In the summer of 2006, I’d just started as the editor of the Page 2 project at the Topeka Capital-Journal. For a 30-year-old, it was an awesome opportunity. The brainchild of publisher Mark Nusbaum, the second page of the news and sports section was to feature fresh, edgy content every day.
What I remember about that gig is how difficult it was. It required a ton of creativity, a ton of planning and a ton of work. I also remember often thinking, “I’m not doing this as well as I thought I was going to, and this is nowhere near ‘edgy.’” Such is life. As difficult as it was at times, though, it was different, challenging and fun.
A few days after we launched the project, the paper’s executive editor, Pete Goering, stopped by my desk and asked me to come into his office. “Two days into this thing, and I’ve already screwed something up,” I thought.
Pete rarely asked you to drop by his office. An icon, he is arguably the finest sports journalist ever in the state of Kansas. He won several sportswriter of the year awards. He covered Super Bowls, Final Fours, World Series, the Olympics and much more. He worked his way up from photography intern to sports reporter to assistant sports editor to sports editor to executive editor.
Being asked to stop by his office two days into an important project was daunting, to say the least, especially given that I really didn’t know Pete all that well then. We’d worked together for three years, but our exchanges were typically limited to, “Hey Ernie, my column’s in,” or, “Hey, Pete, great column today.”
I shuffled into Pete’s office in the southwest corner of the newsroom and sat down. “I wanted to show you this,” Pete said.
Pete handed me an envelope, and I recognized the handwriting immediately – it was my father’s. For years, my dad implored me to get back into writing instead of working as a copy editor and page designer. “Son, your talent is writing. You’re betraying your gift,” he said.
I took a deep breath and opened the envelope, pulling out a subscription invoice from the paper that paid my bills. The form had the old man’s distinct chicken scratch all over it, in large type and written with a magic marker. There was a note on the invoice from the man who delivered the paper in Melvern, where my father lived on a rural farm at the edge of Osage County: “We can’t deliver the paper here.”
I shook my head as I read it. First, this was supposed to be a gifted subscription to my father so he could read his son’s columns and stories, so he shouldn’t have received a bill. Second, it was embarrassing that our delivery guy wouldn’t drive two miles outside of town to throw a paper in Dad’s yard. Third, I couldn’t believe my old man had mailed this directly to my boss.
I looked at Pete and said, “Well, I’m sorry. I can’t believe he did this.” Pete laughed and smiled. “I like your dad. He’s absolutely right. There’s not a lot I can do, but we can mail it to him. I think he got this point across with the marker.”
That conversation made going to Pete much easier for me as I worked on the Page 2 project for another year before moving on to Newport News, Virginia. During the next several months, I’d stop by his office every once in a while to ask for advice. And, every now and again, he’d stop by my desk and say, “Nice job on that column today.” Those compliments, from a wonderful writer, were a much-needed confidence boost.
Pete also wasn’t afraid to steer you back into your lane. A longtime Missouri fan, I wasn’t afraid to take the occasional shot at the Tigers. The basketball program, still reeling from the disastrous end of the Quin Snyder era, was an easy target. My thought was I could get away with it because we lived in the heart of Jayhawk and Wildcat Country.
“I wanted to talk to you about these Big 12 rankings,” Pete said. “Are these comments fair, or is this a disgruntled Missouri fan taking a shot?”
Those words caught me off-guard, but I knew he was right. I thanked Pete and remembered those words when I thought about ripping other teams, coaches or athletes during the final three years I worked in the business.
Toward the end of my time at the Capital-Journal, Pete broke the news to us that he had lung cancer, even though he’d quit smoking 20 years earlier. “You smoke at all, you risk it all,” he wrote to readers in a touching and numbing column.
Pete died on today’s date (Feb. 7) in 2009, less than two years after the diagnosis. But his impact continues 12 years later. Every time I think of Pete Goering, I see that invoice, covered with the large type written by my father in magic marker, and I think of his hearty laugh as he handed it to me.