On the Way Out
Vol. 2, Part 5
I try to remember the good things in my life...those satisfying moments when I did well.
Finally, at the age of 77, I have booted away all of those bad thoughts in my head, and I try to recall the good things I have done -- the accomplishments I have made, no matter how big or small. Not to worry. I never shot anybody or robbed a bank, or pushed someone off the curb into ongoing traffic...not that kinda bad, instead: I messed up relationships, made my share of poor decisions...turned right a few times instead of left at the most inopportune times, back during those wild and crazy days when I didn't have a lick of sense.
After the airline industry was no longer a way of life for me, I finally returned to writing. Although, at that point, I was fifty years old!
I became a staff writer for a newspaper in the Phoenix area, and luckily I headed up the sports desk after, if I remember correctly, I was sent to a neighborhood gift shop to interview a lady and do a story on the life and times of the new gift shop owner. I even had a few city court appearances (for news stories). But, of course, I was a fish out of water there. Maybe, I would have learned to like the court assignments, but the powers-to-be whisked me away from those off-the-wall assignments, and I ended up where I belonged, back at the sports desk.
Now the job could have paid better, and the hours were long -- write during the day and cover games mostly at night. The gig didn't allow much time to build a lasting relationship with someone, but I loved the work, and I admire the men and women who battle the deadlines these days for a living -- it's definitely a young man's game or a young woman's game.
So, was I a sports writer or a sportswriter?
For a guy like me, it was an easy question to answer. So I decided to hit the internet and see if anyone really cared. I discovered Frank Deford had the answer. It is sportswriter -- one word. That's all I needed to know. Deford, who passed away in 2017, was a six-time Sportswriter of the Year, for goodness sake.
As I said earlier, I loved the job. My assignments included walking into a family's den, sitting down, and interviewing a high school kid who had just signed a contract with the Los Angeles Angels. The mother and father were grinning from ear to ear, and the young prep star was counting his bonus money...at least in his head.
But if I had to pick one assignment that beat all of the assignments, I'd probably pick the one when I grabbed my notepad and rushed off to a junior varsity football game on a Thursday afternoon. A man among boys on the field scored at will from his fullback position. There was no stopping this guy, and I wasn't going to leave my position on the sideline and rush out there and get in his way. That was for sure.
When the game was over, I rushed back to my desk at the newspaper and came up with the headline for my story: Remember this guy's name.
It was a 16-year-old Chandler High School product named Tyrell Suggs.
And now you know the rest of the story.
Of course, Suggs (pictured above, putting the hit on Michael Vick) went on to a 17-year career in the NFL and has made over 50 million dollars as an outside linebacker/defensive end, mainly with the Baltimore Ravens, the Kansas City Chiefs and even a short stint with the Arizona Cardinals.
I should have taken Suggs to lunch that day. But, of course, I would have had to pay.
I have hundreds of stories similar to the above -- including a high school semi-final football game -- a game won in triple overtime on a pass to Todd Heap for the winning score. Heap was a senior at Mesa Mountain View High School then and would go on to play 12 professional seasons as a tight end in the NFL with the Baltimore Ravens and a short stint with the Arizona Cardinals.
Somewhere at a library in Phoenix, all my stories as a roving sports reporter are on microfiche and stored in some closet for safekeeping. Why? I don't know. Luckily I was honored three times by the Arizona Newspaper Association. I miss that part of my life, and when I attend a high school game, a college or pro game these days, I look toward the sidelines and wish I was out there working.
It was where I belonged.
Most of us old-timers have been lucky enough in our lifetime, at one time or another, to have found that perfect job -- the job that gets the juices flowing. The kind of job, like I had in the newspaper business, when you wake up in the morning, and you can't wait to get started. You are in total control all day, and somewhere down the road, you see your finished product in print, staring back at you with your name on it.
And you know you got the job done.
It's an entirely different ball game now. Newspapers are almost a thing of the past. So sad. It was a fast-paced, adrenaline-pumping way of life back in its heyday. Now the reporters are on a computer or on a smartphone or whatever device they may be using at the time, and they are still at the ballpark or inside the arena, searching for a plug-in to call in the ending to the story and complete their assignment.
Chances are the players have barely left the field or the court, and the story has already hit the wires, and the boxscores suddenly appear within seconds on the ESPN website, the MLB network, or the NFL Network.
I'm too old to compete as a roving reporter these days. I would need Clark Kent and Lois Lane to lend me a hand.
By the way, I still miss my morning newspaper. Unfortunately, it's no longer by the front door. Instead, I'm up to date on my smartphone, and I have all the standings up to date-- including the extra-inning baseball game that just ended at two o'clock this morning.
It's a sign of the times.
Photo: The author and the roving reporter who doesn't have to hustle his way to a deadline any longer.
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