I am standing in the alligator pit. This is not a euphemism. About 10 feet away, a dozen gators slowly swirl around an ankle-deep pool of swamp water. My job: Walk in, haul one of these critters onto a patch of sand, and tackle him before he flips me into the famed “death roll.”
At times like these, I have flashes of my real life — Boston Globe arts reporter, husband, father of two — and I consider the absurdity of the moment. I’ve wrestled with some elusive sources over the years, but never one who could bite my arms off.