The Sports Department at The New York Times held a little farewell fete last night for my father, who is "stepping back" from writing a regular column after more than 30 years. He declined a dedicated farewell party, but the department insisted that he come in for the department holiday party, which began with a series of toasts and tributes to him from a distinguished group of speakers. And me.
One of the office administrators, Terri Ann, began the night by singing a tribute to the tune of "Coal Miner's Daughter." It was very sweet and funny, and damn do I admire her courage for singing solo in front of 40 or 50 people like that. "Well he was born a Sports of the Timer ..." was the first line, and it went from there. It was very clever, and has very funny material about how some men work in the mines and the fields, but not George ... "He went to Rome and Paris and Beijing and all on the Times's dollar ..."
After Terri Ann, began the toasts: Neil Amdur, Ken Belson, Tom Jolly, Harvey Araton, Bill Rhoden, Jay Schreiber and Lawrie Miflin all told funny, smart, affectionate anecdotes about my father, recalling great columns, great dinners, great conversations. Though he is very uncomfortable with being the center of attention like that, he took it all in graciously, adding little asides to the stories and offering hugs to all the speakers.
I was the anchor in this relay of wonderful speakers, an injustice of such magnitude that I felt compelled to acknowledge it to the gathered crowd.
"I was going to come down here simply to claim that I've known George Vecsey longer than any of you," I said, looking around the room. "But now that I look around, I realize that may actually not be true." A good-size laugh.
This was the third time I've spoken on my father's behalf. The first time was when I was 17 and had to deliver his speech at his high-school reunion, because he had a game to cover that night. As I was reading his speech, I could see all the men in the crowd twitching and wincing and muttering, when I realized that they were all listening to the ballgame that my father was at. It was Game 6 of the '86 World Series, and I was competing for their attention with Mookie and Buckner. This also got some laughs.
Then I told how in 2001, I had to give the induction speech for my father at the Sportswriters Hall of Fame in Salisbury, N.C. I remember telling the organizer how nervous I was about public speaking, and how hard it was to "write a few words about George Vecsey." He told me to relax, say what was in my heart and that the crowd would love me. And by the way, I was going on right after Bob Costas.
So I have a long and storied history of being overshadowed, which is fair and just and right. I have no problem with it.
I told how when I was young, my room was across the hall from my father's office, and I would wake up to the sound of him typing. On a typewriter, no less. Then he would dictate his column to a machine in the office for somebody to later retype into the system. He would read every word, every piece of grammar, every spelling of every name, every capital letter and paragraph break ... and that is was no coincidence that with this daily lesson in grammar and story structure that I was able to cultivate a little career as a copy editor that would eventually lead me to The New York Times.
I concluded by acknowledging the two George Vecseys: the one in the column and the one out of the column. In the paper, we could always rely on him to give us a little perspective in a field that was otherwise overrun with hyperbole and vitriol and lunacy. That while others spent the day screaming on TV and radio and offering up knee-jerk reactions to every issue in sports, a day or two later George Vecsey would weigh in with a thoughtful, well-reasoned column with all the right adjectives and all the right perspective. And out of the paper, perhaps even more important, he always represented The Times and himself and us with the greatest of dignity and class. That he was a great ambassador for us as a newspaper would be a far greater legacy than even the world-class columns he produced for more than three decades.
And this, I'm proud to say, got the biggest response of my entire speech, a truly heartfelt round of applause from his colleagues and friends.
My father then spoke, told a few stories, acknowledged everybody else, of course ... and Joe Sexton, The Times's sports editor, concluded things with a poem from Seamus Heaney.
I chatted for a few minutes with a few people, some I knew, some I didn't, before telling my dad something I knew he would relate to: I've got to get back upstairs and back to work.
After Terri Ann, began the toasts: Neil Amdur, Ken Belson, Tom Jolly, Harvey Araton, Bill Rhoden, Jay Schreiber and Lawrie Miflin all told funny, smart, affectionate anecdotes about my father, recalling great columns, great dinners, great conversations. Though he is very uncomfortable with being the center of attention like that, he took it all in graciously, adding little asides to the stories and offering hugs to all the speakers.
I was the anchor in this relay of wonderful speakers, an injustice of such magnitude that I felt compelled to acknowledge it to the gathered crowd.
"I was going to come down here simply to claim that I've known George Vecsey longer than any of you," I said, looking around the room. "But now that I look around, I realize that may actually not be true." A good-size laugh.
This was the third time I've spoken on my father's behalf. The first time was when I was 17 and had to deliver his speech at his high-school reunion, because he had a game to cover that night. As I was reading his speech, I could see all the men in the crowd twitching and wincing and muttering, when I realized that they were all listening to the ballgame that my father was at. It was Game 6 of the '86 World Series, and I was competing for their attention with Mookie and Buckner. This also got some laughs.
Then I told how in 2001, I had to give the induction speech for my father at the Sportswriters Hall of Fame in Salisbury, N.C. I remember telling the organizer how nervous I was about public speaking, and how hard it was to "write a few words about George Vecsey." He told me to relax, say what was in my heart and that the crowd would love me. And by the way, I was going on right after Bob Costas.
So I have a long and storied history of being overshadowed, which is fair and just and right. I have no problem with it.
I told how when I was young, my room was across the hall from my father's office, and I would wake up to the sound of him typing. On a typewriter, no less. Then he would dictate his column to a machine in the office for somebody to later retype into the system. He would read every word, every piece of grammar, every spelling of every name, every capital letter and paragraph break ... and that is was no coincidence that with this daily lesson in grammar and story structure that I was able to cultivate a little career as a copy editor that would eventually lead me to The New York Times.
I concluded by acknowledging the two George Vecseys: the one in the column and the one out of the column. In the paper, we could always rely on him to give us a little perspective in a field that was otherwise overrun with hyperbole and vitriol and lunacy. That while others spent the day screaming on TV and radio and offering up knee-jerk reactions to every issue in sports, a day or two later George Vecsey would weigh in with a thoughtful, well-reasoned column with all the right adjectives and all the right perspective. And out of the paper, perhaps even more important, he always represented The Times and himself and us with the greatest of dignity and class. That he was a great ambassador for us as a newspaper would be a far greater legacy than even the world-class columns he produced for more than three decades.
And this, I'm proud to say, got the biggest response of my entire speech, a truly heartfelt round of applause from his colleagues and friends.
My father then spoke, told a few stories, acknowledged everybody else, of course ... and Joe Sexton, The Times's sports editor, concluded things with a poem from Seamus Heaney.
I chatted for a few minutes with a few people, some I knew, some I didn't, before telling my dad something I knew he would relate to: I've got to get back upstairs and back to work.
RSS Feed