Published by the Society
of Professional Journalists
voices
By Todd B. Natenberg
I never met Mike
Royko, but he played a significant role in my life.
When news first broke that the “greatest journalist in America” had a
stroke and was in critical condition, a chill ran up my spine.
I thought what
it would mean to me if Mike Royko died. I
didn’t prepare myself, though, because like so many, I believed that for Royko
beating mortality would be a snap considering all the controversial and
powerful, even dangerous, people he took on in his career as a daily newspaper
columnist in Chicago.
I was wrong.
Royko died on
April 29. he was 64.
Royko
represented a magical time in my life. He
was my time of innocence – when it was okay for me to be idealistic and want
to save the world. He symbolized a
time when I lived for today, but dreamed about tomorrow.
See, I use to be
a journalist. For five years, what
is now about one-fifth of my life, Mike Royko’s career was what I wanted to be
my destiny.
From the time I
first enrolled as a student at the University of Missouri – Columbia with
plans to pursue a newspaper career, I wanted to be a columnist.
In high school,
I was sports editor with a monthly column in the student newspaper.
At Mizzou, I wrote occasional sports columns and for a brief stint had a
column on the editorial pages in that student newspaper.
When I did not
have a regular column, in my spare time I wrote “Column – type” articles
for other publications. Those
articles often were first – person accounts designed to strike emotional
chords with readers.
I always tried
to pattern myself after Royko: I
combined sarcasm with humor and idealism with emotion.
I wanted people
to describe me as they did Royko upon his death – “He was plain and simple,
the greatest journalist in America.”
I always judged
my journalistic success on one thing, whether I would become the next Mike Royko.
In college, I
knew exactly what I wanted. Upon
graduation, I would be a summer intern at the Chicago Tribune, then be hired
full-time as a reporter and by the time I reached 30, with Mike Royko now
retired, I would assume my rightful spot as a syndicated columnist.
I dedicated myself to pursuing my dreams.
One day in 1994
with my career in full bloom at the Daily Herald in Arlington Heights, a Chicago
suburb, I sent articles to Royko with the traditional “I want to be like you.
What does it take. Can we have
lunch?” I soon realized I wasn’t
the first genius to come up with this idea.
I followed up
the letter with a phone call.
“Is Mike Royko
there?” a laugh, “ he’s kind of busy.
Can I help you?”
I explained I
was a 23-year-old reporter at the Daily Herald, had mailed him a letter with
articles for his review and that I wanted to talk to him.
The woman ON THE
other end laughed again. And
explained that he gets thousands of phone calls like mine.
She told me I was wasting my time.
“Well, that’s
fine,” I confidentially answered. “But
listen here, I am a reader and a professional journalist too. Please take down
my number and let him decide whether he would like to call me back.”
“Buddy,”
she said. “ He doesn’t
return Ted Koppel’s calls. You
think he is going to return yours.”
Click.
I was fuming.
Suddenly, Mike Royko was just another journalist to me.
Here I thought I was a young up-and-coming reporter looking to a
successful veteran for guidance and instead I got the phone slammed on me –
literally. Worse yet, his secretary
wouldn’t even take a message.
Who did this guy
think he was? Mike Royko.
Moments later,
when I thought about what I had just said allowed, I laughed.
Two weeks later,
though, I did receive a letter from Royko.
Although I know it was a form letter that many others also received, I
still have it framed. Since his
death, I often have reflected on it.
He “wrote”
that he frequently gets letters from people like me asking advice, proceeded to
tell his war story about his trials and tribulations at small papers, how
difficult journalism is and how you can’t bank on a career as a columnist.
“Good luck. I hope it
works out for you.”
No signature. No
Tribune letterhead.
I now realized
that it was the last good memory of my journalism career.
Six month later,
I left journalism, and except for a few brief periods, I haven’t looked back.
I sell
telecommunications services now.
When I first
left newspapers I as many others who have turned to business, thought I had sold
my soul. What happened to making a
difference, saving the world, I often asked myself.
I learned,
though that there were other ways.
I’m a “big
brother” in Chicago’s suburbs, and serve in local politics on a youth
commission. Somehow, as a reporter,
I never had the time, or worse, there often was a “conflict of interest.”
As for my new
job, I love it. In addition to
larger financial rewards, in my own way I believe I am indeed helping people.
I enjoy having customers. They
have become my friends and look to me for answers to their problems.
But most of all,
sales has enabled me to develop the attitude that makes me proud of who I am and
what I do.
I look forward
to going to work and tackling the day. The
cynicism I developed as a journalist has evolved into hope and optimism about
what tomorrow might bring.
Most of all, I
do not judge myself anymore on whether I will be the next Royko – or the next
Lee Iacocca.
I realized now
success must be measured within.
I reflect
sometimes in my brief journalism career -
more often since Royko died there were struggles and periods of
disillusionment, sure, but I have some terrific memories of those five years.
Still, I know that for me leaving the profession was the right thing to
do.
I have wondered
what it would be like if the Tribune were to hire me now at 27 to replace the
“Greatest journalist” in America. Would
I be happy?
In his 1994
letter, Royko said that if I wasn’t prepared to be happy in my career without
being a columnist, I shouldn’t even bother.
He was right –
and so was I.
Thanks, Royko. You meant more to me than you’ll ever know.
This article has been reproduced for Internet usage.