Newspaper Racket? It’s Not Always a Pretty Story

Movies and television shows always make newspaper work seem like more fun than it actually is.

On the big screen, there is high drama--if the theme is serious. Or there are high jinks--if the theme is comical. Either way, the viewer is left with the feeling that those people in the newspaper business really have interesting lives.

People like me, who’ve been in the newspaper business for more than 25 years, know the real truth. Journalism, on most days, is anything but high drama and high jinks. And journalists themselves sometimes feel more like assembly line workers than amusing sitcom characters.

Occasionally, however, a Hollywood-style episode happens in the newsroom. Sometimes there really is high drama or high comedy. And sometimes drama and comedy merge--such as on the day that President George Bush unexpectedly decided to play a little tennis in Orange County.

It was Friday, April 5. I arrived at my reporter’s desk that morning a bit earlier than usual--most seasoned reporters know that arriving early most assuredly means a dismal assignment--and was greeted by a morning assignment editor looking like a man facing the electric chair.

“Bill,” he said, “the President is out there, somewhere, playing tennis. I don’t know how we’ve lost track of him. We don’t know where he is. He may be at the Balboa Bay Club. Grab a company car with a telephone in it and see if you can find him. Call me from the car.”

The President had come to Newport Beach the previous day for a meeting with Japanese Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu. Political insiders had broadly hinted that if Bush took any time off, it would be to play golf. No one had mentioned tennis.

I got into one of the company’s aging fleet cars and headed off toward the Balboa Bay Club on Newport Bay. As I drove, I tried to get in touch with the assignment editor via the car telephone. The phone sputtered a few high-pitched notes, then died. I swore.

While working the dying telephone, I drove south on Fairview and onto Newport Boulevard. Another mistake. Within seconds, I was trapped in a single-lane traffic tie-up caused by the endless construction work on the Costa Mesa Freeway. I swore again.

Hours later--or so it seemed--I arrived at the Balboa Bay Club. “No, the President’s not here,” said a guard at the gate. “But our tennis courts are not here. They’re down Coast Highway, closer to Fashion Island.”

After another frantic drive, I arrived at the Balboa Racquet Club. And pay dirt. Police officers were everywhere. I knew the President had to be nearby.

I put on a distraught face--which was easy enough, given the bad experiences of the day. “I’ve got to find where President Bush is playing!” I said. “My job depends on it!”

A kindly woman took pity on me. “Well, the President’s in there, on the court, playing tennis right now,” she said. “Maybe you can look through the fence.”

She walked me by several official-looking types in suits. Soon I was standing by a fence, with a group of about 10 racquet club members who were peering under the canvas cover, watching the President play. I started taking notes.

A stone-faced White House staffer suddenly appeared by my side. “You’ll have to leave. Right now,” said the staffer. The staffer made sure I was escorted back to the parking lot.

The kindly lady in the parking lot--I never got her name--again took pity on me. “Let’s try one more time,” she said, and she escorted me back into the tennis area.

This time the White House staff gave up. I stayed for an hour by the fence, until the President’s game was over, watching him play and taking notes and collecting quotes from the awed spectators. I was the only reporter who got to watch the game or interview the spectators.

The feature story on the President’s day on the courts was fun to write, but I was to find that my troubles were not over. In my story I noted that some of the spectators were lying on the ground, watching the President play. Somewhere in the editing process, the verb was incorrectly changed to read that people were laying down. And that’s how the story was printed.

I have since received a flurry of mail from Times readers scolding me for grammatical ignorance. I complained to my editors about taking a bum rap, but their only response was that such little mistakes happen.

“Serves you right for coming in early that day,” commented one of my reporter colleagues.