McNeese_beat
June 2nd, 2008, 01:21 AM
I ran across this on a sports writers' message board and I thought Georgia Southern fans would appreciate it.
It was posted by Dave Kindred, who's one of the best in the business and it's an ode to Van McKenzie, the long-time sports editor at various large dailies who died of cancer early last year. The GSU tie to the story is great. As somebody on that board said, this may be the single greatest sports writing story I've ever read:
-------------------------------------
So Roger Maris dies. It's Dec. 14, 1985. Van's at the height of his powers in Atlanta.
Ed Hinton is one of 3 AJC'ers assigned to a Georgia Southern national championship football game in Tacoma.
"Eddie, on your way to Tacoma," Van says, "stop in North Dakota for Maris's funeral."
On his way? "Van, Fargo's not on the way to anywhere."
Van says, "It's out there somewhere. Just go. Get me a prize-winner."
It's mid-December, the great plains, 20-below, -59 wind chill, snow 8' high along the road from the Fargo airport to the one Holiday Inn in town.
Fast Eddie's at the bar, looking for grizzled Yankees from 1961. Plays some $2 blackjack, legal in North Dakota. Sees Bob Allison. Who needs Bob Allison? Now he sees Whitey Ford, a sighting that sets off the newshound alarms in Eddie's brain while also reminding him, "Ford hates the media. Like to tell us, 'Go **** in your hat.'" But you can't fly from Atlanta to Fargo, see Whitey Ford in a bar the day before Roger Maris's funeral, and not move on him.
Only, when Eddie looks up, Ford's walking out of the bar. And now Eddie's in pursuit, 30 feet behind, trailing him "at detective distance." Sees Ford go into a big banquet room, dark, the door open. "And there was every Yankee from the '61 team. Maybe not Yogi. But every other one. Richardson, Duren. They're not drinking because Richardson's a Baptist preacher and Duren's a recovering alcholic. There's Mantle. He's swaying. "Serendipitously," Eddie says, "Clete Boyer's there. And I know Clete 'cause he ended his career in Atlanta. I shout at him and he says, 'Eddie, come on in.' Clete's with Mantle. My God. Ford wants me to **** in my hat, Mantle's swaying, and I'm hearing Van in my head, 'Bring me back a prize-winner.'"
"No, no, no," Mantle says to Hinton. Boyer intervenes. "C'mon, Mick, Ed's a good guy." Mantle reconsiders and says, "Before you take that notebook out, let me get one thing straight with you." Hinton nods to Mantle, who says, "I'sh am not drrrrrunk."
Boyer puts one condition on the interview. Hinton has to drink with them. Boyer: triple vodkas. Hinton: double Scotches. Boyer's comment on Hinton's doubles: "Pussy."
Stories galore. Maris, the great guy, great player, great teammate, misunderstood, terrible the way he died. Mantle says he sent Maris to the same cancer hospital in Dallas that treated his son. As they talk, Hinton notices a thick icy glaze on the banquet-room windows, dead-ass winter as dead-ass as winter gets, so he asks Mantle, "Those '61 Bronx Bombers -- you ever think Roger Maris would wind up in a place like this?" Mantle's expression doesn't change. Tears slide down his cheeks. "I want to go back to Commerce," he says. Boyer says, "I just took my brother Ken back to the Ozarks." Another round here, barkeep.
Prize-winning stuff -- if Hinton can remember any of it in the morning. Can he remember it? With the Gen. George S. Patton of Sports Editors waiting for the story -- that's what Eddie called Van, "Patton" -- damn straight he's going to remember it. Drinks 'til 4 a.m. starts writiing for the Journal's afternoon cycle. "We were in a 24-hour news cycle, and Van wanted it as soon as you had it."
Later that morning at the graveside, a school bus arrives. It delivers reporters from the Times and other New York media outlets. Here's what Van's hungover/done-writing/it's-in-the-paper prize-winning man in North Dakota thought of that moment: "All you New York sumbitches, your asses are beat."
On to Tacoma, but stuck in Denver, a blizzard. Hinton, exhausted, flu's coming, calls Van: "We got 2 other guys going to Tacoma, can I come home?"
Van says 1 guy is driving through Oregon in a snowstorm. Other guy is stuck in San Francisco fog. "You gotta go, Eddie," Van says. "I figure 1 of the 3 of you will get there, I just don't know which one."
Week later, after covering the funeral in North Dakota and the game in Tacoma, Hinton, with the flu, comes to the office.
"I hope you know what I went through," Hinton says to Van. "But I got you your prize-winner."
"See, Eddie," the big man says. "When you get good assignments, you get good stories."
Hinton's Maris coverage won first place in spot news in APSE judging that year.
It was posted by Dave Kindred, who's one of the best in the business and it's an ode to Van McKenzie, the long-time sports editor at various large dailies who died of cancer early last year. The GSU tie to the story is great. As somebody on that board said, this may be the single greatest sports writing story I've ever read:
-------------------------------------
So Roger Maris dies. It's Dec. 14, 1985. Van's at the height of his powers in Atlanta.
Ed Hinton is one of 3 AJC'ers assigned to a Georgia Southern national championship football game in Tacoma.
"Eddie, on your way to Tacoma," Van says, "stop in North Dakota for Maris's funeral."
On his way? "Van, Fargo's not on the way to anywhere."
Van says, "It's out there somewhere. Just go. Get me a prize-winner."
It's mid-December, the great plains, 20-below, -59 wind chill, snow 8' high along the road from the Fargo airport to the one Holiday Inn in town.
Fast Eddie's at the bar, looking for grizzled Yankees from 1961. Plays some $2 blackjack, legal in North Dakota. Sees Bob Allison. Who needs Bob Allison? Now he sees Whitey Ford, a sighting that sets off the newshound alarms in Eddie's brain while also reminding him, "Ford hates the media. Like to tell us, 'Go **** in your hat.'" But you can't fly from Atlanta to Fargo, see Whitey Ford in a bar the day before Roger Maris's funeral, and not move on him.
Only, when Eddie looks up, Ford's walking out of the bar. And now Eddie's in pursuit, 30 feet behind, trailing him "at detective distance." Sees Ford go into a big banquet room, dark, the door open. "And there was every Yankee from the '61 team. Maybe not Yogi. But every other one. Richardson, Duren. They're not drinking because Richardson's a Baptist preacher and Duren's a recovering alcholic. There's Mantle. He's swaying. "Serendipitously," Eddie says, "Clete Boyer's there. And I know Clete 'cause he ended his career in Atlanta. I shout at him and he says, 'Eddie, come on in.' Clete's with Mantle. My God. Ford wants me to **** in my hat, Mantle's swaying, and I'm hearing Van in my head, 'Bring me back a prize-winner.'"
"No, no, no," Mantle says to Hinton. Boyer intervenes. "C'mon, Mick, Ed's a good guy." Mantle reconsiders and says, "Before you take that notebook out, let me get one thing straight with you." Hinton nods to Mantle, who says, "I'sh am not drrrrrunk."
Boyer puts one condition on the interview. Hinton has to drink with them. Boyer: triple vodkas. Hinton: double Scotches. Boyer's comment on Hinton's doubles: "Pussy."
Stories galore. Maris, the great guy, great player, great teammate, misunderstood, terrible the way he died. Mantle says he sent Maris to the same cancer hospital in Dallas that treated his son. As they talk, Hinton notices a thick icy glaze on the banquet-room windows, dead-ass winter as dead-ass as winter gets, so he asks Mantle, "Those '61 Bronx Bombers -- you ever think Roger Maris would wind up in a place like this?" Mantle's expression doesn't change. Tears slide down his cheeks. "I want to go back to Commerce," he says. Boyer says, "I just took my brother Ken back to the Ozarks." Another round here, barkeep.
Prize-winning stuff -- if Hinton can remember any of it in the morning. Can he remember it? With the Gen. George S. Patton of Sports Editors waiting for the story -- that's what Eddie called Van, "Patton" -- damn straight he's going to remember it. Drinks 'til 4 a.m. starts writiing for the Journal's afternoon cycle. "We were in a 24-hour news cycle, and Van wanted it as soon as you had it."
Later that morning at the graveside, a school bus arrives. It delivers reporters from the Times and other New York media outlets. Here's what Van's hungover/done-writing/it's-in-the-paper prize-winning man in North Dakota thought of that moment: "All you New York sumbitches, your asses are beat."
On to Tacoma, but stuck in Denver, a blizzard. Hinton, exhausted, flu's coming, calls Van: "We got 2 other guys going to Tacoma, can I come home?"
Van says 1 guy is driving through Oregon in a snowstorm. Other guy is stuck in San Francisco fog. "You gotta go, Eddie," Van says. "I figure 1 of the 3 of you will get there, I just don't know which one."
Week later, after covering the funeral in North Dakota and the game in Tacoma, Hinton, with the flu, comes to the office.
"I hope you know what I went through," Hinton says to Van. "But I got you your prize-winner."
"See, Eddie," the big man says. "When you get good assignments, you get good stories."
Hinton's Maris coverage won first place in spot news in APSE judging that year.