My name is Henry Schulman, and I was fortunate to enjoy a 40-year career as a news and sports reporter, including 33 years covering Major League Baseball for the Oakland Tribune, San Francisco Examiner and San Francisco Chronicle until my retirement in January, 2021. I hope you enjoy these thoughts and tales and share your comments after reading.
Thursday, October 14, 2021
Ever want to get travel advice from a bored former baseball beat writer? Well, blackjack! Here are 21 tips on air travel, hotels, rental cars and ground transport
Tuesday, August 31, 2021
Ed Asner, "Lou Grant," and my early-career taste of "The Front Page" era of newspaper journalism
The TV show "Lou Grant" did not push me toward newspapers. By the time it debuted on Sept. 20, 1977, I had just started college pointed in that direction. But you can bet I watched all five seasons, and again in reruns, as I hoped to launch my career.
The show bore some realism, aside from the literary requirement that two reporters and one photographer do all the important work at a major Los Angeles metro. This wasn't "Love Boat," where a revolving cast of guest stars could grab pen and notebook each week.
I can't remember if I wanted to be Joe Rossi or Billie Newman, although I did have a crush on one of them.
Ed Asner's recent death got me nostalgic for the days I watched him as the editor Lou Grant. The show depicted a newsroom that soon would die, not that anybody knew it at the time. The Internet soon killed classified ads, a newspaper life blood, sending an entire industry down a sinkhole.
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| Robert Walden and Ed Asner in "Lou Grant." |
As a newspaperman, I deeply felt the crumbling of print journalism, although I came to appreciate how change was necessary on so many levels.
The fictional Los Angeles Tribune newsroom led by Lou Grant mirrored most real ones around the country. It was very white and very male. Now cringeworthy, to be honest.
Although newspapers and online publications still have miles to go to create staffs that mirror an increasingly diverse population, many are making an effort. Hiring journalists of color and members of the LGBTQ community can only help raise the sagging -- some would say depressed -- level of trust that the public has in the media.
That said, I am grateful I was able to start my career at the tail end of what I describe as "The Front Page" era, referencing a farcical play about newspaper reporters that was written in the 1920s and subsequently adapted into a variety of movies. Most of you probably remember the Walter Matthau-Jack Lemmon version from 1974.
My first daily-newspaper editor was Lou Grant personified -- not the version from the eponymous drama, but from "The Mary Tyler Moore Show."
B.W. was a middle-aged, balding, roly-poly graduate of a major metro newspaper who covered the Mafia then settled into a career at small papers helping young reporters make their way in the craft. Bob was also a cliché.
He always had a bottle of cheap whiskey in one of his desk drawers and invited reporters into his office for a daytime belt. He said and did other things that would get him fired in half a minute today. While interviewing young women for reporting jobs, B.W. would sometimes emerge from his office, which had glass windows, to comment on their physical appearance.
B.W. also conducted a lot of business from a barstool at a nearby bar, which also would not go over well in 2021.
It's easy to look back and see how wrong all this was, but I'd be lying if I denied that working for B.W. was a load of fun for a newbie in his 20s.
A couple of years later I went to the Oakland Tribune, which had a newsroom stuffed with oak furniture that would have been state-of-the-art in the 1920s. It also maintained old-fashioned wire machines that made a constant clickety-clack noise while spitting out stories on a continuous roll of paper, which copy clerks ripped out of the machine to distribute to editors. When a major story broke, the machine would ding four times.
Diversity was not an issue at the Tribune, which was owned by a Black man, Robert Maynard, and had a staff of editors and writers that looked more like its community. But it still had its share of old-timers, some crusty, some not.
I sat aside a reporter named Bill Eaton, a soft-spoken man in his 60s who captivated me with stories about his airplane and flying and always had a supply of grape Bubble Yum that he shared liberally. Bill died of a heart attack ishortly after remarrying, which saddened me immensely.
Not long after, the Tribune made me a baseball writer. That essentially ended my days of working inside newsrooms.
Nostalgia is quite the hallucinogen. It can create euphoric memories while blocking our ability to reason that things can be much better today. It's OK now and then to be Abe Simpson yelling at clouds as long as you don't go on about how much bigger and fluffier the clouds were 50 years ago.
Ed Asner was a great actor and "Lou Grant" was a great show. And I'm grateful I got a taste of the newsroom life that he and the show depicted before it disappeared into a 21st century that demanded more equality and diverse thoughout.
Today we have newsrooms real and virtual that pump out copy from a diverse array of people that we could not have foreseen 40 years ago. A lot of it is crap; more of it is very good.
I just hope that 40 years hence today's young reporters can say that journalism got a lot better during their career spans, as it did mine, and that the cynical distrust of earnest people who carry pens, notebooks and cameras will have disappeared into the ether as well.
--30--
Friday, April 2, 2021
On senior discounts, our screwed-up society and reaching an inevitable nexus
At a Noah's this morning, the kid behind the counter gave me an unsolicited 10 percent senior discount on my bagel sandwich. The clichéd response would have been indignation, a harrumph and a demand to see the manager.
Not here. I was like, "Score! That's 60 more cents to toss into my Hair Club for Men fund."
Bring it on, corporate America. Dear landlord, if you're reading this, how about 10 percent off my rent? Hey, Artichoke Joe's. Gimme $100 in chips for $90. I'm old. I've earned it."
People tell me I look younger than 60, but the Noah's clerk can be excused. I was unshaven, and had just finished a two-mile power walk and desperately needed to pee. Maybe the last thing that got me the discount. With apologies to Simon and Garfunkle, the senior-citizen theme song could be, "Hello bathroom my old friend."
I don't feel 60, whatever that's supposed to feel like. I've dropped nearly 20 pounds post-retirement and resumed a regular walking regimen. Fitness seems like a common-sense priority for anyone who alights from the figurative treadmill of the daily work grind, not just to potentially extend life, but to make retirement pursuits more enjoyable.
Still, turning 60 hit me harder than 50 did, and more mentally than physically.
You do the math and realize how much of your life has passed compared to how much remains. The temptation to brood over mortality sometimes overpowers your gratitude and mantra that every year after surviving cancer is a gift.
The despair of moving into my seventh decade is really not a function of the ever-louder TICK TICK TICK of life's clock, however. Most of the time I am blessed with the perspective that comes with good health -- physical and financial -- and the zen of the unrelenting cycle of life and death that comes to all beings, planets and galaxies.
We all die. You'd have to have quite an ego to take it personally.
It took me awhile to divine the true source of the intermittent despair. It has everything to do with my second-favorite topic beyond baseball -- politics.
We white, straight males have enjoyed a privilege of ignorance, sheltered from the breadth of the racism, misogyny, sexism and anti-gay hatred that still make life miserable for so many Americans. That ended with Barack Obama's ascent to the presidency in 2009, for it smoked out all the creepy-crawlies who felt aggrieved by the maturity this country showed in moving forward.
By the time Donald Trump befouled 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. in 2017, the state of America had become all too clear. On Jan. 6, 2021, when the nation survived a white-supremacist coup attempt, nobody could deny how backwards we have gone.
Therein lies the nexus with my impending senior-citizenry.
I know our society is fucked up. I know it will be repaired. But the realization that I won't live to see it hit me like a Wile E. Coyote anvil to the head.
Granted, this is selfish. Working to improve life for the next generation is our sacred duty, right? Designing and laying the foundation for a beautiful building should be just as rewarding as seeing it gleam in the skyline, no?
But I still wonder how Gaudi felt when he knew he would never see a Sunday service in his masterpiece, the Sagrada Familia. Was he OK with that? Saddened?
The pursuit of instant gratification is ignoble, but difficult to shake just the same.
We who will not live to see the society we idealize have a recourse. We can get off our butts and do what we can to accelerate the process. Now, in retirement, I hope to find my way there. My initial weapon is social media, saying what's on my mind and hoping I can make at least one person think.
You can help us, youngsters. Keep feeding us bagels at 10 percent off so we have the energy to help enrich your lives down the road.
Saturday, March 20, 2021
Time for my first post-retirement mailbag!
I miss doing mailbags now that I'm retired from covering the Giants, so I asked my Twitter followers to send me questions about anything not related to the 2021 Giants, whom former colleague Susan Slusser are covering so well.
I got a lot of questions about my 30 years on the beat, especially food and travel. I answered a bunch, starting with a question from former beat-mate Kerry Crowley.
Q: @ko_crowley: What's your ideal three-city, National League road trip? On a newspaper budget, which hotels would you stay at and what bars/restaurants would you visit?
A: On your newspaper's budget? Does Motel 6 have a loyalty program?
I kid. I kid.
I've gotten this question a lot, usually not from overachieving Gen-Zers with bad haircuts, but Kerry's question had no spelling errors so I picked it to bat leadoff.
I would go with New York, Chicago, San Diego. The first two should be obvious. These are two of the world's great cities, alive with people, great places to eat and drink (back in the days when one could do that) and in Chicago, of course, Wrigley Field. I went there dozens of times, and the awe and mystique of being there never disappeared.
San Diego is a terrific city and perhaps the only place I'd settle if I chose to leave the Bay Area. The baseball vibe around Petco Park is almost Wrigley-like. The Gaslamp Quarter houses all sorts of food and drink. An abundance of young folks make it vibrant, especially on weekends.
As for hotels and food/drink:
New York: Unfortunately, my two favorite haunts (Foley's, Finnerty's) are no more. Trying to pick one bar or restaurant in this city is challenging. If I were there for one night, I'd dine at La Nonna in Little Italy because it offers the menu of now-closed Pellegrino's next door. Amazing Italian cuisine, and Mulberry Street is a trip back in time. I don't have a favorite hotel in New York, but I like staying in Chelsea. Good neighborhood and central.
Chicago: Lou Malnati's for pizza. You'll thank me. The Lodge is a small bar on Division Street that used to be a big player/coach/writer hangout and still has a unique vibe (and great jukebox) for those who want to escape the thump-thump-thump of the bigger places in on Division. And at least once you have to go to the Billy Goat Tavern, the inspiration for John Belushi's "cheezborger, chips, Pepsi" skit on Saturday Night Live. I like staying in the North River section.
San Diego: Cafe Sevilla in the Gaslamp is an amazing tapas place with a great wine selection. If you ever meet Kerry, ask him about the time he almost called an ambulance for me there. I like the Hilton Gaslamp hotel, a short walk from the ballpark with a nice, understated Italian place around the corner (Toscana) that has good breakfast and coffee in the morning.
Q: @alexsensei: Any good stories about the crazy travel schedule for beat writers?
A: Craziest day was Game 162 in Denver in 1998. The Giants rose that day unsure if they would fly to Atlanta to start the National League Division Series, Chicago or New York for a one-game play-in or home after being eliminated.
It came down to the Giants-Rockies, Cubs-Astros and Mets-Braves games because the Giants and Cubs opened the day tied at 89-72 for what then was a lone National League wild card. The Mets were a longer shot at 88-73.
And we all had to fly that night to get to New York or Chicago, or the day after for Atlanta, and really spent most of the day ignoring the Giants-Rockies games with our heads buried in airline websites.
Newspapers do not like to pay day-of-flight rates, so we all used every ounce of our sneakiness and knowledge of flaws in airline ticketing conventions to buy flights for every city. (The airlines have long since gotten wise and now use website algorithms to prevent such shenanigans.)
We lucked out when the Mets fell behind early and it was clear they'd be eliminated, so New York was out. Naturally, though, our game in Denver and Cubs-Astros in Houston were nuts, and with every twist and turn at Coors Field or the Astrodome we'd be yelling, "We're going to Chicago!" "We're going to Atlanta!" "We're going home!"
When the Giants took a 7-0 lead in the fifth inning it became clear that we were going to Atlanta for the Division Series -- until the Rockies came back for six in the bottom half. The racking of press box nerves intensified as our game moved into the ninth inning at 8-8 and Cubs-Astros spun into extras at 3-3.
At the very moment Neifi Perez homered off Robb Nen in Denver to beat the Giants 9-8, the Astros scored a run in the 11th off former Giants closer Rod Beck to bet the Cubs, which meant a one-game playoff at Wrigley Field.
Beck saved that one, and the Giants were eliminated.
I had much worse travel days, but none as nuts.
Q: @milesdividendmd: Ted Cruz: Love him or adore him?
A: He makes me laugh every time I see him because....
Wait, I thought you asked about Ted Lasso.
Ted Cruz is a hump.
Q: @almajir: What do you miss the least about covering baseball?
A: Zoom group interviews and the lack of personal interaction with players. But since that is temporary, I have a broader answer.
I won't miss the silly "who tweeted it first?" race that has become a cottage sub-genre of sportswriting. Scoops are now measured in seconds. You'll often see a "so-and-so has signed with the this or that team, I have learned" 30 seconds before the team announces it to everyone.
When Twitter arrived, we on the beat tried to add a measure of civility to the pregame manager interviews by asking reporters not to tweet news such as injuries and lineup changes until the group session was done, because it seemed rude to make the skipper talk finish his answer while staring at 20 reporters typing into their phones.
The only time I remember breaking the rule was when Bruce Bochy announced his retirement. We all did. After a while I gave up caring because there was no way to stop this rudeness.
Fortunately, my editors at The Chronicle realized good sportswriting was not about who tweeted first, but the follow-up reporting and analysis that added important perspective.
Q: @seharmon: What do you miss most about being on the beat?
A: The flip side to the previous question has an easy answer. I miss the press-box camaraderie with fellow scribes and talking ball in the dugout during batting practice with whatever baseball folk happened by.
In a press box, you laugh more in one night than most people do in a month at other jobs. I never took that for granted. Now, I have to laugh at Kerry's haircuts remotely.
Q: @kelly7552: Have you ever had an uncomfortable experience as a Jewish sportswriter?
A: Nah. The pain from the circumcision was gone by the time I covered my first game.
Seriously, though, no. I can't remember any issue like that.
Q: @gingerkid1616: Do you think it’s fair that some players who accomplished more in let’s say 5-6 years of their career than most ever do or take 15-20 years to accomplish are not voted into HOF because they didn’t have 10-15 good years due to injury etc...?
A: I love this question because it underscores how ball writers, like any electorate, travel many routes to arrive at their ballots.
I probably land in a minority who believe that anyone who impacted the game in a major way regardless of stats should qualify, which is why I voted for Tommy John every year. When you volunteer to be a guinea pig for a radical surgery that would change the game so radically, you deserve a plaque.
John won 288 games but earned what I view is a silly epithet as a "compiler," whose stats are less valued because he gathered them over such a long career. But Jesus, if you can pitch for 26 seasons bisected by an experimental elbow rebuild now eponymous, they should create a Hall of Fame around you.
As to the question, Sandy Koufax was elected on the first ballot after six remarkable seasons that followed six that were "meh." So there is a precedent. But nowadays most voters want to see at least 10 years of greatness. Without that they land in the "Hall of Very Good."
I feel the Hall has room for six great years and 26 steady ones.
Q: @gillee: Is there an embarrassing @extrabaggs story you are hoping to pay him back with?
A: Do I have stories?
Absolutely.
Can I ever tell them?
No.
Andy has something on me that he and I term the "nuclear option," great for blackmail. Why do you think I'm always ripping on Kerry instead?
OK, I'd probably do that anyway.
Q: @grobbex2: Bonds vs. Kent dugout fight. Anything you can tell us we don't already know?
A: After the game, Barry Bonds bolted from the tiny clubhouse at Jack Murphy Stadium as if the place were on fire. But Jeff Kent stood by his locker waiting for us. He was smart. He knew that with Bonds gone he owned the narrative. David Bell, the subject of the fight, wouldn't talk.
Kent did the writers another huge favor. He refused to talk until the television cameras left. I don't know why he did that, but we hated the TV cameras because the stations often sent them without reporters, so they would collect video based on our questions. They were enjoying the fruits of our work.
At first they wouldn't leave, and here's the part none of us will forget.
The Giants had a young media-relations guy named Matt Hodson (now with the Twins), His bosses felt this would be a nice, easy assignment for a newbie to go on his first solo trip. It lasted just three days in San Diego. What could happen?
Then, of course, the 2000 and 2001 National League Most Valuable Players went at it in the dugout, a fracas shown on TV.
"Hoddie" became an animal. He started screaming at the TV guys when they wouldn't back away from Kent's locker. "You heard him! Back off!" They tried to sneak video and audio from the other side of the clubhouse, but Hoddie drove them off.
We learned, of course, that Bonds was actually the "good guy" in the fight protecting Bell from Kent's haranguing over a defensive play on the field.
SOME QUICKIES
@RayHorwath1: Do you prefer the Oh Henry candy bar to a Baby Ruth?
Baby Ruth by a mile. I don't like Oh Henrys.
@margiehmb: When it is all safe again to travel, where's the first place you'll go out of state? Out of country?
Maui, then Italy. I blame Stanley Tucci for the latter.
@SamTass: Do you plan on ever taking road trips to attend baseball games now in retirement?
Yes, maybe even San Diego and Denver in September -- leisure only.
@be_a_backstop: How many rental bikes/scooters lying on the middle of the sidewalk have you thrown into the bay?
Moi? That's not ecologically correct. Next mailbag, ask me how many I lifted off the sidewalk or wheelchair curb cuts and tossed them into bushes.
@gmanderson88: Any substance to the rumor that you are practicing trombone in preparation for joining your high school bandmates on a reunion tour, maybe play another Super Bowl?
No, I live in an apartment building and some of the neighbors own guns. As for the Super Bowl, Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars have my contact info.
ENDO
