Reflecting on 80

My grandfather, Bill Andersen, turned 80 earlier this week. The feat alone was, in his words, pretty remarkable.

I couldn’t be back home in Montana to celebrate with the rest of the family, but I called him and asked him what he thought about entering his eighth decade on Earth.

“Well, Matt,” he said in his thoughtful drawl. “There’s been lots of times I thought I probably should have died.”

He told about falling through a ranch roof he was working on, his head landing just a couple feet from his axe. He told me about falling through ice on a lake and needing his cousin to fish him out before the cold or the ten-foot waters took him. He told me about driving home after having too much to drink one night — not that much, he assured me, but more than enough.

“Holy moly, I thought, ‘Man, I got away with one there,” he said.

Leaving my home state has stoked my interest in the history of both sides of my family. If the Andersens and their offspring are to be believed, Bill and Judy have Lived. They moved a lot, uprooting my mom and her siblings to follow Bill’s job on the railroad. My grandparents migrated from Livingston, Mont., out east to Minnesota and Wisconsin, finally back where they met.

I love my grandpa — and my whole family — very much, but sentimentality aside, I’ve met few men who work as hard as Bill Andersen. He’s a Montana Hemingway — a hunter, fisher, builder, fixer; a drinker and a smoker. When he asked to go fight in Korea, his country told him he was too valuable fixing its airplanes to leave. When he finally retired from the railroad, the company hired three people to do his job. When he and my grandmother wanted a cabin on their mountain property, the two of them built one from the ground up.

So, as one of the wisest men I know (though he may never outwardly agree to that description, and I suspect that’s a key to his wisdom), I had to ask him: What’s he learned?

After raising three kids, committing to a fifty-year marriage, beating prostate cancer and surviving a career of using his hands and his mind, what’s the shortcut to bliss?

“The closer you get to the end of it all, the more you realize how inevitable it is you’re going to meet your maker,” he said. He didn’t say it somberly or with a laugh. He said it because I asked.

“Just appreciate the people around you. And learn to be happy with what’s around you.”

I’ve never thought it was bizarre or out of the ordinary that my grandfather and grandmother have frequented different churches. Bill is a Catholic with a capital C: Notre Dame football and St. Bernard’s mass on Wicks Lane. Judy often joined us at a nondenominational across town.

And that’s what I respect about him — the ability to carve out a long, ostensibly happy and fulfilling life of being himself.

This isn’t a eulogy. I expect and hope to have all of my grandparents around for a long time to come. Nor is this a journalistic representation of Bill Andersen as a person. He’s full of flaws, fears and failures like everyone else, and I wouldn’t be chosen to write his objective, tell-all biography.

But four score is more than I can imagine. More of everything; age, wisdom, integrity, respect. It doesn’t take one score and two years to recognize that. And I’ll consider myself lucky to have half of Bill Andersen’s perspective at 80 years old.

Until it was too dark to see

On a beautiful summer night like this one, even just four years ago, I’d be running around Edgerton Park with my best friends until it was literally too dark to see the football’s spiral. And if the score was tied, even that wouldn’t stop us. Some games would keep going, long after the streetlights would flicker on, long after the time our moms would yell us home when we were even younger.

Without exaggeration, my favorite place on Earth.

If we couldn’t get enough people for football (or Ultimate Frisbee during one vogue summer), we would play basketball, pounding the park’s asphalt with sweat and sometimes blood. Water breaks only happened when you had it in you to jog to the public rest area halfway across the park. Later, after one revolutionary discovery, we’d take the game to Alkali Creek, where the streetlights gave off enough light to afford us another game or two on the blacktop.

Throughout the day, the crowd would thin. Fourteen of us playing football at 2 p.m. would become 10 playing basketball by dinner — and not always the same 10. Maybe six would go the distance as the night cooled down, and the natural enemy shifted from the heat to the mosquitoes. But unless I had a full day of Edgerton exercise in me, going home always felt like a concession. It was so important to me to squeeze as much summer out of each day as I could.

I’ve said all this before, but right now I feel it stronger than usual. The Denver sky is the same midnight blue, and I know if I stepped outside I’d feel the familiar warmth of a fresh-baked day. But the working world has shuffled my priorities this summer, trading paydirt for paychecks, post routes and post-ups for The Post. Plus, with one knee redone and the other scheduled to join it, I don’t even know if I could run around for that long anymore.

But that doesn’t stop me from missing those balmy, brutal nights when the mark of a great day was feeling sore the next morning.

Lincoln logic: My top 5 takeaways from DJNF

While I still plan on getting around to writing about the rest of the speakers we heard from at last week’s Dow Jones News Fund meeting in Lincoln, Neb., I thought this would be a little more useful. And Emerald Publisher Ryan Frank wanted me to do it.

My top five takeaways from my ten days in America’s breadbasket. Some apply to reporters, some to copyeditors, others simply to the Renaissance Journalist we’re all told to be nowadays.

1. Learn the quirks of your beat
Yes, it sounds obvious. Why wouldn’t I get to know my beat? But especially in sports, traditionally fertile ground for unspoken traditions, rituals and rules, making an ignorant mistake can erode your credibility faster than you can say “Bob Mould.”

For instance, did you know female basketball players, especially in college, don’t list their weight on team sites? I didn’t. It makes sense, but for a new beat writer eager to run a story on the team’s new power forward, even bringing up her size could draw fire from readers. Personally, I think this is silly. If they want to play a game that values physical size and leverage to the degree basketball does, their weight shouldn’t be off-limits. But it is.

Revel in what makes your beat different.

2. The working relationship between copyeditors and reporters will deepen
For two job titles that famously don’t get along, there’s sure going to have to be a lot of cooperation in the future. One exercise we did with Penn State’s Malcolm Moran illustrated new ways copyeditors can help round out a story without stepping on any toes.

Here’s Alex Rodriguez in what you may remember to be one of the most confusing and obfuscating press conferences in sports history. Say you’re in the office, watching this on TV, while Jane Reporter is covering the presser. Moran had us text him questions we would send Jane to help round out her story.

With the rise of nano-second journalism, reporters are often asked to do too much. In a situation like this, where A-Rod’s handlers are preventing follow-up questions and letting him openly duck questions, it takes incredible focus to fight through the fog and find the story. Here were some of our “texts.”

***

“Hey, it’s Mike from the office. Watching the presser. Don’t wanna step on toes but has anyone asked him how many times he’s used steroids?”

(After a question in Spanish) “Hey, we translated that last question. This was his answer in English.”

“Do you need me to look up anything about his time with the Rangers? Here are some of his stats from when he was allegedly using.”

***

The A-Rod example is extreme because of its uniqueness. It was the only time he would sit down and listen to reporters. But the lesson is important regardless — there’s always more copyeditors can do to help ease the burden of immediacy on reporters’ shoulders.

3. Etiquette is everything
Scott Powers of the Hartford Courant underlined this many times. Use discretion with what you say in the newsroom. As the new guy or girl (who more than likely has been hired to fill multiple roles for less money), there may be some resentment toward you. With any luck, it won’t manifest itself and will fade as you prove yourself resourceful and responsible.

Until then, watch what you say, especially about writers or their pieces. Slog through the grunt work. Be conscious about managing your perception around the office, and don’t take anything for granted. As a copyeditor, don’t advertise your skills or the giant mistakes you corrected. Even if you are the hero (maybe especially if you are the hero), pointing that out yourself won’t get you anywhere.

4. Get good at Twitter
A few good examples of Twitter journalists: Scott Powers. Andy Carvin. Brian Windhorst.

They all have a few things in common. First, like the best news aggregation sites out there, they credit early and often. Retweets make this job easier, but the best Twitter journalists go out of their way to find pertinent information for their followers. Just as important, they tweet opposing viewpoints to paint the entire picture of an issue.

Remember to be human, too. It’s important to get the news out fast and often, but take the time to tweet about the baby ducks you saw crossing the street or the fantastic restaurant you just discovered. That builds a relatable connection to your followers and, Powers noted, earns trust and makes you more credible.

Just don’t take it too far. I’d say about 50 percent of my tweets have to do with sports to some degree. I’m a fan. I try not to be a homer. (That’s still a work in progress.) When I get to the point where some of these journalists are, I hope to be a little less self-serving.

Some more Twitter tips include separating your professional account from your personal,  and remaining engaged with your followers. Reply, reply, reply. That’s what makes Twitter so valuable — the open, two-way channel your stories in print don’t have.

Here’s more information on a topic that’s only going to become more important.

5. Be passionate — we’re not far off from where we want to be
I’ve seen, read and met some of the best student journalists in the country. And as special as they are, they aren’t miles ahead of anyone at the Emerald. We’re lucky to work in an environment so far ahead of the curve. Appreciate that.

You don’t need to know exactly the trajectory you want your career to have (if you did, I’d be in trouble), but know why you’re doing what you’re doing. Be able to articulate why you’re currently a reporter or a copyeditor or a photographer or a designer. Even if that reason is, “Well, I’m just trying to get somewhere else” — that’s okay. At least you know.

As Moran explained to us, we might never be able to write like W.C. Heinz, but we can be just as passionate.

Dow Jones News Fund, Pt. I

I don’t know how many parts this series will be. I want to share some of the journalism wisdom I’ve been lucky to have thrown at me during my 10-day internship residency in Lincoln, Neb. I hope you find some of this information as practical and valuable as I did.

***

I couldn’t help but lean forward on my elbows. I had to get as close to the action as I could. Sitting across from me was a journalism lifer, a woman who had devoted her career’s work since 1974 into an industry evolving beyond her recognition. She had started the day with pride and hope in her voice, but as her lecture dragged on, her cynicism stabbed through.

Now, she was retiring at 55. Earlier than she had perhaps thought, but the new way of doing business at her regional Midwest paper demanded more than she had left to give, and she planned to use the tired-but-tolerated excuse of spending more time with family to escape.

“When I go into work, I just think, ‘How can I get through tonight?’” she told us.

I’ll keep her name to myself because I appreciated her raw honesty. Too often we up-and-comers hear nothing but praise and opportunity from the old guard. They’re full of kind words, but it’s hard to believe them when you know they bear resentment — toward their industry for which they’ve sacrificed everything; toward us, bred as their digital-minded replacements; to their bosses for not stopping the financial hemorrhaging before it got this bad.

But here was refreshing honesty. Would you still be retiring if your paper wasn’t undergoing this massive change? I asked.

“No,” she said. “I would never tell them that because I don’t want to burn any bridges. But no, I wouldn’t. … I felt like I’ve hit this dead end in my job.”

Isn’t the truth good to finally hear?

She told us about design studios, how hubs of mass production are designing up to 20 different newspapers per night. Iowans are assembling papers read the next day across the country, from Louisiana to Minnesota. The streamlining should create jobs in design and cut costs across the board, but what will it do to a publication’s individuality? Or what happens when the placement of stories and photos isn’t agreed upon by the two sides of the process? We’re told those concerns don’t carry enough weight.

Copy desk payrolls are being decimated, and I use that term literally. More than ever, employees don’t feel they can complain about the increased workloads because, hey, at least they have workloads. And, she acknowledged, content quantity might be going up to meet online demands (perceived or otherwise), but content quality is suffering.

Doesn’t that hurt morale?

“There is no morale,” she said. “Everyone is working harder than they ever have. I’m doing the work of five people.”

Stories are going unedited due to time constraints. She figures she spends about 20 percent of her time as a copyeditor actually copy editing. The rest is coordination between online and print, catching up on content, etc.

I understand her frustration stems from the situation being out of her control. Corporate boardrooms are hunting for efficiencies and shortcuts in the process. Copy editors, the only workers I can think of whose proficiency and acknowledgment from the masses is arguably inversely proportional, fall by the wayside because they work hidden behind the curtain — even from some of their bosses.

To her credit, she remained upbeat. She smiled, laughed and joked, and even though her sarcasm sometimes bordered on the spiteful, her practical advice was absolutely useful. We all got actual practice time editing actual stories under fake deadlines. I can honestly say I feel more prepared for my internship after listening to her, and isn’t that all that matters?

So while I may never pay for a print subscription in my lifetime, and while I was constantly reminded of the bleak lyrics to Ben Folds’ “Fred Jones, Pt. II,” I still have hope for our future with print journalism.

Leaning forward on my elbows, I asked her the question I’d been turning over all afternoon.

If you could go back to 1990 and run a newspaper knowing what you know now, what would you do?

Silence answered me. Then, “I don’t know. I really don’t know. The Golden Age has just ended, and we didn’t even know it was here.”

And even though it wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear, I respected it because I believed that she believed it, and that’s all I could ask from her.

Don’t call it a comeback

My new friend and colleague Rebecca Dell has a point. I haven’t blogged much this year (read: I haven’t blogged this year). This isn’t because I haven’t been slogging through journalism; no, it’s pretty much the opposite. Too much has gone on it’s almost hard to get it out there. I realized today, as my residency here in Nebraska barrels on, that I needed to get some of this j-knowledge out there. If only just for me. So, Ms. Dell, I’ll get back to posting — if only so my blog is more updated than yours.

You never forget your first time

I felt like the luckiest man on the planet last Friday. There I was, in the press box at Autzen Stadium for the first time in my life, covering the Oregon Ducks in the first-ever Pac-12 Championship Game. It was surreal, satisfying, special and many other adjectives that don’t even start with S.

I got the email on Tuesday asking if I would be interested in covering the game. Since I didn’t have a ticket, this in itself was lucky. The rest of the week was pretty much over for me at that point. You’re telling me that I have to focus on Astronomy when I know that come Friday I’m going to be rubbing elbows with *gasp* real journalists watching my team play? Sorry, planetary nebulae.

Friday itself was a blur. I picked up my credentials and made sure that I was at Autzen as early as they would allow me. I don’t know how many time I’m going to be afforded this opportunity, and I wanted to soak as much of it up as possible.

The press pass felt like a skeleton key to another world… A world full of Marcus Allens and Gus Johnsons, full of free food and kegs of Ninkasi, full of LA Times writer Bill Plaschke (though to be fair, the dude can fill up a room).

[I'm really trying not to let blog post devolve into one self-indulgent boast, but I can't make promises. The only thing I can say is that I don't really think it's bragging when you're entirely aware of how blessed you are — I just want to share the experience.]

The game too was a blur, but then again it’s Oregon’s offense we’re talking about. I tried to write my piece as the game was wrapping up to speed along my whole process, but once I got onto the field at the end of the game, I realized that I wasn’t capturing the emotion at all.

My previous lede: For the second time in three years, the Oregon Ducks are headed the Rose Bowl.

Yeah, I know. Yawn.

That’s why my new lede goes for something more visceral. It was a crazy situation postgame. Players were getting gear stolen from them by souvenir-minded fans. Drunk college kids were basically molesting Chip trying to shake hands with him. It was insane.

Also — my first experience with press conferences. They’re a lot shorter than they seem, or at least this one was. Then there was the sprint back to the press box to finish and file my story. And then? It was over. I was gone. But I overheard Phil Knight say something to his friend as the press conference ended, and people were filing out into the Mo Center. With a rose in his hand, he looked over and said, “How about that? That was pretty neat.”

Couldn’t agree more, Uncle Phil.

Clips!

I’ve finally added a page for links to my work across the web.

So far, most of the stuff is just pieces I’ve written for the Emerald or the Pac-12, but hopefully as I continue to put my name out there and get more assignments, I can diversify the list a little bit.