More than anything, I wanted to be like Lou Linley.
Lou was my first City Editor, a man who balanced the 275 pounds below his neck with an unkempt walrus mustache that sprawled from one rosy cheek to the other. His voice was naturally deep, and deepened still more by the years of too little sleep and too much pipe tobacco and mediocre bourbon. When he bellowed across the city room, you would have sworn the News American had invested in a P.A. system. But it was just Lou, doing what all great City Editors do — claiming the newsroom’s center stage.
And I, the new kid on the rewrite desk, was in awe.
I tell you the story of Lou Linley for two reasons: first, because nearly 30 years later, the values I learned from this mentor of mine continue to enrich me and feed my passion for journalism. I suspect there is someone in your life who has done — or is doing — the same for you. Maybe today will provide a few seconds to stop the train, sit quietly and bring those values to mind.
And second, remembering Lou reminds me of the awesome potential that all of us — no matter what our role — have to influence each other. Understanding that potential is critical for those of us who aspire to management roles, but the opportunity is equally powerful for any member of the newsroom staff. Great photographers, great reporters, great copy editors all inspire us with the quality of their work and by helping us understand the way they achieve it.
Who are your inspirations? What have you learned from them?
Perhaps Lou taught me so much because he had so much to teach. Born in Coffeyville, Kan., his life was a collage of professions and experiences. As a boy he worked in a chicken-processing plant (and as a result, never ate chicken or turkey again). During World War II, he was a merchant marine. Afterward, he stayed on the West Coast and fought forest fires from helicopters, sold Stetson hats and, at some point, became a reporter.
He met his wife, a wonderful illustrator, at the University of Washington, and together they moved east to Montana where eventually he joined the staff of the Daily Missoulian. From there, the family of five set off for Washington, D.C., where Lou was convinced he could find work. Unfortunately, they only got as far as Harpers Ferry, W. Va., before the money ran out. So Lou told the family to wait with Aunt Corrine in Boonsboro, Md., while he went to Baltimore. There he got work on the News American and never left.
It was my great fortune that Lou Linley never made it to Washington.
It was also my good fortune that, along the way, Lou came to be convinced that everyone had a story to tell — and that our job was to go out every day and listen to them. And so, at Lou’s direction, we listened.
- Two hemophiliac brothers in East Baltimore described to me their struggle to make a go of their antique clock shop. Lou loved the brothers’ courageous tale so much that he turned it into a full page in the Sunday feature section.
- Somewhere in his travels, Lou met a Polish freedom fighter whose struggle against the Nazis had been replaced by one against the Soviets. Lou told me the man had a great story to tell. He did.
- In preparation for our annual coverage of the Preakness, Lou sent me to Pimlico Racetrack to find a “color” story. “Look out for the ‘stoopers,'” he told me. (Do you know what “stoopers” are? I didn’t. They’re the people who walk about with heads bowed, scanning the ground for discarded winning tickets.)
- On Opening Day for the Orioles, Lou sent me to interview the woman whose living room was located directly behind Memorial Stadium’s centerfield fence, providing NBC’s cameras with a perfect vantage point from which to broadcast the game. (And in still another great example of why we talk with people, the woman told me to go over to the stadium, find Orioles’ owner Jerry Hoffberger and ask him if he remembered the egg salad sandwiches she made for him 30 years before at Martin Marietta. I asked him. He remembered.)
Most of all, though, Lou loved hard news — especially deadline news. News like the armed robbery and police chase that broke at 3:30 in the afternoon and gave us one hour to make the Late Stocks street edition. Working the phones and the two-way radios with his police reporters and rewrite desk, Lou became Igor Stravinsky in overdrive (although at the News American, the orchestra usually lacked several key instruments.) Once the story made the paper, Lou smiled, placed both hands against his desk, pushed himself up from his chair and led a thirsty procession to Burke’s Café.
(Truth is, on another day when the computer system crashed and the story didn’t make the paper, Lou threw a phone across the room and then led the procession to Burke’s.)
Sometimes news coverage was a lot more complicated than police chases, and I watched Lou struggle with tough decisions. Ten days after a 10-year-old paperboy from Towson disappeared, one of our reporters obtained a photograph of the lead suspect. Police were not happy, and told Lou that if he ran the photo, the child’s blood would be on the paper’s hands. Lou spent the afternoon in agonized conversations with the paper’s top editors; in the end, they agreed with him that there was just as good a chance that running the picture could save the boy’s life. We ran the photo.
That evening, police released the photo to the rest of the media, and television newscasts ran it. A woman in northern Virginia recognized the suspect and the boy — they had done some yard work for her that day, and were scheduled to return to finish the next morning. When they arrived, police were waiting. The boy was rescued.
Sitting in the woman’s den, crying hysterically, the child told investigators that only the day before, his abductor had kidnapped another youngster and killed him. One of my colleagues at the News American, recalling the incident recently, said there was no doubt in his mind that Lou’s decision to run the photo saved the child’s life.
Yes, Lou taught me to love stories, but he cared just as much about the group of people in his charge. He had that wonderful ability to make each of us feel that we were absolutely essential to the success of the desk. He collaborated with us, offered us ideas and listened to ours; he challenged us, demanded our best, and celebrated with us when the work was done well.
Never did he take our stories hostage and rewrite them as he would write them; This was a man who loved the written word and wanted us to share that affection. He talked with us about language, the power of words, cadence and sentence structure. Once, after I had told him about a biography I had just read, he told me to stop wasting my time and immerse myself in great fiction — from which he said Society’s greatest ideas had come. In fact, he said, he was going to make me a list of 100 great books that I needed to read.
Obviously, I had pushed a hot button.
After a few years, Lou encouraged me to begin editing; I went on to take a number of jobs at the News American before leaving for Philadelphia in 1982. Through it all, Lou stayed on the City Desk, until one November morning in 1985 when the years of too little sleep and too much tobacco and bourbon delivered their tab. He died at his desk. He was 59.
Later, his son told me that among Lou’s papers, the family had found the list of great works of fiction — Lou had only made it to 65 titles or so. I guess it would have been nice to have the list, but Lou had already given me more than any work of fiction could offer.
He taught me to love stories — and to serve the people who gather them.
