As I prepared for a career in journalism, I found a great attraction to being able to be the eyes and ears of my readers, writing, as it were, the first draft of history, even if that draft was filled with articles of little interest to most people, about people of little note. Jewish tradition says that to save one life is to save the whole world.
I knew it would take a period of writing news and features before—if ever—becoming a jazz critic for a daily paper. Between my start as a newsman and the attainment of the jazz critic post, I covered a wide spectrum of news in a variety of areas. And when I moved to features, I found myself spending many an hour with authors, actors, and movie directors, each with something to sell. No matter how revealing or honest a story, I became a cog in the show biz machinery.
As the newest hire at the Los Angeles Daily News in 1976, my desk was the closest to the front door. From that location, I would serve as the barrier between whoever came in and the city desk, the latter of which had little patience for anything. To say they didn’t suffer fools gladly was an understatement.
They were a crotchety group of chain-smoking men who didn’t dress well. (It was a year or two later that the paper wisely brought on Sandi Gibbons, as tough-as-nails editor as I ever knew. She was fair and had a good sense of humor.)
It was a typically busy morning when a feisty man of 5’9” or so barged through the front door, stopping short of the newsroom because of the counter. “Who can I talk with about my new movie,” the man asked. Being on the job for all of two weeks, I didn’t have a clue who would want to talk to him.
He had a folder of sorts and I asked him if I might pass it along.
“It’s a great movie about a boxer in Philadelphia,” the man said with great enthusiasm. “I play the lead role, Rocky,” he said. “I’m Sylvester Stallone,” he said, extending his hand.
I soon found myself looking at the hard-news scene through a rear-view mirror and moving upstairs where a ragtag group of “features” writers waited around hoping a two-headed turtle would wander in looking for press.
That’s when I met Charles Kuralt, a two-headed turtle guy of his own. He had a new book to push and I had won the daily celebrity lottery. Thinking I would probably have to meet him at some campsite, I was surprised when our 8 a.m. meeting was at the Hyatt Regency in downtown Los Angeles. I called him from the lobby and he asked me to wait for a while because “I’m not much of a morning guy.”
He wasn’t much of a breakfast guy and I told him I wasn’t either. He asked the waitress to please bring two cocktail glasses, a bucket of ice and a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Oh, and keep the ashtray empty,” he said. I enjoyed his company and his stories for nearly four hours.
I filed my story a day late.
I could see from my editor’s desk at The Hollywood Reporter that the motion picture industry has considerable strength in the world of charity. I forget what the event was supporting, but it was at one of the largest hotel convention rooms and Monty Hall, the host of “Let’s Make a Deal,” was there. We shook hands and I could sense that he was a nice guy as he took the stage to emcee the event.
The organizers had decided something new would make the evening more interesting. For an hour or two, there was a silent auction as Hollywood B-listers paraded across the stage to sell donated stuff. It was 9:30 and the dinners were just starting to be served. I had no appetite, nor did The Hollywood Reporter executive I had been ordered to accompany to this event. As we approached the exit, the executive saw Kitty Bradley at the dais.
“She’s one of my best friends,” the exec said. The two of them got into deep conversation and I was directed to take a seat next to them on the dais. There was an empty seat between my seat and Bob Hope’s. I had noticed that the placard said Vidal Sassoon. I knew I wasn’t Vidal Sassoon and Mr. Hope knew it as well. His curiosity finally got to him. “Who the fuck are you?” Bob inquired. I was pleased to know that Dolores Hope knew me, lest I find myself removed by force.
I would have loved to be a sportswriter. Some of the best American authors spent time analyzing a single sport and writing extensively about it. The best of the best–Grantland Rice, Red Smith, Ring Lardner, Jim Murray, Damon Runyon, Roger Angell—became household names. To a great extent, they proved the axiom that the smaller the ball, the better the writing.
I proved myself to be unworthy of such a position in the world of prose.
Ernie Banks was my boyhood hero. “Let’s play two,” became a simple phrase that bore the weight of commitment and dedication. Some Chicago entrepreneur was opening a diner with a gala gathering of Chicago celebs in a parking lot on Rodeo Drive. Ed Debevic’s was right out of the ‘50s and I had gained enough fame in Los Angeles as a jazz writer to earn an invite.
And there he was. Standing at a buffet table filled with sliders was Ernie Banks, my hero. Dick Butkus introduced us and beyond saying how nice it was to meet him, I was completely tongue-tied. He was my captive; I could have had him autograph a slider or tell me the origins of “Let’s play two,” or fill me in on life in the Negro Leagues.
Hell, we could have talked about jazz.
Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska
Sliders
These bite-size sandwiches were first sold at White Castle hamburger outlets throughout Chicago. There’s nothing special about them except for their being cute. To prepare, make your favorite hamburger recipe, cut into fourths. Serve on dinner rolls with whatever toppings you like. That’s all. Simple.