Dan Kilbridge

Lansing State Journal

Aspiring sports journalists often want to know how I turned a hobby into a full-time job. My answer never changes.

I woke up one morning in the spring of 2007 with a nasty gash on my nose, the end result of a fierce but friendly late-night wrestling match, during which my face met the pointed corner of an unforgiving wood table. I took a long, literal look in the mirror and concluded I could no longer get by on my best instincts.

Reaching for the nearby Lansing State Journal sports section, I located a phone number for then-sports editor Mark Meyer.

I explained that I was a sophomore journalism student at Michigan State University, and asked if they needed any help.

That’s it.

I was taking prep football box scores and writing Lansing Lugnuts game recaps for my hometown paper several days later and, man, that was, like, the coolest thing in the world.

All because I called and asked.

Now in a new role as LSJ sports producer and asked to come up with a unique story idea, I asked if we could set up a contest in which readers competed to do as many things as possible in and around Lansing over the course of one day. I pitched it as an accessible "Ferris Bueller’s Day Off" experience. I thought it could be fun.

My coworkers rightly noted that reader participation would be a logistical nightmare. But a solo mission could work. It would be called #DansDayOff.

I traveled 37.6 miles, made 18 stops, of which 13 were explicitly for the purposes of the assignment and five were arguably part of the assignment depending on one’s interpretation of the assignment, but more realistically probably fall into some sort of gray area.

I wanted to precisely state my total expenses here but am realizing the receipts, stored regrettably in my wallet, were destroyed during a coworker’s bachelor party due to a ferocious thunderstorm and poor evacuation procedures in the bleachers terrace area at Chicago’s U.S. Cellular Field.

I met several very nice people who were willing to help and realized that Lansing is populated mostly with nice people, but not that exaggerated nice that makes you wonder where they’ve buried the rest of the unsuspecting outsiders.

Lansing is a genuine, unassuming place, composed of people more than willing to help if need be but less inclined to pry into your personal matters. Lansing does not have much of a live music scene or big, recognizable shopping district. Its climate is endured more often than enjoyed and entertainment must be found rather than consumed upon delivery.

But searching for entertainment, I learned, can be a lot of fun. The idea that fun in Lansing is something to be discovered and not simply had opens weird doors and broadens horizons. Dig beneath the surface, and you’ll find some really cool people willing to let you do a lot of things. Seriously. There should be a billboard on Michigan Avenue that reads ‘Lansing: I don’t see why not’. Go find these people and see how much fun you can get away with.

All you have to do is ask.

Day Off in Lansing

Thursday, July 21

10:15 a.m.: I am en route to Golden Harvest, a breakfast joint in Old Town. Breakfast at Golden Harvest was the third-most suggested activity in our LSJ insider poll. It made for an obvious starting point. I am driving with my girlfriend in her car because her air conditioning works and mine does not. My dad wishes me good luck via text, because he’s one of those dads. I express my excitement.

"Careful w/ the heat," he replies.

10:27 a.m.: LSJ photographer Dave Wasinger has never been to Golden Harvest and could probably be beaten or at least verbally threatened for admitting that in the wrong place. These people take breakfast very seriously. We go to the back of the line. There’s always a line. We wait.

10:45 a.m.: Still waiting. I learn that Dave has a cocker spaniel-springer mix named Mr. Big. There are 17 people in line, including the three of us. For once, it would not be hypocritical to wonder why these people are here waiting in line for breakfast rather than work or school.

10:48 a.m.: With no relief from the sun, I now have a better understanding of the foreboding text message received 33 minutes prior. I introduce my travel companions to the term "Butterin," used to describe a specific type and location of sweat formation and passed on to me from MSU strength and conditioning coach Ken Mannie circa 1998.

11:07 a.m.: We enter the restaurant and are promptly seated at the counter, an ideal situation for those who fear shared seating and inevitable small talk with strangers. We study the daily specials, written in marker on a white board. A biscuits and gravy appetizer is deemed appropriate, this being Dave’s first visit and all, and I order the "El Matador Omlet" with chorizo, onion, pepper, jalapeno, Yukon gold potatoes, pepperjack cheese, salsa verde, sour cream and scallion.

11:56 a.m.: There are 29 patrons in the restaurant, which by my calculation seats 33. MSU senior and likely 2016 starting quarterback Tyler O’Connor is sitting at the counter, five spots to my left, with a friend I don’t recognize. Two spots to the left of O’Connor is a ponytailed man in a red T-shirt wearing a black baseball cap that says "Detroit Perfect" above the plastic clasp on the back. I audibly observe his resemblance to an angry Ted Nugent.

12:10 p.m.: I’ve never left Golden Harvest feeling like I wanted to do anything other than nap. Between waiting in line, drinking enough above-average coffee to ensure a later caffeine crash and eating an omelet roughly the size and weight of my head before noon, it’s really a full-day activity. Eating here makes one feel as though they’re in on some shared secret. The long lines, cash-only register and blaring music are part of the experience, but the experience only works because the food is that damn good.

12:32 p.m.: The museum leg of my tour de Lansing begins at Impression 5. A very nice woman at the front desk is happy to let us in at no charge since I promise we won’t be long. Too many other things to do. I visited Impression 5 dozens of times growing up but haven’t been in at least a decade. The smell of the building is immediately familiar. There are hordes of school children moving in single-file lines, one of which Dave trails closely as he enters the building in unintentionally comic fashion. Upstairs, in the actual museum portion of the building, there are two kids throwing tennis balls in a simulated baseball pitching exhibit with a radar gun attached.

12:40 p.m.: How long is appropriate for a grown man to wait before asking two children if he can have a turn throwing tennis balls? One of the kids is wearing lime green crocs and has a particularly convincing wind-up motion. Negations go smoothly. I reach 56 miles per hour on the radar gun, about 10 mph more than either child. I explain to my travel companions that a tennis ball, when pitched, would register slower than a baseball. I have no idea if this is true.

1 p.m.: Feeling guilty about the amount of fun I’m having blowing bubbles and launching paper airplanes, I recall a promise to a nice girl at the front desk and decide further enjoyment would morally require payment.

1:06 p.m.: I take a brief walk to the R.E. Olds Transportation museum. I’ve probably been here before but am not sure. Manager Kristi Schwartzly is working the admissions desk.

“Oh! You’re doing the day off today!” Schwartzly recalls from a previous conversation. “Do you want to drive a car?”

Yes.

Museum director Bill Adcock acts as if he allows strangers to waltz in and drive cars multiple times a day. The 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais convertible has a transverse four-cylinder OHV 2.5 liter engine. It’s painted green and white with a Spartan logo and "MICHIGAN STATE" inscribed on the sides. A visitor holding a young child wanders over as Bill looks under the hood and politely reminds his child that "engines weren’t meant to be smelled." He seems like the type of dad who will later text his son "good luck" before activities that shouldn’t require any. Bill hops in, starts the car and drives across the main floor into a garage area filled with older Oldsmobiles and emergency vehicles.

“Shoot. I forgot I parked it there,” Bill says.

"It" is a 1921 Oldsmobile 7-passenger touring model T 47, and it is blocking our path to the outdoor parking lot. Bill manages to start our obstruction by pumping and pulling on different levers and who knows what else. He hands me the keys to the Cutlass and says I am free to drive it around the back lot as long as I wish. He goes back inside the museum and remains out of sight in a remarkable display of trust.

2:41 p.m.: I am at the LSJ offices to retrieve a GoPro camera, which I plan to use on a canoe trip along the Grand River. The Lansing River Trail was the fifth-most voted on activity in our poll. It is beginning to look like rain. Then it’s raining. A promised selfie in front of the state Capitol will have to wait. Pinball Pete’s in downtown East Lansing is on the docket and under a roof.

3:24 p.m.: "Beast of Burden" is playing in the background and I head straight for the Super Chexx bubble hockey machine. I select the USA side and my girlfriend prepares to man team Canada. Canada’s right defenseman proves particularly adept at preventing my left forward’s entry pass to set up a one-timer shot with my center. A Rush song is playing. It doesn’t matter which one. Strategies have to be adjusted, but team USA scores a 4-1 win.

3:41 p.m.: I meet the Pinball Pete’s manager of 13 years, Jeff Piotter, and discover he is the son of my former assistant football coach, East Lansing High School legend Jack Piotter. I say we’re heading to the Eli and Edythe Broad art museum next. Jeff won’t go there anymore because he is put off by the constant supervision from employees walking around to ensure no one touches any of the art or takes video. Surely they’re just doing their jobs, I think.

4:00 p.m. – I wonder how it was determined this campus parking spot is worth exactly five cents for two minutes of occupancy.

4:04 p.m.: The shapes and angles protruding from the museum’s exterior are complex and disorienting and familiar all at once, open for interpretation like a cloud formation. This was a controversial building for a time and probably remains a sore spot for some. Apparently they thought a contemporary art museum across the street from a Taco Bell with condos on top should have a more straightforward design.

4:07 p.m.: I see a photo of a naked man. There are photos of several naked men throughout this wing, stretching, throwing spears, etc. I notice an employee dressed entirely in black, standing behind me near the wall farthest from the entrance, and I don’t know if she has been there the whole time or sneaked in unnoticed. She’s wearing a headset and looks like someone who should be holding a clipboard and barking directions as others run around half-dressed behind the curtains during a Broadway show.

4:12 p.m.: Jeff was right. Whenever my girlfriend and I enter a new wing there is someone there to watch, or someone strategically positioned to quickly follow us in. This only becomes unsettling after coming upon one exhibit featuring 19 strategically-placed mannequins and a large video display of a cow being sacrificed in slow motion on loop.

4:30 p.m.: Now in desperate need of a drink and at El Azteco, I order one of those margaritas with an upside-down mini corona bottle inside because beer and tequila work equally well together or separate. A man at my 12 o’clock sends his complimentary chips back because they are stale, and I choose not to dwell on the conundrum of sending back free food. The server politely apologizes, then approaches and asks me if our chips are stale, as well. Sort of, I respond, but it’s no big deal and please don’t go out of your way to get fresh chips and we’re fine, etc. My fear of being perceived a needy or difficult customer probably borders on obsessive.

6:35 p.m.: Jesse Goldberg-Strassler is the most helpful sports media relations figure in greater Lansing and possibly the entire state. We walk methodically through the Lansing Lugnuts press box shortly before first pitch of tonight’s game against the Clinton LumberKings. I meet the team’s general manager, the suite level lounge bartender, the official scorekeeper, scoreboard operator. We talk about potential Day Off activities at the ball park and settle on a ½ inning radio appearance. Jesse continues to brainstorm and introduce and at some point I’m asked if I prefer chocolate or carrot cake. In retrospect, they might have let me play first base. I should have asked. Having worked with Jesse sporadically over the past nine years, I know this is not an act. He is the organization’s unsung hero, juggling countless duties and requests with kindness and vim and never once registering above 0.0 on the BS meter.

7:05 p.m.: The rain has long since passed but the canoe rental operation is closed for the evening. The national anthem is audible standing outside Cooley Law School Stadium near Lansing City Market. Goosebumps form and the heart swells. This almost always happens when I hear the national anthem, provoked not by a sense of national pride but memories of summer nights and fall afternoons flanked by family or friends or both with the fleeting understanding that this is it and we are here and the why no longer matters. It isn’t very much fun to watch a baseball game alone.

7:28 p.m.: A debt of one selfie in front of the state Capitol has been paid and a nondescript man stops us on Michigan Avenue to solicit any Pokemon Go information we may have. His daughter is roughly 11 years old and trails at a casual distance so that, with a strong alibi, no one could prove beyond a reasonable doubt she had been spotted in public with a parent. She has just started playing Pokemon Go and the father presents his outdated flip phone like a personal badge of honor. He’s trying his best to understand the whole smart phone-driven craze before giving his daughter carte blanche. He receives no real intel but is directed to Wentworth Park across from the Radisson Hotel where every night Pokemon Go players gather in what could be perceived as a vigil for yo-yos, barrels of monkeys and sharp, dangerous lawn darts. I weep for the future of Big Slinky.

8:45 p.m.: Lugnuts catcher Justin Atkinson smacks a double to left field to lead off the bottom half of the sixth inning.

“Good things happen when you get leadoff doubles. I’ve always believed that,” I tell Jesse and broadcast partner Kevin Gehl on the air, doing my best impression of the overly-obvious broadcaster.

With one out and Atkinson now on third, left fielder Jake Thomas flies out to left field and Atkinson briefly acts as though he will tag up and attempt to score before retreating back to the bag.

“Smart play. I like how he sold it though,” I say. “These guys have been aggressive tonight, am I wrong? It seems like these guys are really trying to take the bull by the horns tonight and make things happen.”

“Well, if there’s one thing I’ve said in 2016, first-year manager John Schneider coaching third base has been so aggressive he’s going to need rotator cuff surgery after the year,” Jesse says.

Ryan Metzler reaches base on a fielding error and Atkinson scores to put the Lugnuts ahead 6-3. I raise the issue of fans and cell phones after a hard-hit foul ball enters the stands and consider my public service done for the day. Sensing the inning and thus all planned activities will soon come to an end, I try to take it in.

“What a beautiful capper, Jesse,” I say. “I came up and figured I’d ask if there’s anything we could do. As always (you) could not be more accommodating, could not be more pleasant and here we are in the booth and on the call. What a day.”