Thirty-five years ago this fall, I was a 15-year-old suburban kid dreaming of being a sports editor some day. At the Elk Grove Town Crier, a tiny bi-weekly rustled together by enterprising neighbors, I begged my way onto the staff as a volunteer covering high school sports.
Somebody there knew Jerome Holtzman and asked if I would like to meet him and get a few tips. Would I? A few nights later, there he sat in someone’s living room in Elk Grove Village, a big-time sportswriter. I was dumbstruck but had enough presence to take notes. He taught me how to cover basketball for the purpose of a story rather than just a box score, advised me on interviewing, getting to heart of a story, finding a voice.
I’m grateful for his counsel and encouragement that night. I became a sports editor, a magazine editor, a book publishing executive, and now write books fulltime. I also write the syndicated “Gil Thorp” comic strip.
Hall of Fame baseball writer Jerome Holtzman wouldn’t remember me or that night in a million years. I’ll never forget it.
