Has journalism died? Maybe it has lost its heart.
I didn't say get the story. I said get the kid his peaches
It happened one Christmas Eve a long time ago in a place called Oakland on a newspaper called the Tribune with a city editor named Alfred P. Reck.
I was working swing shift on general assignment, writing the story of a boy who was dying of leukemia and whose greatest wish was for fresh peaches.
It was a story which, in the tradition of 1950s journalism, would be milked for every sob we could squeeze from it, because everyone loved a good cry on Christmas.
We knew how to play a tear-jerker in those days, and I was full of the kinds of passions that could make a sailor weep.