I lived in the first house on the right on Alaska Street through the '50s to early '60s. Charlie Mac lived two doors down. He was a sweet and patient guy who always had time for kids and whose wife would feed you cookies and lemonade. My house was next to the campus gates at what is now the Maravich Center. In those days it was the tennis courts and archery range. I spent nearly every day on those tennis courts. Further along was Mike the Tiger's (II) cage, and I would go visit him and his two wives often; you could smell them from my house, and my guess is they could smell me, too, because I swear I could have walked right into their cage with no problem. My dad wouldn't let me listen to the games on the radio, but I didn't need to--I could lie in bed and hear them on the PA system. Whenever the Tigers scored, the whole house shook. As a professor at LSU, my dad had the rights to free tickets--he gave them to his grad students. Sometimes they would take pity on me and take me to games. My dad hated the Tigers. No athlete, he came from a college with no football team, and when he was pressured by the administration to pass a failing football player, he turned this into a personal crusade. Unfortunately for him, he lost. Every Saturday night our street and our lawn filled up with parked cars. All the neighbor kids would charge for spaces and would be out with their flashlights--I was forbidden to. Instead, my dad put up a fence. I can still remember the first Saturday night in August when the Cajuns in their cars rolled in--right over the fence. Good thing my dad (still alive at 95) was still a young man; otherwise he'd have stroked out...