There we were, the little newspaper that could, right there in the thick of the big dogs of American daily journalism, a scrappy little tri-weekly knocking out a chunky daily tab that earned the grudging praise and respect of our big-city cousins.
I’m entitled to brag on The Pilot like this because I’m not on the payroll, but just a visiting perfesser wanting to keep his chops up and witness a fine community newspaper do it one better.
When in 1999 The Pilot cranked up and went daily for that U.S. Open, I volunteered to be the color man along the ropes, while a real sports photographer came in to shoot the action. Teaching at Penn State at the time, I wrote about my observations in the second edition of my journalism textbook, “Community Journalism,” which came out the following year.
That The Pilot received state and national acclaim for its coverage of the ’99 U.S Open should come as no surprise. But as with any sequel, how do you top your best effort?
Answer: You set the bar higher — and you clear it.
By mid-week of 2005 U.S. Open, we knew The Pilot was succeeding, because, in the words of Publisher David Woronoff, “The first time around, the regional and national media treated us like a quaint phenomenon; but this time the big boys considered us competition.”
Bring it on.
The Pilot cranked out 12 editions in eight days — four regular issues of the paper, plus eight “Open Daily” tabloids — with a combined circulation of 235,000, and I daresay more pages of U.S. Open coverage than any other single newspaper anywhere, regardless of size.
The Pilot’s daily tab improved dramatically from ’99, featuring “top-notch writing,” Woronoff says, using much more color throughout and shifting to an eye-popping magazine-style cover that featured the wonderful golf photography of Bob Jordan and Dean Parziale. [Editor’s Note: And Jock Lauterer.]
Nowhere were the advances in technology more apparent than in the area of photography. In ’99, I remember seeing world-class photogs huddled in the photo locker room developing film in cooking pans over a hot plate and then using a hair dryer on the film. At the Pilot we were at the mercy of Kmart or some other one-hour photo place to do our film.
What a Difference
As they say, that was then and this is now: I’d take the photo, run back to the Media Tent, pop that flash card out of my Nikon D100 digital camera, hand it to phototech guru Lynne Peterson, who slipped it in the card reader. Within seconds, the photo appeared on the screen. Lynne filed, saved, wrote a caption, and — pow! — zapped that sucker to Special Projects Editor Melissa Breedlove at The Pilot’s office back on West Pennsylvania Avenue in Southern Pines.
All the while, Lynne and Melissa were keeping up a constant stream of good-humored banter via Instant Messaging displayed in a little window at the top right of Lynne’s screen. All this took only minutes.
Then I’d grab my card and be back out shooting — all without ever having to leave the U.S. Open.
Sweeeeet.
One of the things I love the most about small newspapers is the “culture of community” that exists at the best ones. Nowhere was this more evident than on Wednesday, when the women from the accounting department took it upon themselves to cook breakfast for The Pilot staffers.
The delighted publisher observed, “If we were part of a corporate newspaper chain, that wouldn’t have happened. At The Pilot, you’re part of this notion that a little community newspaper can be just as good as any big-city daily newspaper.”
When it was all over Sunday, Woronoff reflected: “It took a lot more logistical planning this time. We sweated this one, and I think it paid off. It was exhausting and exhilarating at the same time.”
And Editor Steve Bouser agreed, saying: “It’s been a fantastic ride.”
A Darker Side
But it wasn’t all sunshine, Care Bears and rainbows.
The week prior to the U.S. Open, I was troubled by a front-page New York Times story detailing how the town limits of some of Moore County’s rich golfing communities excluded poor, mainly black neighborhoods. It was a troubling report.
My wife, ever the social activist and media watchdog, was outraged by the injustice. My hunch, that The Pilot had been covering this running story for years, was confirmed this week when I asked Woronoff about the annexation issue.
“We broke that story two years ago,” he responded emphatically, “and even published the names and addresses of Lost City’s absentee landowners who didn’t want to be annexed.”
This doesn’t surprise me a bit. As a former small newspaper editor-publisher, I’ve seen it happen over and over: The small local community paper breaks the story, covers it week after week — then boom, the big daily or TV jumps on the story, and most infuriating, they crow about it as if it’s their scoop. (The Pilot had two front-page articles on the issue of the poor communities a couple of weeks before The Times’ piece came out.)
I think it’s a pity that The Times stereotyped Moore County as, in Woronoff’s words, “a bunch of uncaring, insensitive racists.” But if the national exposure, regardless of how skewed it may have been, renews the debate on the issue, then that’s a good thing.
Meanwhile, at The Pilot, I suspect it will remain an important, running, in-depth story, free of glitz and hype.
A Remembered Vignette
My favorite incident from the U.S. Open did not occur on the fabled links of No. 2 and did not involve any of the big-name golfers. Here’s what I’ll remember the most about the 2005 U.S. Open:
On Monday, the first day of practice, I happened by the fist-pumping Payne Stewart memorial statue between the 18th hole and the clubhouse. Noticing fans having their photos taken beside the statue, I began snapping my own images of these snapshots, waiting for the best single shot.
Then, through my viewfinder, I watched a beautiful thing happen. Fans, one after another, waiting reverently to have their picture taken with the statue, would approach the statue, some reaching out and touching it, some drawing back embarrassed, others affectionately wrapping their arms around the statue as if it were alive.
So many fans came that first day that they wore a bare spot in the grass. And by Tuesday, officials had roped off the area around the statue. The thousands of fans who came on Monday were the lucky ones. And I was the lucky photographer who got to watch them.
I couldn’t help but be struck by the endearing humanity of the scene — how fans approached the statue, touched it or didn’t touch it, how they stood with Stewart for this moment of pose, realizing that even though it was only a bronze likeness of the late great champ, it was somehow an honor to be next to him, and that they were, if only for one tiny moment, in the presence of greatness.
Click. See you in ’14.
