The first time I was hustled by Evel Knievel, my hero

AS a boy in the 1970s, I worshipped Evel Knievel. His motorcycle jumps, whether successes or bone-crushing failures, were legendary. He travelled the world attempting to leap over cars, buses, canyons and even sharks in his signature leather jumpsuit and cape.

I consumed all of his trading cards, posters and toys, and my friends and I would spend our summer days in Chicago building ramps in the street and trying to leap things on our Schwinn bicycles. One friend, Johnny P, seemed to break a bone every year trying to emulate our hero. I outgrew Knievel mania as an adult, but it still lurked deep down, waiting to be reignited.

The most meaningful celebrity encounter of my life happened in the early 1990s. My brother Pat took me on a golf weekend in Clearwater, Florida, where he was visiting his part-time bookie buddy, Ray. And when we got to the golf club, who happened to be playing Ray for big money? None other than Robert Craig Knievel himself.