As a business professional newbie the excitement for my first ever sales meeting trip grew by the day.  Our company had met its overall goal.  Las Vegas here we come.   And, as a bonus, individuals who met their goals were invited out a day earlier to enjoy some sun, fun, and a round of golf if you so pleased.

In 1983 the old Desert Inn, one of Vegas’ first and finest, had just completed a huge remodel.  As our taxi wheeled us onto the property everything seemed larger than life.  A coworker and I grabbed our over the shoulder bags (few are made anymore), our briefcases (even fewer are made anymore), and our golf clubs (few that hit it straight were ever made).  The long check in lines at the wide front reception area awaited.

Checking in can take forever in Vegas.  This time-lapse can be compounded if you chose the wrong line.  Why they didn’t(and some still don’t) have one line a la a bank queue is one of life’s great mysteries.  The lines were quite long.  We chose one roughly in the middle of about a dozen that each stretched a good 40 or so feet.  This made passing through the lobby a crazy cross weave through humans and their collective baggage.

Our approaching tee time left us anxious to get this done.  As each guest registered and carried their belongings away the remaining unregistered of us (sheep) picked our belongings up, moved forward one spot, and set them all down a bit closer to the coveted check in.

In the same line my buddy was right behind me.  Our banter, bragging, and betting on the coming round helped pass the time and mostly allowed us to ignore the chaos of it all.

As it was time to move up one more spot yet again I slung all of what I brought over my shoulders and picked up the case to advance.  His wisecrack made me turn back to him to get in another word.  I over did it and my golf clubs suddenly had circular momentum.  One unfortunate human was knifing through perpendicular to our line and my spot just then.  My clubs, fueled by my momentum, cut his legs right out from underneath him.  “Down goes Frazier,” Howard Cosell would have reported.

As I dropped what I owned to help my victim up from his sprawled on the marble fall I instantly saw who it was.  Good news.  It wasn’t Smokin’ Joe.  Bad news.  It was a smoking hot, Las Vegas headline entertainer named Sammy Davis Jr.  One very important member  of the famous Rat Pack lie before me clutching his leg.  Ouch.

I asked if he was alright as I helped him to his feet.  He muttered something like, “it’s all cool man.”  I wanted to ask if he was going to mention this to Frank Sinatra, another famous Rat Pack member.  And, more importantly to me at that moment, he purportedly had mafia ties.  I figured it would lighten the moment.  I reconsidered.  Instead I said, “I’m quite sorry for this.”  He nodded and plodded along, his limp barely noticeable.

Oh, what’s the moral of the story?  In show business timing is everything.  Get it right and you can knock them off of their feet.