One of my mentors is gone

I came to Dallas 41 years ago to work for an outfit called United Press International. These days there are plenty of folks (my 31-year-old son being among them) who have never heard of UPI, but at one time it and the AP were the main resources newspapers, radio and television stations had for news outside their immediate areas (and for many radio stations, news within their areas as well).

There were a couple of other comparatively young, but incredibly talented, whippersnappers working for UPI at the time -- the two best being a great newswriter named David Weissler and one incredible sports writer named Mike Rabun. There were, of course, the old legends. One of them, Ed Fite, was the Southwest Division sports editor whom I will always remember for writing Southwest Conference football roundup stories in which he said Arkansas would be playing in "neutral" Little Rock and actually believed he could cover sports working the 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. shift. Then there was the radio editor, Judd Dixon, who protected his radio fiefdom like a knight his castle.

But the man I respected the most, the one I learned the most from was a fellow named Preston McGraw, or Mac, as we called him. I came home tonight, began sorting through my e-mail and the one letting me know that Mac had died last week stopped me cold. Mac was simply one helluva newsman, possibly the best I ever worked with and I've had the opportunity to work with some of the best (Right after Mac on my list comes Jimmy Breslin. If you're not familiar with that name, Google him.). Mac never tried to be a teacher to young guys like me (Mac was 53 when I came to work at UPI, I was 26), but I learned just from watching him. I learned a lot just from watching him. I learned more from watching Preston McGraw than I did in four years at journalism school. Of course, journalism school was all about learning to work for newspapers; it offered no preparation for working for a wire service.

You can read a little about Mac here, but what that story doesn't mention, nor does another longer version that was attached to the e-mail letting me know about Mac's death, was his "green book." That damn book was magic. No matter what the breaking news, no matter where it was breaking, all Mac had to do was consult that green book and he could find exactly the right person to call to get all the details and get them fast and accurately.

I remember walking into the UPI office one day -- it had recently moved from a under the First Baptist Church's parking garage on Patterson Street in downtown Dallas to a sleek new office building on Stemmons and Empire Central. Anyway, Preston was sitting in the slot place reserved for the desk man and he was on the phone getting all the details about Leroy LaFoon.

Let me tell you about Leroy LaFoon. He lived in house trailer near a couple of stock tanks just off the Jacksboro Highway outside of Fort Worth. One day Leroy returns to his trailer to find it had been ransacked. Worse than that, however, was the fact that the culprits had also killed Leroy's dog and Leroy really loved that mutt. Leroy had an idea who was responsible for this dastardly deed. He figured it was this pair of ladies he had met at this less-than-entirely reputable drinking establishment and then brought home to his trailer a couple of days earlier. So Leroy lovingly places the body of his beloved dog in the freezer and sets out to track down these ladies. He finds them, somehow lures them back to his trailer where he beats them to death with the frozen carcass of his dead dog. He then dumps the bodies in the stock tanks.

The story breaks when the bodies of the two women are found. Mac goes immediately into the green book, calls the relevant number he finds there and learns all about Leroy LaFoon. So as I'm walking into the office, Mac is sitting there in the slot, the telephone pressed between his shoulder and his ear and he's banging away at the typewriter as the person on the other end -- the name from his green book -- is giving Mac all the pertinent details. Now Mac never laughed. He cackled. And as I walked in, Mac is cackling like I've never heard him before. "That's pretty good, sport ... the body of the frozen dog, eh? ... yeah, that's pretty good, sport."

Man, Mac was one of a kind.

I never got the opportunity to tell him how much I learned from him, how much he meant to my career. And for that, I am truly sorry. But somehow I think Mac knew. I think Mac regarded all of us -- Weissler, Rabun and myself, especially -- as his kids, his disciples, the ones he trusted to carry on his legacy.

I've tried, Mac. I really have.