Referee and photographer meet, leading to tales from newsroom

    I was running toward my position while refereeing a high school lacrosse when I peered through rain-spotted glasses at a photographer aiming his long lens in my direction. Nothing odd about that, I reasoned. He is probably shooting the action behind me.

   The closer I got, the clearer his features became. My memory was triggered. The shooter was my former copy desk colleague, Bob Chavez, now doubling as a sportswriter and photographer for the Canandaigua Messenger.

   “Make sure you get my good side,’’ I called out.

   I think he retorted, “You never had a good side.’’

  You can engage in this banter and not risk distraction during a plodding blowout. When we convened at halftime, I got off the first line.

   “When you review your film, I’m sure you’ll see vapor trails coming off me as I jet down the sideline.’’

  He chuckled, maybe not about jet vapors, more likely because photographers don’t shoot and process their film anymore. They edit their digital images.

   We laughed about his interview lunch 30 years ago when he applied at the Democrat and Chronicle sports department. He thought he should have ordered the Gannett Burger from the downtown Rochester restaurant across the street from the newspaper. It was never an issue; he was talented enough.

   “What was the funniest story that you recall from working on the paper?’’ I asked.

  He couldn’t pick out just one but brought up the storied agate clerk, nicknamed Goody, who once hung up on a coach for providing excessive details on a minor game.

   Bob sparked a flood of memories that rivaled the persistence of the rain, leading an old sports editor through 20 years of newspaper anecdotes.

   We were always frazzled on election night with a tidal wave of results pouring into the newsroom, but serial killer Arthur Shawcross compounded the madness when he dumped one of his 14 victims in the Genesee River gorge. The awareness that a deranged guy was walking the streets became spooky.

  On another night, two guys were huddled over a VDT (video display terminal) as they scrolled through a wire service story.

  “I can’t believe this,’’ one exclaimed.

   “She cut it off!’’ gasped the other.

   Soon, people were paired up reading the same story. The last audible thing I heard, before refocusing on our deadline, was: “She threw it in the bushes!’’

  Lorena Bobbitt and her kitchen knife had become the national conversation 30 years ago after she dismembered her husband. At trial, she was found innocent by reason of insanity. Her ex-husband, John Wayne Bobbitt, tried to capitalize on the notoriety. He formed a band called The Severed Parts and appeared in two adult films. Eventually, time cut short their fame.

  For every memorable story, there was an equally notable character in the newsroom.

   Goody was known for locking up new, young female reporters with chatter about restaurants and Scrabble (he was a nationally-ranked player). The clerks who worked around him would mercifully dial his extension, forcing Goody to scamper back to his desk and providing an escape hatch for the reporter. At some point, the clerks started keeping statistics, crediting each other with “saves.’’

     We had the obsessive editor who had to design his desk before he could lay out his section. The pens and markers were arranged; the work tickets lined up; a stack of photos arrayed; the ad layouts arranged in numerical order. When he stepped away from his desk, one practical joker would mess it up, then watch the editor go into a tizzy.

   We had cigarette smokers, serial deadline abusers, an egomaniac columnist and one psycho, who was later found dead in her bed. But at the root of many good stories was alcohol.

   After the second publishing deadline, usually around 1 a.m., we would head to a bar to forget the crescendo of stress that we reached from 10:30-12:30 most nights.  One night in a dive bar, feeling privileged to be invited out by the press foreman and our beloved computer tech guy, Hawk, we were sipping our first beers when a guy burst through the front door and bolted out the back. A moment later, a policeman banged through the same door, and in unison, we pointed and said, “He went that way.’’

  When the Buffalo Bills went to the Super Bowl for four consecutive seasons, championship week seemed like a Proud Boys rally at the Capitol. We added four extra sports pages each day and a 20-page preview on Sunday, then devoted four extra pages after the game. We struggled mightily under the adding page design and editing demands.

  By Sunday night, actually about 1 a.m. Monday, we were a weary posse, but we started tailgating in the adjacent municipal parking garage. Nobody circles the wagons and tailgates like journalists in the Buffalo Bills market. Guys brought food and an abundance of beer. The music was cranked. Golf clubs popped out of trunks. We wanted to see who could hit the longest, straightest punch shot off the concrete walls. Three guys bolted across the street to see who could hit a tee shot across the Genesee River. No winner was determined – it was too dark.

  The homeless guys who slept in the garage were the big winners. They slept soundly amid the warmth of the steam grates, but before we wandered away at 4 a.m., we left them a present – the extra food and beers.    

        Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/