My newspaper doesn’t reprint stories, according to one editor who called it lazy. But there should be exceptions.
This Al Martinez column that appeared in the Los Angeles Times in 1986 should be reprinted every Christmas in every newspaper in every city. It should remind people of what it used to mean to count down to a deadline, furiously creating a gift to hand to readers, a unique gift, to teach or entertain or outrage them every day.
Today, we are moving so fast, moving at digital speed, barely paying attention. We are hearing continuous headlines that don’t have time to resonate, that are soon forgotten. We don’t know what it means to read and understand an issue. We know what it’s like to have people tell us what to think of issues – and some of us scream at the top of our keyboards things we’ve been fed without really digesting anything.
We – many of us – no longer pay attention to whether we’re making a difference. All we know is to get the headline first, damn the story.
As I vacationed out of the country, I stopped by Facebook and was moved Al Martinez’s words, which I read for the first time (Thank you, Wesley Lowery, my young Jedi, for sharing it.). I am moved, as I return from vacation, to focus on getting the peaches, which IS the story. Read it for yourself and see what I mean:
He understood not only what we did but what we were supposed to do. : Reck of the Tribune
December 25, 1986|Al Martinez
It happened one Christmas Eve a long time ago in a place called Oakland on a newspaper called the Tribune with a city editor named Alfred P. Reck.
It was a story which, in the tradition of 1950s journalism, would be milked for every sob we could squeeze from it, because everyone loved a good cry on Christmas.
We knew how to play a tear-jerker in those days, and I was full of the kinds of passions that could make a sailor weep.
I remember it was about 11 o’clock at night and pouring rain outside when I began putting the piece together for the next day’s editions.
Deadline was an hour away, but an hour is a lifetime when you’re young and fast and never get tired.
Then the telephone rang.
It was Al Reck calling, as he always did at night, and he’d had a few under his belt.
Reck was a drinking man. With diabetes and epilepsy, hard liquor was about the last thing he ought to be messing with, but you didn’t tell Al what he ought to or ought not to do.
He was essentially a gentle man who rarely raised his voice, but you knew he was the city editor, and in those days the city editor was the law and the word in the newsroom.
But there was more than fear and tradition at work for Al.
We respected him immensely, not only for his abilities as a newsman, but for his humanity. Al was sensitive both to our needs and the needs of those whose names and faces appeared in the pages of the Oakland Tribune.
“What’s up?” he asked me that Christmas Eve in a voice as soft and slurred as a summer breeze.
He already knew what was up because, during 25 years on the city desk, Reck somehow always knew what was up, but he wanted to hear it from the man handling the story.
I told him about the kid dying of leukemia and about the peaches and about how there simply were no fresh peaches, but it still made a good piece. We had art and a hole waiting on page one.
Al listened for a moment and then said, “How long’s he got?”
“Not long,” I said. “His doctor says maybe a day or two.”
There was a long silence and then Al said, “Get the kid his peaches.”
“I’ve called all over,” I said. “None of the produce places in the Bay Area have fresh peaches. They’re just plain out of season. It’s winter.”
“Not everywhere. Call Australia.”
“Al,” I began to argue, “it’s after 11 and I have no idea . . . . ”
“Call Australia,” he said, and then hung up.
If Al said call Australia, I would call Australia.
I don’t quite remember whom I telephoned, newspapers maybe and agricultural associations, but I ended up finding fresh peaches and an airline that would fly them to the Bay Area before the end of Christmas day.
There was only one problem. Customs wouldn’t clear them. They were an agricultural product and would be hung up at San Francisco International at least for a day, and possibly forever.
Reck called again. He listened to the problem and told me to telephone the Secretary of Agriculture and have him clear the peaches when they arrived.
“It’s close to midnight,” I argued. “His office is closed.”
“Take this number down,” Reck said. “It’s his home. Tell him I told you to call.”
It was axiomatic among the admirers of Al Reck that he knew everyone and everyone knew him, from cops on the street to government leaders in their Georgetown estates. No one knew how Al knew them or why, but he did.
I made the call. The secretary said he’d have the peaches cleared when they arrived and give Al Reck his best.
“All right,” Reck said on his third and final call to me, “now arrange for one of our photographers to meet the plane and take the peaches over to the boy’s house.”
He had been drinking steadily throughout the evening and the slurring had become almost impossible to understand.
By then it was a few minutes past midnight, and just a heartbeat and a half to the final deadline.
“Al,” I said, “if I don’t start writing this now I’ll never get the story in the paper.”
I won’t forget this moment.
“I didn’t say get the story,” Reck replied gently. “I said get the kid his peaches.”
If there is a flash point in our lives to which we can refer later, moments that shape our attitudes and effect our futures, that was mine.
Alfred Pierce Reck had defined for me the importance of what we do, lifting it beyond newsprint and deadline to a level of humanity that transcends job. He understood not only what we did but what we were supposed to do.
I didn’t say get the story. I said get the kid his peaches.
The boy got his peaches and the story made the home edition, and I received a lesson in journalism more important than any I’ve learned since.
I wanted you to know that this Christmas Day.
Reprinted from the Los Angeles Times.
I share this in hopes that journalists – and those who count on them – will remember it every day.