There can be no higher law in journalism than to tell the truth and to shame the devil. – Walter Lippmann
Most eras end with whimper, but this one ended with a loud thud.
My love affair with newspapers began in 1967 when my mother would arm me with two thin dimes and ship me off to Krinn’s Drugstore at Custer and Seward in south Evanston to pick up the afternoon editions of the Daily News and Chicago American. Then I’d run the three short blocks back to deliver them to my across-the-street grandmother who’d be sitting at her foldable living room card table playing solitaire.
She’d swiftly turn the Daily News to page three and we’d read Mike Royko together, me intently leaning in over her left shoulder. Until he died in 1997, I’d subscribe to whatever paper carried the Great One’s columns.
It was when Mike so eloquently about his love for the dying Daily News newsroom in 1978 that I decided I wanted to be an opinion columnist who worked with a crack team of reporters and editors. But because dreams didn’t come true in the Ward household, I never actively pursued that goal.
It’s one of my biggest regrets.
It wasn’t until a 2006 email to a Kane County Chronicle editor, no less, that I blundered into a gig with the Sun-Times owned Tri-City Suns. That would lead to that same page three spot in the Sunday Beacon-News a few years later. But the best part of that deal was getting to work with stellar reporters like Dan Campana, Paul Dailing, Heather Gillers, and Matt Hanley, topped off with great editors like Dave Perro, Rick Nagel, Cynthia Goldberg, Paul Harth, Mike Cetera, Tim West, and John Russell.
Sadly, my propensity for poor timing ensured those good times wouldn’t last. You see, I was foolish enough to sign on as a columnist the year before the print media depression hit and my “reward” for that tardiness was to helplessly watch that talent fade away on a daily basis. I must’ve reported to at least eleven different editors during my eight-year tenure with the Sun-Times.
But there was one constant in all of that chaos – city editor John Russell – who somehow managed to survive the turmoil for 38 incredible years. That comes out to about 2,463 in regular folks’ years.
I’d love to be able to wax poetically about how John and I were close, that we had regular conversations, how he eagerly offered his journalistic pearls of wisdom, and that we’d meet for drinks at the Aurora equivalent of the Billy Goat Tavern, but none of it would be true. John and I might’ve shaken hands two or three times total. We barely discussed journalism in the course of our rare short conversations. And we never spoke after the Sun-Times unceremoniously dumped him in 2013.
When I went back to our 2008 to 2012 emails, they pretty much consisted of me sending in my weekly column, and the only time he’d respond was when I routinely forgot to attach the file.
It’s what didn’t transpire between us that I’ll always remember.
John was infamous for his propensity to define a reporter’s shortcomings in graphic detail, but I was never the beneficiary of a legendary dressing down. John had very specific opinions about what journalism was and wasn’t, yet he never complained about a single one of my columns. He never forced me into any last-minute rewrites, a favorite tactic of one editor who desperately wanted me to quit.
In the end, John was nothing but cordial and supportive, despite my presence being perceived as an interloper by many of the newsroom inhabitants.
Of all the editors you’d think I would’ve ended up squaring off against in an epic cage match, John Russell wasn’t one of them. In fact, he was just about the only one who wasn’t one of them! The bottom line was, if John Russell wanted me gone, then that’s exactly what would’ve happened.
I suppose those omissions could be attributed to my general freelancer inconsequentiality, but since John had no issue letting you know where you stood, I choose to believe that he appreciated my approach, work ethic, determination to get the story, and on occasion, being able to successfully string more than two sentences together.
We shared the same no-holds-barred approach to the calling called journalism and John simply let me do my thing. That’s a truly rare gift when you have a tendency to embrace the truth regardless of the consequences.
It may well be the best professional compliment I’ve ever received.
The only real conversation John and I ever had took place immediately after he was laid off. I called to let him know just how much that move sucked and how much Sun-Times corporate sucked more for letting someone of his caliber go. He thanked me for my thoughts, but as was always the case, he didn’t have much to say.
I asked him what he might do next and he said he wasn’t sure. I could tell it hurt to have to endure such an ignominious ending after 38 years of dedication, but it was equally clear he’d long since reconciled himself to the inevitability of that day.
That was the first and last time John and I ever really talked, and that will remain the case because the great city editor died in his Rogers Park home this month at the too-young age of 72. His passing signals the end of a newsroom era the glorious likes of which will never be seen again.
But even though that’s the case, at least I can say that dreams do come true, because for a great deal of my short suburban Sun-Times life, I got to work with some of the best reporters and editors on the planet, and they didn’t come any better than John Russell. Whether he was a willing participant in my delusions of grandeur or he simply tolerated them, I’ll always appreciate John for his integral role in making that reality come true.
Godspeed my friend.
Author’s note:
The photo adjoining this column shows Mayor Irvin proclaiming John Russell Day in Aurora.
