Press Box
WHENEVER I saw veteran reporter Ferd Borsch walk out of the Advertiser building or up the steps at Rainbow Stadium, my greeting was, "When I grow up, I want to be just like you." From the beat
(with butter)
to the top seatThe idea of evolving into a 60-something beat writer who had somehow sidestepped all the cynicism this business brings appealed to the 20-year-old still in me. Most of us working in the word factory begin as reporters. Along the way we become copy editors, page designers, columnists, assistants of some kind or another and even heads of departments.
Not Borsch.
He kept walking the beat, knowing full well that a bad day at the ballpark was better than a good day in the office anytime. He has covered a zillion baseball games, ranging from the majors to Little League, embracing the national pastime every step of the way.
He said the game was perfect. It could conceivably have no end, true. But don't you see? That's the beauty of it. If you wanted to get him riled, you could ask why it's called a foul pole if it's in fair territory or why should a pitcher's ERA benefit if he commits a fielding error.
I once told him I thought the designated hitter was the greatest amendment to the game and he responded with one of his stern lectures that often began, "Just what were you thinking?"
These dissertations rarely lasted more than an inning or two and often ended with how good popcorn is when swimming in butter. Maybe you had to be there. I was, for 100 or so University of Hawaii baseball games, and am a better man for it.
"WHAT ARE YOU brooding about now?" my wife asked after catching me in this prolonged daydream. I told her all the things I would miss from no longer pounding the beat and all the fun I was leaving behind to join a team called middle management. She dismissed it with the wave of her hand and said, "Honey, you can't be a little boy forever."
Two days later, I was named sports editor of the Star-Bulletin and wondered what Mr. Borsch would think when he heard the news. If there was one thing we agreed upon all those days and nights at the ball yard it was never trust anyone wearing a suit.
Fortunately, I don't have one, or at least not one that fits. My pad and pencil may go, my recorder retired, but the hat and jeans stay, even indoors. It's in my contract, or would be, if I had one. Right now, I'm learning how to go to meetings, plan the news before it happens, assign paddling photographs and memorize another computer system, something Ferd would frown upon.
He once spilled a soft drink on an old Radio Shack computer and wondered why it wouldn't work afterward. He was almost indignant because an old Royal typewriter would have taken the chemical spill in stride.
"Hey grandpa," my wife commanded, breaking my reverie once again. "Tell me about the good old days."
I did. For maybe an inning or two. Then I thought of Ferd and swimming in butter. And knowing what he would say the next time I saw him: "Just what were you thinking?"
"Press Box" rotates among the Star-Bulletin staff
and appears every Sunday. Paul Arnett can be
reached at parnett@starbulletin.com