Our road to the Fiesta Bowl was as improbable as the third-seeded Horned Frogs. The Great Cancellation of Southwest Airlines flights created a problem: How could two sports writers based in Austin, Texas reach Glendale, Ariz., not only in time for TCU’s game against Michigan, but for the press conferences and the free food and the swanky dwellings of the Camelback Inn?

The answer was easy to find, but hard to process – drive.

Dave Wilson, of ESPN, and I met at the Enterprise Rental Car hub in Cedar Park, a suburb of Austin that boomed in size alongside the tech boom about two decades ago and then never stopped growing. A 14-hour drive awaited, and that’s only if there was a car available. We weren’t the only people stranded, and most had something more important than a college football game to reach, namely family and friends. 

Christmas was only two days before and the nightmare of cancelled flights across the country impacted thousands of folks in stickier positions than the two scribes dreaming of cacti and Joe Gillespie’s 3-3-5. Dave and I sat in the lobby of the rental car shop for at least 30 minutes. The phone rang the entire time. It was never answered. 

“Dave from Disney?” one of the clerks finally asked knowingly. “All we have is a truck.” 

We weren’t in the position to be picky, and if the Mouse was paying for gas, I held no complaints. After a quick stop back at his house, we were on the trail for what was sure to be a long, and entertaining, trip through the cow towns, West Texas, and then south New Mexico and Arizona until we reached Tucson. From there, we’d turn north and be at our destination within a few hours. A good drive never scared a true Texan. 

“You mind taking the first shift?” Dave asked with hope in his voice. His original flight was scheduled for 6 a.m. and the Austin airport is on the southeast side of town. He was awake at 3 a.m. and parked by 4. He was at his gate and assured that a crew was in place for the two-hour flight to Phoenix. That turned out to be an untruth. It was almost noon before we were packed into our grey truck and ready to reach at least El Paso – an eight-hour drive.

“Sure, man,” I replied. “If I’m in a car, I’d rather be driving.”

We headed northwest from Cedar Park through Liberty Hill, and then into a town called Bertram, population 1,535. At least that is what the sign says. The growth northwest of Austin continues to ripple further and further into the country. My family owns a ranch in the one-stop light town known best for J.V. “Pinky” Wilson, the author of the Aggie War Hymn. His statue is next to the old train stop.

The nicest building in town belongs to a distillery. It was renovated for the movie, “The Newton Boys”. Our old general store burnt down in a fire during the pandemic and the main street doesn’t look the same. 

“Nobody wanted any of the land out here for centuries,” I quipped to Dave as we passed the stop light and continued driving HWY 29 towards Burnet, home of Bill Pickett, the originator of the rodeo steer wrestling known as bulldogging. “Now, there is a Starbucks in Liberty Hill and all my old friends who complain about the California influence out in Williamson County flock there in their F-350s. My mom says they’re building a Marriott.” 

Dave is from Kilgore. I bounced around in Texas throughout my life, spending my first few years in Dripping Springs, my elementary years in Houston, and then my teenage years in Leander. So, we did what Texans do best for the next few hours – talk about the Lone Star State. And football. Writers don’t just tell stories on paper. We love a good tall tale involving a legendary personality like R.C. Slocum or Spike Dykes. 

My grandfather, Charlie Craven, was the rehab specialist for the University of Texas football team for over 40 years and is in the Hall of Honor. Longhorn great Roosevelt Leaks was injured, and it was my grandfather’s job to nurse him back to health. Whatever it took. Those were the orders of Darryl K. Royal, who my grandfather speaks of as a near deity. 

The problem was that Leaks hated to rehab. He didn’t like to work out, at least not in the way my grandfather taught. Charlie was a solid racquetball player, so he tried a new approach. Anyone as good at sports as Leaks was competitive, and confident, so my grandfather told Leaks that if he could win in racquetball, he didn’t have to train. 

Leaks met the Charlie, in his mid-30s and assurdly seen as an old man by Leaks, at the court for what he assumed would undoubtedly be his first and only time to play racquetball. They ended up playing every day for the next month as Charlie tricked Leaks into rehabbing from a leg injury by beating one of the best running backs in a long list of great ones in burnt orange at racquetball. 

By the end of that story, and maybe a few by Dave about the Aggies in the 1980s, we were in Mason, Texas. Home of the Punchers, and one of the most unique stadiums in Texas high school football – the Puncher Dome. After a quick stop at the historic building for Dave’s first visit, we bought overpriced sandwiches at a shop in town and went back to driving. And driving. And driving. 

Texas is big. We brag about it all the time. But it’s is at its biggest when trying to escape via a car. We drove for seven hours, reached Fort Stockton – which is basically where you turn left to head to Big Bend – and we were only halfway to Phoenix. Shoot, we were essentially halfway to Los Angeles – just like TCU and Michigan – by the time we reached El Paso to fuel up on birria tacos for the final 1.5-hour drive to Las Cruces, N.M. 

Our truck pulled into the Fairfield Inn at 9 p.m. Mountain Time. I drove for over eight hours, not counting the drive to Dave’s house just to get the trip started. Dave had been up for 19 hours with the time change. But our day was not over. A commotion was underway at the check-in counter as an employee, Stephen, was being reamed out by two ladies. They were checked in, but the Fairfield was sold out. There were no rooms left, at least not for them. 

“We’re going to wait right here, Stephen!” one of the ladies said firmly and loudly. “If you give out a key to anyone else after telling us that you’re out of rooms, we’re calling the cops. How can we be checked in and have reservations, but not have a room?” 

She had a point. Stephen was attempting to play the role of fire extinguisher by reaching out to other hotels to find rooms. Dave was too tired to panic. The ladies stepped aside, but no one in line stepped to the counter. I’m not sure which scenario was more terrifying – getting a room and Stephen possibly losing his life over it or facing the same fate and potentially not have a room to stay in after a long, long day. 

My mom didn’t raise a punk, so I walked confidently up to the front desk, promptly handed Stephen my driver’s license, and waited for my room number. I was Platinum Elite, after all. Surely, I had a room. Stephen’s face told a different story. His face was one of defeat. Think Jim Harbaugh calling red zone plays a few days later against TCU. 

“I’m not just saying this because they’re standing right there,” Stephen started as his executioners watched on. “We don’t have a room for you.” 

The only word my mouth could muster was, “okay.” There was no need to pile on Stephen. Double jeopardy exists for a reason. I walked outside and called the Residence Inn down the road. The lady on the other end said there were rooms. Our hero. Dave, who somehow did have a room, walked back inside, and told Stephen the good news. Not only did we find two rooms down the street for us to stay in, but the mad ladies in the lobby could just take Dave’s room for the night. I’ve never seen someone receive a stay of execution, but I’d imagine the face right after that news is processed resembles Stephen’s when Dave told him to give his room to the women waiting. 

The next day was less eventful. We ate the continental breakfast and headed through New Mexico and then through south Arizona. We took turns telling more stories. Some personal. Some professional. All funny. Dave told me about getting robbed at a check cashing place near UT-Arlington. And about his dad, a former car salesman and mayor in East Texas. And his late brother. I shared a few stories about my drug addiction and my now eight years clean of narcotics. 

The road, a lot like alcohol, brings about honesty and reflection. Our job is to tell other people’s stories. For once, we told our own. 

We passed Benson, Ariz. and our last best chance to head further south and visit Tombstone. The best western movie about gun control that I’ve ever seen. I shared this observation with Dave, as I’m prone to do. Forget your politics. It’s simply funny that a sheriff in 1880 knew that maybe we should leave our guns at home when we congregate in social settings. Wyatt Earp would get ran out of most small towns now, even Tombstone. He wouldn’t be considered the babyface in the story by the locals, that’s for sure. 

We stopped for an authentic Sonoran hot dog in Tucson and arrived at the media hotel by 4 p.m. on Wednesday. The trip took around 28 hours, sleep and gas station stops included. Two tired sports writers walked up to the registration desk at the Camelback. We’d missed most of the media obligations for the day. I was looking forward to a nap. And maybe some silence. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Craven,” the lady at the front desk began after hearing my last name. “We’re still finishing up your room.” 

I laughed. So did Dave. His room was ready, of course. Probably something to do with Disney. We drove the truck to his room and unloaded his bags. We shared a few more stories for about an hour as my room was cleaned and readied. Probably about Slocum. Most definitely told by Dave. 

My original flight wasn’t scheduled until Wednesday afternoon. The plan was for my girlfriend and I to fly out together to take advantage of the company-expensed room and some sun. But I couldn’t risk my flight getting delayed or cancelled like Dave’s, so I made the executive decision to head out with him and avoid any risk of not reaching the biggest college football game involving a Texas-based team since Colt McCoy injured a shoulder against Alabama. It was safer to drive across through the desert with my favorite writer.  

I finally checked into my room and headed to the media dinner served in a banquet hall on the hotel grounds. There, I chatted with some of my idols as we ate dinner and joked about the now infamous car ride from Austin to Arizona. The Athletic’s Sam Khan drove from Houston to Dallas for a flight to Arizona, only for a plane change to leave them one crew member short to board the flight. An off-duty stewardess in a Buc-ees shirt volunteered to work the flight so everyone could arrive at their destination. It was a Fiesta Miracle that we all arrived to cover the game. 

As the clock turned to 7 p.m. I looked down at my phone and saw a text from my girlfriend. Our scheduled flight left on time and was landing in 30 minutes. I hopped back into the rental car and drove 30 minutes to the airport to pick her up from the flight I skipped to drive 14 hours. 

And I wasn’t even mad. TCU became the first team from Texas to reach a national title game since Colt McCoy hurt his shoulder against Alabama in 2009 when the Horned Frogs put up 51 points, including two defensive touchdowns, in a six-point win over favored Michigan. The two teams combined for 44 points in the third quarter and 69 total in the second half. The Wolverines scored 39 points in the second half and still lost. 

Georgia beat Ohio State later in the day on Saturday to pit the Bulldogs against TCU in a true David vs. Goliath showdown. A Hollywood executive would laugh a screen writer out of the room after reading a script based on the 2022 TCU football season. Fittingly, this year’s College Football Playoff finale was in Los Angeles. 

Dave and I flew back to Austin as Southwest untangled its own web. And immediately began booking our trips to Los Angeles to see if TCU could complete the Cinderella story. Los Angeles is a 19-hour drive from the capital of Texas. As Dave mentioned that to me, I muttered a few cuss words and said a silent prayer that our flights weren’t disrupted again. Because unlike Los Angeles, I hate a sequel.