Basketball On The Internet.

THERE was a lot going on in the Hotel Principe di Savoia in Milan, with San Antonio Spurs players shuffling toward their palatial rooms, their entourages in tow.

David Robinson. Tim Duncan. Steve Kerr. Avery Johnson. The procession continued.

David Heath from Adelaide radio station 5AA and I were watching from our window as the buses carrying the NBA megastars had pulled in, a score of sycophants buzzing about like mozzies at an evening barbecue.

We were in town for what would turn out to, sadly, be the final McDonald's World Club Championship, accompanying the Adelaide 36ers who were representing Australia and the NBL.

There were six teams there in all, staying at the city's swankiest hotel.

The world-renowned fashion shows were on too, so not only was the place dripping with NBA millionaires and some of the other great players from across the planet, but also with incredible head-turning women.

It was difficult for Heathy and I to not resemble the "laughing clowns" of various sideshows and carnivals whenever we wandered through the lobby.

And yes, while you can be forgiven for wondering what a couple of Aussie journos were doing in this place - the rest of the obnoxious smelly media safely secured away in some three-star hotel in the 'burbs - let's just say we were blessed.

The tournament was a few days from tip off when the NBA, which was as heavily involved in this biennial tournament as FIBA and McDonalds, decided to host the media in what was called "An Evening of Mexican-flavoured Frivolity".

This was a euphimism for a pre-tournament media pi$$-up, though why an American organisation would want to stage a Mexican-themed event in an Italian city hosting international journos - none, might I add, from Mexico - remains anyone's guess.

Suffice to say, the Italian waitresses were wearing sombreros and there was the odd cactus so everyone was happy.

It was at some out-of-the-way pub of course, totally appropriate for the type of riff-raff the media can quickly descend into when the beer is cold and the night is hot.

It was at this function where a Swiss journo I was chatting with finally said he'd had enough and was going to get some "real" booze, having had his fill of the free-flowing Budweiser. "Ugh, Budweiser," he moaned. "You know why Budweiswer is like making love in a canoe?" he asked me. No. I didn't. "Because it's f--king close to water."

Amazing what you remember from nights when your memory is very suspect.

Free alcohol in copious quantities and journalists off the leash and far from home, with their work a few days away. Not the best mix.

A journalist I shall only call "Ian" and a photographer who shall, from here on, be "Jeff" and I eventually stumbled away to find the "real Milan".

What we found was another pub filled with beautiful people where Jeff was feted by a fashion photographer he knew from Sydney. More free drinks.

We taxied back to the Hotel Principe di Savoia, Ian somehow coherent enough to give instructions to the driver, Jeff asleep on my shoulder, my head spinning, and tried to look sober walking through the lobby.

In the front lounge, the journos had made it back from Little Mexico and the NBA again had left an open tab at the bar and the boys were kicking on.

Naturally, we did too. At something resembling 3am and with a Scotch-and-Coke in my hand, I heard that voice we all have tell me that if I drank that, I would be revisiting every meal I'd had in the past 24 hours.

I placed it back on the bar and, despite protestations from the hardened drinkers - many of them the journos who soon (and rightly) would be shipped back to their hotel in the 'burbs - headed for the lifts.

And there he was, sitting at a small table with a woman and another gentleman, larger than life, swirling a cognac in a cognac glass. (That's how I knew it was a cognac. Your years as an investigative journalist never fail you in the crisis).

Tom Jones.

Yes. THAT Tom Jones. Probably most recently seen by Australians performing before and after the AFL Grand Final.

The short steps to the lift meant I would have to walk right past him. Again, being relatively shrewd, I knew if I said: "Hello", that most likely would be the start-and-finish of any dialogue with the world renowned "Voice".

But having only a few weeks earlier seen him in concert at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre, my mind raced as I figured out the strategy for a better conversation. I had it! I would politely say: "Excuse me. Sorry to intrude, but I just wanted to say how much I've loved your work and how much I thoroughly enjoyed your concert in Adelaide last month." That would be it, turn to leave.

Pretty nifty, eh?

He'd have the option of being polite and saying: "Thank you," and that could be that.

Or... He might say: "Oh, you saw the concert in Adelaide? It's a long way from Milan?"

See? Conversation starter. I could say: "Do you get to Milan often?" And of course he'd reply: "It's not unusual."

OK. Maybe not.

But I liked the plan very much. Except as I neared his table, I heard that voice in my head and it said: "Yeah, nice plan. But you are stone, motherless, drunk as a skunk, and you're never going to get that sentence out. Instead it will be along the lines of Hiiii, I dun min tah uh ah ..." And at that point, I'd probably have fallen on the floor.

So I cursed my over-indulgence and walked on by to the lifts, muttering to myself: "Why? Why? Why? ... Delilah."

There is a point to this story and in this instance, it may be about over-indulgence, possibly appropriate it being Christmas Eve eve.

But I slept til the afternoon - even Heathy's notorious barnyard noises no deterrent - and still woke with a heavy head.

Breakfast had been and gone hours earlier as I stumbled into the day, thinking a walk about Milan might clear my head.

It did, though I was still in a bit of a blur when I re-entered via the side front door next to the revolving door of the hotel.

An older grey-haired fellow bumped into me as I entered - he had been looking at the floor as he was walking out - and he was quick to apologise.

It was nothing and I assured him so.

Damn it. Damn the Budweiser and everything else.

It was only as I looked again to confirm who it was that I realised Joe Cocker had just bumped into me. Literally.

Joe Cocker. The one. The only.

He was alone and just heading out for a stroll and I knew if I'd had my wits about me, I could have struck up a brief chat with him.

My brother introduced me to Joe's music in something around 1971 with the Mad Dogs and Englishmen album. It was incredible.

Nothing like I'd previously experienced.

The Letter. Cry Me A River. Darling Be Home Soon. With a Little Help From My Friends.

Then the videos on the music shows, black-and-white, Joe feeling every note, moving in a way we'd never seen before.

The albums started to pile up too, albums without lyric sheets and with no Google around to find out exactly what he was singing at times. You just had to wing it and hope for the best.

Hitchcock Railway sent me into a spin from which I've never recovered. I was playing it two nights ago. (Sam Krupsky, who was an import for South Adelaide and Sturt in SA before settling here, put up this link today and yep, I played it again ... http://bit.ly/1AA5ofO It still stands up.)

So here it was. 1999. My youngest daughter is seven and has just gone through a Joe Cocker phase.

There were so many things I could have said.

So many things I wished I had said.

Instead of: "No worries. All good."

Joe Cocker died today at 70.

Lung cancer.

I learned about it on social media, something which didn't exist when he was making that fabulous grimace and hitting "...to me" at the end of You Are So Beautiful.

Not sure why it is but it inevitably feels as though you've lost a close friend when someone who entertained you, thrilled you, took you to places or sang the words you needed to hear when you were in pain, or loving, or hurting, growing up.

We lost another one today. But we'll always have the memories and the music.

Rest In Peace Joe. And thank you.