In the line of duty

It was one of the hardest days of my life.

Being a journalist for a newspaper that no longer wants me.

Being a friend to a friend.

Holding her hand and absorbing her sobs. Her holding mine with its perfect manicure, thanks to her.

A reporter helping to report on the murder of two local policemen -- one of whom just happened to be the husband of one of my dearest friends, shot in the line of duty by a mad man. And for no apparent reason. A reporter who screamed when told by her editor to "write down this name."

He was one of the good guys, who grew up to be what he always wanted to be. Who took his job seriously. Who genuinely loved what he did. A big, burly cop who scared the crap out of you when you first saw him, but proved to be nothing but a big teddy bear who loved his wife, his children and his motorcycles.

Who laughed at the sports writer turned crime reporter who was a fish out of water when she had to cover a bus crash, and urged me to watch where I was going so I wasn't run over.

So I put his picture in the newspaper.

Who left behind a funny, smart, talented, beautiful young woman who is now a widow with four children and a step-daughter. And a big empty space next to her in her bed. And in her broken heart.

My friend.

I did what I could. I waited for her at the hospital, then went to her when she refused to come.Told her what I knew, even what she probably didn't need to know.

Then I drove her to find her lost soul mate, honored to be given the privledge. And I pretended for the time being that I didn't have a job to do.

I promised to do whatever I could for her, whatever she needed, knowing I could do absolutely nothing to ease her pain or wake her from her nightmare. I even offered to see him first.

I held her hand. Hugged. Advised. Made a joke or two -- because that's what we do. Squealed that we had a police escort who blew us through the yellows.  Offered to drive through the Daquiri Shop on the way home if she wanted. Promised to reschedule my nail appointment for another day. Got our photographer to take the photo of the "magic bandaid" given to her by her 6-year-old daughter, to heal her mommy's hurting heart. Teased her about her own unpolished nails as my colleague took the picture.

Loved her.

And warned her about people like us -- just doing their jobs.

Then I went to work and helped tell the story no one wants to tell.

Postscript:

A few days later, we sat on her back patio with a bunch of her many girlfriends. The tears had dried for now, not that the pain had gone away.  She wanted me to help her write her husband's obituary for the newspaper. She wanted something different. Something unique. Something special. Like him.

It took us hours. It took a thousand laughs. And brought a few sweet smiles.

I told her, "Some cook. Some clean. I write obituaries." That I can do.

Brandon J. Nielsen

Wordless Wednesday -- The future

Back on the horse -- sorta

I actually sent this IM to my ex-, well, still-sorta boss the other day:

"If I were sitting next to you, I might hug you."

And he didn't take offense.

For the first time in a year, the man at the desk in New Orleans was my boss again.  And, a day later, for the first time in a year my name was back on the sports page again.

It's been a very long 12 months since two men in ties sat me down in a coffee shop (without even offering to buy me a cup) and broke my heart by telling me that I was no longer what I was, no longer who I was, and would no longer be doing what I had been doing for the last 24 years.

No longer a sports writer, covering the games young people play --  yes, even soccer. Now I would be a receptionist, answering phones, writing receipts, trying like hell to make correct change for a 20 and ordering toilet paper.

And instead of  writing wonderful features on the stars of tomorrow, I would be covering crime -- murders and armed robbery and battery and rape. The things nightmares are made of.

It's the new reality for journalists these days.  We learn new words, like "buyout" and "furlough." We recalculate our insurance premiums. We spend hours of company time filling out health questionnaires and reaffirming that we are contemplating starting a diet and exercise program.

And female sports writers get turned into receptionist/crime reporters. 


My first week on the new job I spent hours with a bunch of Sheriff's deputies waiting out a man who had shot his girlfriend in the head, left her body in a car in a hospital parking lot and then barricaded himself in his shed-turned-house.  He came out with a self-inflicted bullet in his head. Last I heard, he was still on life-support.

Since last summer I've covered a teenager who was brutally murdered in her home, an elderly double-amputee who died in a fire that was deliberately set in her home, two more murder-suicides, a string of drug-related murders in one tiny neighborhood and countless robberies and assaults.

Yes, the stuff nightmares are made of.

But my name still appeared on every sports writing award last year. As the current president of the Louisiana Sports Writers Association, my name appears on every certificate handed out this year and next.

But then a dream came true.  Someone, somehow, for some reason decided I was missed.  Or needed.  Or both.  Or something.   They opened the door to the sports section and let me walk in.

Or at least put a toe.

I'm allowed to write features and game advances.  No games. No stats. No capsules. Just stories. (Not a bad gig, actually!)

And it was good.

So last week, for the first time in a year, I got to go talk to a coach.   About a game plan.  About offense, not offenses.  About defense and not defensive wounds.  About football.

And I got to interview a hard-working, well-spoken quarterback determined to bring his team back to glory and write a fine story about him.  (You can read it here).

Strangely enough, my byline also appeared on the front page of the paper that day, on a story about the recovery of the body of a murder suspect who leaped to his death from atop a Mississippi River bridge the week before.

Still ... 


"You're back in the saddle," said one of the coaches I used to call on a regular basis.

"Well, sort of," I replied. "I'm kind of side saddle."

"Hey. It's better than nothing," he replied.

Yes indeed.



Linked up with Erica and friends at FreeFringes.