When a HEMI comes to an ordination, look out

In another lifetime, I wrote sports for a living.

Air travel before Osama bin Laden was an alternate universe. You could roll up to an airport 10 minutes before flight time, hurdle suitcases in the concourse like, well, O.J. Simpson, and get to Gate C-32, where a gate attendant with a bright smile held the gateway door pleasantly ajar with her right hand as she accepted the carbon-paper ticket from you with her left hand.

In those days, you probably could have boarded a plane with a 10-foot boa constrictor or 10 pounds of crawfish in your carry-on, with nothing but a guilty conscience to restrict your freedom of movement.

The guilt finally caught up to me in 1992. Our four children – then between the ages of 8 and 3 – were back home with my wife on snow-draped Long Island while I was on a New York Knicks’ road trip to the West Coast.

It was the middle of February. The Knicks were playing the following night, so I was free. I was in my room at the Los Angeles Airport Marriott, eating prime rib – medium rare with a dipping bowl of au jus and horseradish sauce – when I decided to call home with what had to be the stupidest husband question ever.

“How’s it going, honey?”

“Well, I just finished shoveling the sidewalk,” my wife said. “Oh, and one of the kids just threw up.”

In my last year in New York, I was on the road 95 nights. That was no way to raise a family. It was a Damascus moment that led me to the Clarion Herald and back to New Orleans, thanks be to God.

The joys and challenges of travel and family connection came rushing back last week when I flew to Atlanta to cover the ordination of Bishop-elect John Tran as auxiliary bishop of Atlanta. I don’t do much out-of-town traveling anymore, so I feel a bit like a rookie whenever I get within the heat-lamp radius of the TSA’s X-ray machines.

I must report that our younger daughter gave me one of the best birthday and Christmas presents ever this year – cash to apply for the TSA Pre-Check program that, essentially, allows you to stay dressed like a conservative Mormon while the hoi polloi, just a few feet away, are ripping off their belts, holding up their trousers and shedding their shoes in forced fealty to bin Laden.

If you don’t have TSA Pre-Check, get it.

Since my older daughter lives in Atlanta with her husband and their two daughters – one of whom was born just 4 1/2 months ago – it was perfect timing for a combo work-pleasure trip.

If you’ve been to Atlanta lately, you know it has more highways than New Orleans has restaurants, so I knew I had to rent a car to get from Atlanta to Roswell, Georgia – the leafy suburb about 45 minutes north of the city where Bishop Tran’s ordination would be celebrated. The Archdiocese of Atlanta wisely decided that St. Peter Chanel Church, which seats nearly 1,000 and has Disney World-style parking lots, was the best venue.

So, I jumped on Priceline, which promised a car rental price so low it would be cheaper to drive to Roswell than to walk there. When I got the confirmation, the anonymous car rental agency finally was identified.

Have you ever heard of Fox Rental Car?

Neither have I.

One good thing is that Fox somehow has been able to cobble together a small, lean-to cabin in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport’s rental car center. I got worried because there was no signage for Fox. Hertz, Avis and even Budget had granite logos and Vegas-style curb appeal; Fox had the equivalent of a cardboard sign with a magic marker: F-O-X.

When I saw the Fox board with the hook that held the key chains for available automobiles, I really questioned my suave certitude that price always trumps inconvenience: On a 64-hook board, there were three key chains, meaning I knew I was about to be outfoxed because those cars were all “hard holds” – car rental jargon for “you’re out of luck.”

One of the ladies behind the Fox counter was a New Orleans native who had just moved to Atlanta. She saw my face, and we could share in the common bond and harsh reality of how in New Orleans, dashed expectations are just around the corner.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Things like this happen. Hey, in New Orleans, we throw birthday parties for potholes. I understand.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, came the office manager. He clicked a few keys, walked outside the cabin, came back and hit control-alternate-delete and said something like: “How about a Dodge Challenger.”

There it was, parked right outside the hut in all its sleek, black, muscular self. Reports say the “high-output HEMI V8” engine is able to go from here to the moon in 7.9 seconds. Not only that, but it had yellow racing stripes on the front bumper, officially anointing itself as the car least likely to attend a bishop’s ordination.

But, it did.

When I rolled up to the really nice St. Peter Chanel volunteers who were handling the parking lot, I told them I was from the Archdiocese of New Orleans.

“Nice car!” the parish volunteer with the clipboard said.

“It’s a long story,” I replied.

“I’d love to be your valet for the day,” he said.

I said not to worry. I could drive it in myself.

“Just one thing,” I told the man. “Don’t tell the archbishop.”

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