Roughly one year ago, over the Labor Day weekend in 2015, my life changed in many ways. I was, of course, at the U.S. Nationals in Indianapolis, working for Team Wilkerson and doing my best to keep the PR standards high while I also interacted with our sponsors and guests in my ongoing attempt to keep everyone happy and engaged. It was my seventh U.S. Nationals with Tim and the team, after 12 consecutive years with Del Worsham. Counting some earlier forays with various teams I did contract work for, it was my 23rd U.S. Nationals overall.

My first order of business, upon arrival at Indy, was to speak with Tim and Krista, up in the lounge of the transporter. I’d been debating a major change in my life for months, years actually, and had finally come to the decision. I’m a believer in making these major life transitions in an orderly and helpful way, and Indy is generally the time when people start to announce their plans for the following year. I walked in and told the Wilkersons that I would not be back. It was time to write my book. I would, of course, finish out the year and even attend the NHRA Award Ceremony in Hollywood, but my notice had been given and that made the book project very real.

I’d been thinking about a book for many years. My mom and I, believe it or not, planned a Wilber family book when I was just a sophomore in high school. Her plan was for everyone in the family to write a chapter or two, about what it was like to grow up in a baseball/radio/PR family on a suburban cul de sac. She wrote quite a bit, and so did I. No one else got onboard, but my mom sent one of my chapters off to a St. Louis magazine and they ran it. It was the first time I’d ever “been published” and it taught me a lesson about editing. The magazine chopped it to pieces, so much so that I thought it was incoherent. From that point on, I always wanted to be in charge of what I wrote. I’d learn from great editors, who could fix my mistakes and elevate my words to a better place, but I didn’t want anyone chopping my stuff into bits just to make it fit on a page.

On that day, one year ago in Indy, not 30 minutes after my arrival at the track, the plan was official and it was in motion. Starting in January, I would be a full-time writer. “Bats, Balls, & Burnouts” would be my job. I didn’t know how long it would take, and I didn’t know how long the book would be once it was done, but it was official.

I tried a few test runs during my free time, writing bits and pieces and trying out the muscles I’d need to take this on. It seemed like something I was meant to do.

I finally convinced myself that a Kickstarter campaign wouldn’t be a bad idea. After all, my wife Barbara was being gracious enough to allow me to quit my job in order to do this, but that didn’t mean it should also cost us a lot of money to publish the thing. She thought I might be able to raise $5,000 in six weeks. I thought I could raise more. A lot more. And in the end more than 100 people combined to contribute $22,500 toward the publishing costs. That’s been the entirety of my income this year, and it’s all been set aside to pay for the book. The process was nothing short of amazing.

After the holidays, during the first week of January, I went to work. I didn’t have much of a clue how it was all going to happen, but I realized on that first day that I couldn’t look at the mountain top. It was too high. I couldn’t even think about anything other than what I was going to write on that day. It was such a daunting task it was intimidating, but I went to work and began the process.

The chapters started to flow. The words would pour out of me on some days, and protest their arrangement on others, but week by week the chapters began to pile up. Month by month, I could see a book coming to life. Now, in September, I’m almost done. By the end of this month, I think I should be wrapping it up and then concentrating on editing, with Greg Halling, and layout/production with Outskirts Press, who will publish it. We almost have a book on our hands. What an incredible experience this has been.

After having that meeting at Indy, with Tim and Krista, I got ready for our qualifying session that night. Mother Nature had different plans. After lengthy delays, NHRA finally faced the inevitable and cancelled racing for the day. It was around 9:00 p.m.

I took an umbrella and walked to my car, parked inside the pits at the track. Every single second mattered, but I didn’t know it at the time. In a light mist, on wet streets, I worked my way eastward on US 136, aiming to make a left on Dandy Trail. Coming upon the intersection, I saw a long line of cars in the right lane, waiting to go straight or take a right. The left-turn lane, where I needed to go, had only a couple of cars in it, and as I got to the start of that dedicated left-turn lane, the green arrow came on. I drove forward slowly, passing the cars in the right lane as they waited to proceed. When I passed a large black truck, my car seemed to explode.

I’d been broadsided, and quite hard. The driver of the truck, who we will always refer to as Idiot Number One, had flashed his lights and waved through a young lady leaving the convenience store on the right, allowing her to make the left turn she was waiting for. He, obviously, never looked in his side-view mirror to see if anyone like me was there.

My initial reaction, at the split second she hit me, was anger. Despite the fact I never saw her coming, my brain knew what had happened, and I yelled “Dammit!” very loudly. Then the adrenalin kicked in. I knew I was in the middle of the road. I knew my rental car had been wrecked. And, I knew I wanted to get out of the road. Without really knowing what was going on around me, I put my foot down and drove around the corner, into the parking lot at the convenience store, and right into a space. With two flat tires and a broken right-front wheel assembly. It didn’t sound very good, but I was intent upon getting there.

My wallet, which had been between my legs (I don’t like sitting on it when driving) was on the floor. All of my credit cards were also on the floor. They’d been ejected.

I called 911, the police officer came, and I gave him my statement. Idiot Number One, in the truck, was long gone. I called National Rental Car and they said they’d send a wrecker. It never came.

Well past midnight, I called National back and told them exactly where the car was, and that I’d leave the keys on the driver’s side floor. A taxi took me to the hotel. They picked it up in the morning.

It took nearly three months for the insurance issues to be settled. The girl’s insurance company admitted her fault and covered 100 percent of it. My State Farm agent, out in Liberty Lake, was fantastic and very supportive, but I’m happy I never had to file a claim. The only person who knows who Idiot Number One was, is Idiot Number One.

That was all a year ago. Had I been one or two seconds quicker, she would’ve missed me. Had I been one or two seconds slower, I would’ve T-boned her right in the driver’s door after she emerged from behind the truck operated by Idiot Number One. That would’ve been a whole different deal.

I have never driven the same since. I’m now totally aware of where everyone is around me. I drive under the assumption that Idiot Number Two and a lot of other fools, are all about to do something really stupid. I trust no one to be aware of their surroundings, or to even look before they pull out into traffic. The idiots are all around us. I guess you can call me a fully defensive driver, now. I was blissfully ignorant of all the dangers that lurked on the roads until that smashing sound changed everything.

Putting the wreck behind me, I finished out the season and then got to work. It’s been eight and a half months. Greg Halling’s work has been fantastic, as he allows me to bring it all to life but points out places where it could be better. Not once, in eight and a half months, have I looked at his advice and thought “No way.” It’s all been good. No, it’s been great, and I’ve learned from it. I’m a much better writer today than I was on January 5, when I sat down and began this adventure.

And here we are in September. It’s almost done, but I’m still a defensive driver.

In the “here and now” I’ve had a great week. Last Thursday night, my buddy Scott Meehan and I made our first-ever foray to US Bank Stadium, the new home of the Vikings. We knew it was the final preseason game and that most of the players on the field were not going to make the team, but that didn’t matter. We were there to watch football and see this magnificent new structure.

It’s so dramatic and impressive it’s hard to even take it in when you’re there. It’s also huge.

And what I found interesting was the players. Once I let it sink in that final cuts would be coming in the days following that game, I felt a bit sad. So many of those guys were trying to attain what was surely a lifelong dream to play in the NFL. And for most of them, the dream was going to fizzle out and expire in just a few days. Some will make the practice squad, a few others will try again next year. Some might go to the Canadian Football League and others will play Arena Football. Most will do anything they can to keep the dream alive, and I bet a few will even get past all the enormous odds and make it happen.

Our reviews of the stadium were mostly stellar. They still have some kinks to work out, in terms of long lines at some concession stands and no lines at others, but I remember Target Field going through that process the first year the Twins were there. There’s a big difference between blueprints and the real thing, especially when you add 66,000 human beings to mix.

We walked all the way around the lower concourse, making a complete lap, and for the most part everything was moving smoothly. Before the game, outside the stadium, the whole area was one big festive party. Unlike a lot of stadiums, there are no huge surface parking lots surrounding the building, so the Vikings go all out to make the area a big interactive carnival, with a lot of football stuff for kids. And there was a lot of purple to be seen.

Just like the players we watched, I had a dream as well. I wanted to play Major League Baseball, following in my father’s amazing footprints. I was good enough to get a fantastic education from the game, at a great college, SIU-Edwardsville. I was fortunate to be on a team that played in the NCAA Division II World Series twice. The Detroit Tigers and Oakland A’s were interested enough to pay me to play for a couple of fun seasons in the minor leagues. But I never attained the dream. I felt for those players, out on the US Bank Stadium field. The dream dies hard.

Tomorrow, Barbara and I will head to MSP and get on a flight down to St. Louis. When we get there, we’ll pick up my rental car, drive defensively, and head to a hotel in Collinsville, just a few miles east of the track. For dinner, we’ll head to the house of my former college baseball teammate, Dave Schaake, for a cookout. Many of my buddies from the 1977 team will be there. On Saturday, as a group, we’ll all attend a ceremony to be inducted into the SIUE Athletic Hall of Fame.

It’s a neat honor, and I can’t wait to see these guys. I’m also thrilled Barbara will be attending with me. Our 1976 team was a little better, making it all the way to the final game of the NCAA Div. II World Series before we lost to Cal Poly Pomona. That team was inducted a few years ago, but I had a race that weekend. I had a race a lot of weekends for a lot of years.

In 1977, we received a bid to host our NCAA Regional, something the SIUE baseball program did regularly. It was the eighth consecutive post-season berth for the Cougars. We swept everyone away to earn our way back to Springfield, Ill. and the Div. II World Series, for the second straight year. We lost two heartbreakers there, but the accomplishment itself earned us another place in the SIUE Hall of Fame.  (Yes, you can click on the photos to make them larger. I’m fifth from the left in the back row.)

We’ll fly back up here on Sunday morning, and Barbara will just have enough time to unpack and repack, before she heads out on a business trip next Monday.

I’ll get up on Monday morning and go to work. Right here at my desk. On Chapter 32.

There’s a lot to look forward to.

Bob Wilber, at your service and driving defensively.