Reusse: Before dot-com, it was make print or punt; deadlines generated stories of their own

There are deadline moments that will stick with an old newspaper combatant endlessly. A career-long favorite occurred late on the night of Nov. 19, 1965, and yes, it did involve Sid Hartman.

I was in my third year as a copy boy in the Minneapolis Morning Tribune’s sports department, and thus had enough familiarity to be a go-to for Sid’s more improbable tasks.

It was nearing 11 p.m., and Sid had been at the Gophers’ Friday night gathering of media, select boosters and athletic department employees that preceded home football games — in this case, Minnesota vs. Wisconsin in the season finale.

Sid handed me one of his hunks of paper with the names of “Paul Klungness” and a New Jersey hotel scribbled on it. “This kid is from Thief River [Falls], he plays for Dartmouth, and the team is at that hotel; call there and ring his room.” he said.

I said: “Sid. It’s midnight in New Jersey. They aren’t waking up a Dartmouth player at midnight before he plays for the Ivy League championship.”

Sid’s response: “Just do it.”

I got the hotel operator. She basically told me I was nuts in asking for a player’s room. Informed of this, Sid said, “Give me the phone,” and he harangued the operator until she agreed to ring the room of Bob Blackman, the Dartmouth coach.

And through great coercing, Sid was able to get a couple of quotes from the hard-nosed Dartmouth coach on Klungness and get an item on an Ivy League showdown with Princeton in the latest edition.

Five weeks later, I started as a sports reporter for the Duluth News Tribune and Herald, and the battles to make morning print deadlines became more personal. There was one that was close to life-threatening.

I was covering a high school game being played up on the hill at Minnesota Duluth. As the game was being played, rain was turning to ice and then to snow outside. I had a bad car with cheap tires.

The newspaper building was up the hill a bit from the main drag. I had to get back there to write the game story. By now, there was very little traffic because of the ice. I was trying to ease the beater down the hill … going 10 mph tops.

No matter. The car slid past the newspaper building, slid past the parking area, slid all the way down to Superior Street. I walked back up the hill, clutching notes, went into the office, and the other Sid — Peterson, Duluth’s grand old slot man — said: “Where have you been? We need that story quick.”

Print deadlines. That was the game, folks, and I loved the contest — even when the deadlines defeated you.

Even covering a first World Series in 1981, in Yankee Stadium, in a booth next to the main press box (with Red Smith on your left) — and when a new message was put on the scoreboard, that awful Texas Instrument machine you were using started to send out characters crazily and you had to delete those before resuming the narrative.

Even covering the Cleveland-Florida Marlins World Series in 1997, and your computer started overheating for Games 6 and 7. Fortunately, the auxiliary press box was in what was normally a food area for Dolphins (NFL) games, and there was a walk-in freezer where you could take the computer to cool down for a few minutes — admittedly, not optimum for capturing the sad Jose Mesa drama for Cleveland in Game 7.

A few more great moments in making print deadlines, when it was basically that or nothing:

1. Sept. 20, 1969. Ken Murphy, Pioneer Press sports editor and Gophers beat reporter, has sent Bob Fowler to cover the night game between the Gophers and high-flying, still-in-the-WAC Arizona State. The game is going on forever. I’m taking Fowler’s late updates by dictation.

Murphy is bellowing, “I need that copy.” I’m waiting for the game and Fowler to finish.

Finally, Murph is poking at me with his lit cigar and trying to pull the copy out of the typewriter. I’m pushing at him with my left arm: “Wait, wait, Murph. … OK, here it is."

Arizona State 48-26. Pioneer Press had a big run then, and we made several thousand papers.

2. Another late Saturday night at Pioneer Press. News side reporter Buzz Bissinger is working on a late-breaking story. Wayne Wangstad, so cranky we loved him, city editor for the night, hollers: “Where’s that ******* story, Bissinger?” Bissinger hollers in return: “What do you think I’m doing back here, ******?” To which Wangstad responds: “I’m going to come back there and pinch your head off.”

Thankfully, it was an idle threat, or Buzz would never have given us “Friday Night Lights.”

3. Oct. 25-26, 1986. Dave Henderson’s home run struck near the big clock next to the left field line in Shea Stadium at 11:59 p.m. The Red Sox are now on the verge of winning their first World Series since 1918. I’m in the press box, the internet age is not upon us, and I call the Pioneer Press library, staffed late in those days, and say, “Quick. Give me the details of Paul Revere’s midnight ride.”

A couple of minutes later, I say, “Thanks,” and write a lede on the second most famous midnight journey in New England history … “One if by Land, Two if by Hendu,” whatever, it was a terrific first few graphs. And nobody can argue, because I’m the only one who ever saw them.

4. Oct. 26, 1991. Charlie Leibrandt throws his changeup, Kirby Puckett hits his home run, and there will be a seventh game of the World Series vs. the Braves in the Metrodome. The Star Tribune presses are running. We’re trying to get the copy in time for the stop that will take place, however briefly. And then from the interview room, as we’re cranking in the press box, we hear over the intercom Jack Morris being asked his thoughts on getting this chance to pitch Game 7.

To which Morris responds: “In the words of the late, great Marvin Gaye, ‘Let’s get it on.’ ”

Jack, you magnificent son of a gun.

5. Many Friday and Saturday nights on the Pioneer Press sports desk in the 1970s, when we would handle the early copy and there was a break before the high school and state college calls would start to come in, and we were mostly drinkers back then, and it was my duty to announce to whatever sports staff was around:

“Gentlemen. It is time for the Pre-Crush Cocktail.”

And across the street to Luigi’s we would go, to get into a proper spirit to handle those late-night print deadlines that were things of dispute, tension and wonder.

I mean, you haven’t seen all there is to see in this newspaper world if you did not witness Sid successfully plead with a hotel operator to put him through to an Ivy League football coach after midnight on the day of the big game — all in the search for one more note.