiss my ass!”

Everybody knew the Cubans could play ball. Seemed like so many guys there, born with gloves in their hands.

There was a period, back in 1980, during the Mariel Boatlift, when the city of Miami started putting tons of Cuban refugees under the old Orange Bowl. When I say under, I mean on the ground, under the bleachers. Cots, blankets, big piles of empty wine bottles.

Over their heads, lush turf, glistening paint, a scoreboard like something they’d only seen on television, lots of places to buy food, when a game was on. But these folks couldn’t go up there, not even to look.

Eight long weeks in the heat. The government brought em stuff to eat and drink. People sneaked in some booze. Nobody was gonna grumble.

So they sat. They smoked.

One day a city guy shows up with a bat and ball, a couple of old gloves. Guys grab em and sprint out to the lawn outside the stadium. Old guys and kids and wives and girlfriends follow to sit and watch.

The guys toss their shirts. And what they know right now is that they have just a few minutes. Then the buses will arrive to take em miles from here, out to the middle of nowhere to a tent city where the controversy over whether these people are going to be allowed to stay in the United States is going to be just that much more muted. Further out of sight.

They’ll stay there, behind fences.

So they race onto the field, begin to throw it around. But this is not casual pitch and catch. We’re talking 50 yards apart, snapping off gorgeous throws, long and hard, that crack into the glove. They move like cats.

A guy picks up the bat, walks over to a bald spot. Pitcher cranks one at him, whistles it down the middle. Boom. Guy out in center sprints back… back… leaps, stretching for it. He pulls it in, spins, fires it home. And that ball is comin.

The people cheer.

THANKS FOR turning to my blog page. People have been suggesting for a couple of years that I turn this into a little book. And I’ve just done that. (I left one post here for anyone who isn’t familiar with the site).

One Amazon Top 100 Hall of Fame critic calls the collection… “some of the best-crafted, spontaneously-shared short stories in contemporary literature…” 

You can get the book at Amazon for $2.99 for the Kindle edition, or $7.99 for the paperback. You can also get an e-book at Barnes & Noble for $2.99

For a signed paperback, visit:

http://www.michaelludden.com/purchase.php

Thanks,

M

THANKS FOR turning to my blog page. People have been suggesting for a couple of years that I turn this into a little book. And I’ve just done that. (I left one post here for anyone who isn’t familiar with the site).

One Amazon Top 100 Hall of Fame critic calls the collection… “some of the best-crafted, spontaneously-shared short stories in contemporary literature…” 

You can get the book at Amazon for $2.99 for the Kindle edition, or $7.99 for the paperback. You can also get an e-book at Barnes & Noble for $2.99

For a signed paperback, visit:

http://www.michaelludden.com/purchase.php

And Goodreads is sponsoring a giveaway, through June 21. To enter, go to:

https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/280959-tales-from-the-morgue

Thanks,

M

THANKS FOR turning to my blog page. People have been suggesting for a couple of years that I turn this into a little book. And I’ve just done that. (I left one post here for anyone who isn’t familiar with the site).

For the next three weeks, until May 25, anyone who buys a paperback copy of one of my Tate Drawdy detective novels from my website will get a free copy of Tales From The Morgue. Go to:

http://www.michaelludden.com/purchase.php

and click the yellow BUY NOW button next to “Tate Drawdy” or “Alfredo’s Luck”.

Thanks,

M

[image error]

I think this whole mixed martial arts thing came out of the old Tough Guy Fights. That’s when promoters figured out guys would show up in droves to see amateurs try to destroy each other.

I showed up for one of the early ones. Staggered fights, based on weight. The lightweights first. The heavies at the end.

I get there early. They’re just putting up the ring. Out comes Solomon McTier. Guy’s in his 50’s, owns a bar a few miles down the road. What you need to know is Solomon was a Golden Gloves champ… here and abroad. And the fact that he was the sparring partner for many years for Muhammad Ali.

I‘m hanging out ringside when Solomon walks in, asks one of the guys: “Is this so and so’s old ring?”

It is.

“I remember it had a soft spot,” he says.

And he spends the next 10 minutes tiptoeing around, lightly bouncing on the mat, moving his feet a few inches at a time. Until he finds it.

The fights begin. Some drunk from the audience stands up, says he can fight. They put him in the ring. Somebody else gets in with him. Kicks his ass.

It goes like that.

Then the main event. Solomon walks out in a silk robe. And out steps a grinning tyrannosaurus who looks like he could pick up your car with one hand. His arms are bigger than my thighs. 24 fights. 24 victories. 22 by KO. All those fights, by the way, took place behind the walls at Florida State Prison, his home for the last 10 years after the misunderstanding that ended up with a guy getting killed.

He’s about 25. When they meet center-ring, Prison boy is real tempted to laugh at Solomon, who now sports a good-sized gut and gray hair.

Prison’s gonna make quick work of grandpa.

They begin to circle each other, throwing jabs, sizing each other. Solomon can toss a fist out and have it back in front of his chin in about the time it takes for you to blink.

But prison boy can dance. And he can throw a punch that is so scary you think it would turn anything it hits into kindling. A few clinches. Mostly Solomon’s keeping his distance. He looks a little worried. Prison’s got a big smile.

I’m sitting right outside the ropes. And I’ve memorized the spot, still wondering what it means.

A couple of rounds in. All of a sudden, Prison lands a huge shot on top of Solomon’s chest, right at the shoulder. Solomon’s arm falls. It’s hanging, dragging down by his ribs. He’s trying to hold it up and retreating across the ring.

Prison thinks it’s a ruse and waves at Solomon to get back on the horse. But Solomon’s hunched over and Prison is not the most patient guy. He closes in and starts knocking the crap out of him. Solomon’s bobbing, weaving, taking most of the hits on his arms, leaning back into the ropes. He’s dodging the worst of it, but you know it’s just a matter of time until one of those haymakers sends him into next week.

Solomon’s shuffling across the ring. And guess what? He’s getting real close to that spot.

Now he musters one last charge. He goes after Prison. But then he takes another shot. Seems like a glancing blow, but it rocks him back. Prison closes in. Solomon’s leaning heavily into the ropes.

He’s timing it.

As Prison lunges, Solomon throws himself backward, bouncing off the rope just as Prison sinks into that soft spot. Solomon is moving, hard, fast, the right arcing over Prison’s head.

Boom. Cocky don’t live here no more.

Prison is airborne. He floats back, suspended, a look on his face that says he has just lost any recollection of life on this planet.

Lands with a thud. Big thud. After several minutes, they give up trying to get the boy to make any sense. They cart him off like a fat child still learning to walk.

Folks want Solomon to hang out, take some bows.

Nah. Gotta go. Nice seeing ya.

[image error]

Everybody knew the Cubans could play ball. Seemed like so many guys there, born with gloves in their hands.

There was a period, back in 1980, during the Mariel Boatlift, when the city of Miami started putting tons of Cuban refugees under the old Orange Bowl. When I say under, I mean on the ground, under the bleachers. Cots, blankets, big piles of empty wine bottles.

Over their heads, lush turf, glistening paint, a scoreboard like something they’d only seen on television, lots of places to buy food, when a game was on. But these folks couldn’t go up there, not even to look.

Eight long weeks in the heat. The government brought em stuff to eat and drink. People sneaked in some booze. Nobody was gonna grumble.

So they sat. They smoked.

One day a city guy shows up with a bat and ball, a couple of old gloves. Guys grab em and sprint out to the lawn outside the stadium. Old guys and kids and wives and girlfriends follow to sit and watch.

The guys toss their shirts. And what they know right now is that they have just a few minutes. Then the buses will arrive to take em miles from here, out to the middle of nowhere to a tent city where the controversy over whether these people are going to be allowed to stay in the United States is going to be just that much more muted. Further out of sight.

They’ll stay there, behind fences.

So they race onto the field, begin to throw it around. But this is not casual pitch and catch. We’re talking 50 yards apart, snapping off gorgeous throws, long and hard, that crack into the glove. They move like cats.

A guy picks up the bat, walks over to a bald spot. Pitcher cranks one at him, whistles it down the middle. Boom. Guy out in center sprints back… back… leaps, stretching for it. He pulls it in, spins, fires it home. And that ball is comin.

The people cheer.

[image error]One of the great perks of Florida journalism was covering the space program during the heydays. Back in the day, people used to line up along the beach in Cocoa to see a launch.

And when it was time for the first shuttle to go up, a million people crammed in, shoulder to shoulder. Got there early.

That was as close as the public could get, but it was miles away.

If you had the right creds, you could get to the press site, 3.5 miles across Mosquito Lagoon from the launch pad. Now, if 3.5 miles sounds like a long way to be from a rocket launch, you’ve never been that close.

Let’s just say whatever you see on television is a ridiculous imitation of the blinding light, the roar, the thunderclap-pounding, chest-bruising barrage that is about to wash over you like a tidal wave. The folks who wanna stand lean into it.

The first launch had been a ticking clock for years. Delays… safety concerns… debate… fixes.

Money.

More delays. Like a lot of folks, we went and came home, went and came home, camped out in the parking lot with buckets of fried chicken and large quantities of unauthorized sustenance. Always waiting for Go.

Generally, the countdown’s gonna run down to mebbe nine minutes and some change, even on a bad day. It’s when you start getting into those final-minute checks that you’re most likely to see red lights start to blink.

Well on April 12, 1981, the lights stayed green. The clock kept ticking. And in the concrete bleachers, under that galvanized roof, a sea of reporters and tv guys from all over Florida and the U.S. and the world started to get out of their seats, started walking, quickly, down toward the water.

Stopped talking.

And then it ignited. Main engines hammering so hard you could see the frickin engine nozzles shaking like they were about to fall off and even the damn tail was shaking. (Something else to fix later.) And then it started to lift off the ground.

Slowly at first, as if it were too big, too heavy to compete with gravity. And then unimaginable acceleration… glorious, stunning, violent. The flames underneath, so brilliant it was painful to watch. And yet it danced into the heavens as if it weighed nothing at all. Disappearing all too quickly.

Look around at all the hard-case journos. Screaming, tears flooding down their faces, sobbing, arms raised, hands clasped. Somebody’s hanging on to a railing. And then the shouts.

“Oh my God!”

“God bless America.”

“Brezhnev… kiss my ass!”

[image error]I’m getting what they call an orientation flight. With the Blue Angels. Public relations. Who cares? I would cut off my arm to get in this thing.

Friend of mine drives me out to the airport, a smallish place south of town where they can do stunts and not be in anybody’s way. She’s gonna watch. From the ground.

Safety lecture first… parachutes, etc.

I sit in the back. We’re getting ready to hammer it and he says… “What I like to do to start is called a performance climb. I’m gonna lift the wheels off the runway, put the jet on its tail and hit the burners. We’ll go straight up, very fast. Are you cool with that?”

Are you kidding?

We do the climb, we run around up there, sitting atop a jet engine that can knock down a house, destroying the clouds. He catapults, stunts. And I dunno if the jet jockeys do this for everybody to make em feel special, but at one point he says, “I’m gonna put it into a high-G turn. We’ll see how you tolerate it. If it’s too much, call out on your mic.”

I watch the meter roll up to about 6 and half Gs. I’m flexing my stomach hard, to keep it where it’s supposed to be. You do not see this flying Delta, but in turbulence, these wings rock like whitecaps in the wind.

“How was that?” he says.

Do not stop on my account, I say.

At which point, he says… “It seems like you’re real good with it. I was supposed to practice today and ran out of time. If you don’t mind and you got no place to go, we could run through the show. Take about a half hour.”

I was figuring my flight would be 10 minutes, at best. I tell him it sounds something along the lines of spectacular.

We are booming a pirouette into the sky when he says… “You wanna take the stick?”

Three guesses, pal.

So I get to climb and dive and spin and bash my frickin head against the sides of the cockpit from pushing the thing too hard. We go into a steep climb and he tells me to level it off, at which point we go weightless.

“You need to be a little more sensitive with the stick,” he says.

“I am available for more practice,” I say.

I am flying with a guy who spots a smokestack miles in the distance, says we’re gonna stick our nose in it (after a few intermediate steps). Proceeds to hammer inside loops, outside loops… a whole lot of stuff where I cannot see the ground and, in fact, have no idea where it might be at that particular moment.

We are screaming out of a high speed turn when I see our nose is now pointed straight down, dead center on that smokestack.

Finally, we gotta quit.

I am trying to find some way to thank the guy.

Can I buy you a house?

We float lightly onto the runway, climb out. My friend and chauffer runs outside, wants to know if I threw up.

Hell no. Are you kidding? That was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Wish I could say the same, she says.

But that thing you did, going straight up off the runway. That was bad.