Wife asked me that, too.
When I broke my ankle while hurdling at USATF Masters Nationals
in August, she wanted to know: Did I writhe in Kerriganesque agony,
holding my injury and tearfully bleating "Why me? Why me?"? (How's
that for rare punctuation?) Nah. I just thunk: "Damn. Gotta rip
this shoe off before the foot swells up any more." Second thought
was: "Damn, and I was just about to nail the idiot who slammed
his hurdle into my lane."
That might be my evil twin, Dwight Stones, a.k.a. “The Mouth that Soared.”
He's a former world-record holder in the high jump who choked in the rain at Montreal Olympics and took third for second time. I jumped against him in high school. He beat me. By a foot and a half.
Later in life, after his suspension from track (for not turning over his “Superstars” TV winnings to track poobahs) and following his remarkable comeback to make the 1984 Olympic team, I wrote him a nice letter, asking if I could ghost-write his memoirs.
He was HOT, had name recognition -- and lots of opinions. The Steve Prefontaine of jumpers. He eventually replied: “Nope, sorry. I'll write my own memoirs.” The track world is still waiting for his bio.
But Stones ain't a tenth as famous as a lady who shared the stage with me around 1967. I was in junior high when I performed in a community theater production of “Inherit the Wind,” based on the 1925 Scopes “Monkey Trial.” I played a student on the witness stand, testifying that I was taught people came from worms. In the gallery, playing the wife of the accused evolution teacher, was an actress named Toni Shearer.
Later, Toni split with hubby and married a piano player named Daryl Dragon. He became the “Captain.” She, “Tenille.” (Remember “Muskrat Love?" Oh, nevermind.)
I hope you're not talking about the fact that I type with two fingers. (One Friday my sophomore year at University of Kansas, I TWICE failed the mandatory typing test for entrance to J-School. Then I palmed the test, memorized it over the weekend, and came back Monday for last-chance exam -- and passed it. Whew!)
Seriously, I was a mediocre editing student at Kansas. But if I have to pinpoint one thing Professor John B. Bremner (the legend, RIP) taught me that saves my paper's neck to this day, it's: Check EVERYTHING that's checkable. (He may not have originated the slogan “If your mother says she loves you, check it out!” but he got the point across best.)
Experience.
Only experience teaches you how to handle a one-column, 48-point, four-line head on a New York Times News Service thumbsucker 5 minutes to deadline.
Only experience lets you identify the holes in a rookie's copy or find the diplomatic words to tell your paper's star reporter that he/she needs at least SOME attribution in his/her "expert journalism" piece. Experience isn't a trait? Oh, OK. Best copy-deskers are all word wizards.
Easy. Finish the freelance book-editing project I started six months ago. (The author, a world-class masters shot-putter, was an IBM technical writer. Nuff said.)
Also, I'd train SERIOUSLY for the 13th World Veterans Athletic Championships in summer 1999 at Gateshead, England, where I'd make my debut in the M45 age group and probably twist my ankle again off the last hurdle of the 400-meter intermediates.
And I'd update my Web site before I lose all my e-mail again in an AOL crash.
Uhhhhhm, scratch all that. My wife may see this. If I had six
months off, I'd spend half of it with her, taking barefoot strolls
on the beach at Torrey Pines, and the other half with my son Bobby,
getting him to finish his fourth-grade homework and helping him
pass his Webelo tests in Cub Scouts.
Who says everybody has a favorite story? Maybe I'm the exception. Newsies shouldn't make such sweeping assumptions. Well, you've been so kind not to ask about my 100-meter dash speed, I'll share one with you.
My successor as editor of the weekly San Marcos Courier 20 years ago was a cigar-chomping ex-political flack named Shideler Harpe. He wrote bizarre tabloid headlines like “CONDOMANIA!” that took up half of page. One day, the presses rolled for the Courier at its sister daily, The Vista Press. Usual wacky layout. Usual funky heads. One thing missing. The paper's nameplate was nowhere to be found on Page One. Harpe forgot to dummy it. Nobody in backshop or pressroom noticed it.
The paper landed on street without its own flag. But I guess -- in an age of dying papers and print outlets that sell out to sensationalism or “chip-on-the-shoulder” journalism -- it's better to have no name than no standards.
Copyright 1998, Thomas L. Mangan
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