In August 1972, fresh out of the Marine Corps, I drove my Firebird across the country to New York City and saw John Lennon perform at Madison Square Garden. It should have been the perfect beginning to civilian life. Then my Firebird disappeared.
In 1966, I walked into Busch Stadium with a press pass and an assignment from my uncle, St. Louis Post-Dispatch writer Jack Rice: find out what teenage boys really thought about Beatlemania. What followed was a night of rain, lightning, screaming fans, the Beatles—and a story that took me nearly sixty years to finally tell.
The Sunday Night 73 Million Americans Met Four Lads From Liverpool I was 15 years old on February 9, 1964, living what seemed like a dream life for a teenager in Tampa, Florida. My dad was a manager at the not-yet-opened Busch Gardens, and our family lived on what was known locally as the “five … Read more