He opened his car door and eased his leg onto the curb. It was just past 3 in the afternoon. As he turned to say goodbye and to thank me for the ride, he told a story. I sat in the driver's seat, car running, listening. That story lead to another remembrance, and he passed that along as well. I asked a question, and he recalled that he'd forgotten to address a key element of the first story. He slowly brought the door back to its closed position. Four hours later he slid out of the car, waved goodbye, and walked into his Lake of the Isles home. Somewhere in that stretch, I must have turned off the engine. ¶ That was my first meeting with Steve Cannon. It was summer 2003. I'd just taken him out to lunch, checking off one more box on my life's wish list. We had arrived at our restaurant table at noon and had been asked to leave at 3 o'clock as the place was closing. As I was giving him a ride home, I thought about how wonderful it was to be in the radio business and be able to spend time with a true broadcasting legend. Little did I know this would be the first of many marathon bull sessions with the man I would come to call The Wrangler.
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