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Step Out on Nothing

Page 13

by Byron Pitts


  Because it was a small station with a small budget, most people were hired to do more than one job. I was a weekday news reporter and weekend sports anchor. It looked good on the business card, but it was a tough way to make a living. I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with at least one roommate, and for a brief time two. We learned the finer points of macaroni and cheese, tuna fish, and on rare occasions grilled chicken. Since we were paid so little at work and were constantly hungry, searching out free meals was sometimes a motivation for covering stories. One way the staff would decide which press conference we would attend on any given day depended on which organization provided the best food. The East Carolina University football coach’s weekly press conference was always a favorite: sandwiches and shrimp cocktail.

  That was the best part of being a sports reporter. I was eating with the best sportscasters in the state. Unfortunately, when it came to actually being a sportscaster, I was, to put it gently, awful. I had assumed (there’s that word again), since I had played high school and college football, had been around athletes and coaches all my life, that being a sportscaster would be easy. Wrong! You actually have to know something about all sports. I never liked or even understood soccer until my children played many years later, and I thought tennis was a sport you played to pick up girls.

  Needless to say, my career as a sportscaster did not last very long. But it lasted long enough for me to discover that I loved news reporting. I was allowed to change beats. I became what was known at the time as a one-man band. I was the reporter, photographer, producer, and editor wrapped in one. The station gave me a big van with the station call letters on the side. Fortunately, since there were no side windows on my van, no one ever knew the only thing inside the manual-shift vehicle was a video camera, a few tapes, extra batteries, and a spare tire. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was all the gear I was responsible for, and now my dream had a starting point: I was a television reporter.

  My beat was the small town of Washington, North Carolina, affectionately known as Little Washington, with a population under ten thousand. I would spend my day between the courthouse and the jail. I pretended to be Larry Stogner: white shirt, tie, and a sports coat. Who could afford a suit on less than nine thousand a year? Only a breath ahead of the Carolinian newspaper in Raleigh, we occasionally had real notebooks. I no longer carried pens engraved with the name and address of the local mortician. I had upgraded to the local gas station pens or the ones I could swipe from the sales department. I also learned that napkins and fast-food lunch bags make for wonderful writing surfaces in a pinch. I was in heaven.

  Reporting for television is not particularly an art form or a science as much as it is a craft. WNCT-TV in Greenville was my first apprenticeship, a place to learn the very basics. In athletics, there are people who have been described as naturals. The same is true in broadcast communication. I have had colleagues over the years who seemed as if they were born to be on television. For them, talking on television is as simple as inhaling. Nothing about broadcasting ever came easy to me. What I have learned to do, even the simplest things, I have learned through practice. One of the first things I worked on in Greenville was the proper way to hold a microphone. That may sound ridiculous, but consider this: John Wooden, one of the most successful college basketball coaches of all time, insisted on teaching his players the proper way to put on their socks. No detail is too small to practice. Because of my long thin fingers, there wasn’t a natural way for me to look manly holding a microphone. Do I hold it in my fist? What about three fingers, as if it’s a flute? Do I hold it directly under my chin or off to the side? That’s how I spent many evenings at home in Greenville, North Carolina, working on the best way to hold a microphone. Is it more effective to stand directly in front of a speaker at a news conference or off to the side? After some practice, I decided it was better to stand off to one side. The person would have to physically turn his head in order to face you. It proved easier to sneak in a quick followup question once you had the person’s attention, and it seemed easier to turn away from a questioner directly in front. As a one-man-band photographer/reporter in Greenville, I would practice setting up in different spots at news conferences. It was a game I’d play. I kept notes on where the speaker would look first to answer questions. Which side would they look to most often? Through trial and error, I discovered it was often better to start the question—if I was competing for attention—with the person’s name. Make everything as personal as possible.

  Once, for example, while covering a murder trial in Little Washington, I got to know the families of a victim and of the accused killer. Every morning before trial and at the end of the day cameramen and reporters would run outside the courthouse and yell questions at the accused. He would always just look straight ahead. During one recess, I was talking to his mother. She called the man by his nickname. Relatives called him Junior. I held on to that small bit of information until the man was convicted and sentenced to die. That day at the end of court I waited by the police car. Reporters yelled their familiar questions. No response. As he approached in leg irons, with my camera on my shoulder and my microphone in hand, I had one chance, “Hey, Junior! You ready to die?” The man stopped and turned to the voice that had called his name; we made eye contact. “I don’t want to die. What I did was wrong, but I don’t want to die.” He looked scared. After days of sitting in court acting like a tough guy, this convicted killer finally showed a glimpse of fear. That night I got a “way to go” from Roy Hardee. But, more important, I got a call at the station from the victim’s family. They were glad to see the killer had finally shown some emotion. The lesson for me that day was to always look for some human connection, whether to saints or sinners.

  For all that I learned in Greenville as a hungry young reporter, I probably lost about fifteen pounds. Call it the price of an education. The first time I went home to Baltimore to visit, I ran into my high school buddy, Joe Stumbroski.

  “Hey, Byron, you’ve lost so much weight. I heard you were in television. Are you a model?” Joe asked innocently.

  “Nah, man, I’m starting in the basement. Call it remedial reading for reporters,” I answered without a hint of regret. We both smiled.

  All I had ever prayed for was a chance. God was giving me that chance. By this time I had an army of family and friends praying for me and pulling for me. Greenville was a long way from East Baltimore or Ohio Wesleyan, for that matter. But I wasn’t alone. I never had been. I was not just trying my hand in television. I was doing it. I am sure I didn’t strike the most impressive pose as a young reporter: Razor-thin, big Afro, big glasses, high-pitched voice, the three shirts I owned all worn around the collar. I looked more like a backup singer for the Commodores hooked on crack than a credible reporter. But based on where I started? Faith had carried me this far, so I just kept my head up, pushed my shoulders back, and kept stepping out on nothing. What a glorious ride. Next stop, Norfolk.

  NINE

  It Never Gets Easier—You

  Just Get Stronger

  Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

  —James 1:2–4

  WHERE’S THE BEER?” PHIL Smith was holding the door to my refrigerator open, staring at its contents, which consisted of a single large plastic jug of sweet tea, a carton of eggs, and a well-used bottle of Tabasco sauce.

  “I don’t drink,” I said.

  Standing six feet six and north of 250 pounds, Phil looked around with a disgusted look on his face. “You are such a loser,” he said. Everyone in the room laughed.

  It was Norfolk, Virginia, 1984. I had invited several friends from my new job at television station WAVY-TV over to my apartment for pizza and a college football bowl game. We were all young and single and working jobs we loved in a great city. It was a colle
gial group. Since many of us had begun our television careers in smaller markets, like my experience in Greenville, Norfolk was a step into big-city news. After an intense week, the favorite wind-down activity was a night of conversation about work, listening to music, dancing, lots of laughter, and alcohol. I was not a drinker and never learned to dance, so I was often the odd man out on those occasions. This particular night, it became clear just how different I really was. After the football game was over, one of my friends suggested that we watch a movie. They started going through my pile of VHS tapes next to the television. Much to their surprise, every single tape in the stack was a recording of a network newscast.

  My closest friend in the group shook his head and announced, “You really are a loser.” Even I laughed this time.

  Back in college, that’s the way many friends would affectionately label me at parties—a loser. “He doesn’t drink, and he can’t dance” was how many male friends would introduce me to their female friends. To which I would respond, “But I will graduate on time.” By my early twenties, being considered an outsider was a badge of honor. I was used to it, almost preferred it that way. For the longest time I had always felt that it was God, Clarice, and me against the world. Now that I lived in a different city, mostly it was just God and me, and God was doing all the heavy lifting. That is one big reason why I have often been alone but never lonely.

  My faith was just one of the things that made me feel different from my colleagues. There were professional differences as well. The goal of many reporters is to be the station’s next anchorman or anchorwoman. Not me. I wanted to be a reporter, eventually at the network level, and knew that it was going to take a singleminded focus to become the best in the business. I didn’t really make time for distractions. Many of my colleagues had wide-ranging interests. One reporter loved riding his motorcycle. Another talked about his love for surfing. Another had a great wine collection. I arrived in Norfolk with a couch, a card table, two chairs, a television set, and a VCR that I used to record the CBS Evening News, ABC’s World News Tonight, and the NBC Nightly News. Many thought my focus was too narrow, but childhood difficulties had taught me to keep things simple and linear. Through every obstacle, the keys to success for me have always been the same: prayer, grace, structure, hard work, and more prayer. Whenever I have succeeded, it was because I stuck to the plan. Whenever I have failed, it has usually occurred because I deviated from the plan. There was very little time in my life for distractions.

  The move to a bigger market was going to mean greater scrutiny of my performance and greater expectations for the quality of work. In Greenville, my slow, deliberate process had not been a liability. Since I had been expected to deliver one complete report each day, I generally had time to write several drafts of my script until I was satisfied with the product. But in Norfolk I had to report at least two and sometimes three stories a day. This requirement exposed a process that I had managed to keep hidden. When I first learned to read, I read everything out loud. When I began to write my news scripts, I would “write out loud,” reading to myself as I put the words on paper. In Greenville, because I worked alone, my process had never been seen or heard by anyone else. In Norfolk, I was now regularly teamed up with a cameraman, who was with me nearly all the time, and we had to work on much tighter deadlines. I felt self-conscious and uncomfortable. When I began to speak on my side of the van, at least one cameraman would turn up the radio in annoyance. But some seemed more amused by my process. “You know that’s weird, don’t you?” asked one photographer, Tom Costanza. Tom and I were often teamed together. He was on the short list of those who didn’t mind my chatter in the news vehicle. “I get why you talk out loud while you write,” Tom said, while we were out on another story, “but have you ever thought about whispering?” Maybe he was on to something.

  While I continued to work on the mechanics of the broadcast craft, how best to hold a microphone or position myself at a press conference, the one natural talent I brought to my profession was the ability to understand the thread of humanity in every news story and find a way for the viewer to connect and relate. Most news stories are stories about struggle: a struggle for political or economic power, a struggle over land, a struggle over life and death. More than who wins or loses, I relate most to the struggle. Most of the reporters in Norfolk had more experience than me, better contacts, were better writers, and many had wonderful voices. But I decided that no one had an intrinsic understanding of struggle and could bring that experience to life as I could. Take what little you have and build on it. That was something Father Bart had taught me back in high school at Archbishop Curley. It doesn’t matter where you start, only where you finish. I came to Norfolk with few material possessions and limited ability, but what I did possess I could build upon with God’s grace. That was all I could do. And just as in the past, it would have to be enough. As a young general-assignment reporter, I had to learn in a hurry how to make those connections on a story.

  One of my first such experiences in Norfolk was a fatal car crash that killed five young men in November of 1985, members of a basketball team driving home from a tournament. The accident had occurred over the weekend. I was assigned to the story with one of the best photographers at the station, Michael Ridge. There was no video of the accident scene, and the authorities would not allow us to take pictures of the damaged cars. None of the relatives wanted to talk on camera. It appeared that the opportunity to tell an important story in a compelling way might be lost. But we did not give up. We eventually convinced the grieving families to provide us with pictures of the five young men. At the home of one family, Michael persuaded those assembled to let us photograph the pictures on the kitchen table. Being in the house reminded me of the many times I had been in the home of relatives during the first few days of mourning. Some people wanted to be left alone. Some needed to talk.

  These five families were no different from mine. I had found a human connection. We politely asked if anyone who wanted to say something in remembrance of the five young men would come into the kitchen, in front of the photo array, in front of our microphone, and just talk. We did not ask any questions. We just listened. A few of the mourners welcomed the opportunity. Ranging in age from late teens to early twenties, most of the five were lifelong friends. They went to the same church. Some were in college. One elderly man with a deep scratchy voice said something that has always stuck with me. He said, “Death is something you never get used to.” The comment was simple yet profound. Like almost every other family in a similar situation, these families would survive what happened, but they would never get used to it.

  That night we aired our story on the accident, using family photographs, the voices of relatives, and video from the highway. One of the anchors choked up on the air. Colleagues who had never spoken to me before complimented me on the piece. And some of the relatives called after the broadcast to thank us for honoring their loved ones respectfully. We had captured and communicated a human moment.

  Despite some success early on, I still felt like a country bumpkin in the big city in Norfolk. Compared to Greenville it was a high-rise metropolis. I was not one of those twenty-something reporters who was full of myself, believing I could conquer the world or that I was ready for big-time television. I was a kid who simply believed I had the tools to work hard and make up for my shortcomings as a reporter. I was full of energy but not confidence.

  Terrell Harris was a reporter at the ABC affiliate who covered the same beat. He was everything I wasn’t—good-looking and confident, he wore expensive suits and drove a fancy car. All the girls in Norfolk seemed to be in love with him. I owned two blazers, three pair of slacks, two red ties, one yellow tie, two pairs of brown loafers, and one shirt collar extender. I walked to work. Every time I saw him on a story I felt intimidated.

  In fact, the only time I have ever stuttered on the air was during a live shot, when I was standing next to Terrell Harris. We were both covering a case o
f government corruption in the county. We were lined up outside the government office doing our live shots for the noon news on our respective stations. My trick to avoid stuttering in general on the air—but particularly on live shots—was to carefully prepare and rehearse what I intended to say. I needed that repetition to ensure that I would say every word correctly. A few minutes before noon I was rehearsed and ready. But that morning it had been snowing, which was unusual for Norfolk, and rather than hearing the introduction I expected on the corruption story, the anchor asked me a question about the weather. I froze. I was unable to react quickly to the unexpected question. In trying to respond, I stuttered. I intended to say that it had started to snow when we first arrived this morning. But it came out as “s-s-s-s-s-s-snow.” I looked at my feet to try to kick-start my brain. I saw the cameraman peek from behind his camera in amazement, and I could hear Terrell next to me delivering his live report flawlessly. I wanted to die. To my relief, the cameraman kindly moved the camera away from my face to take pictures of the snow. It gave me a moment to gather my thoughts. I produced a nervous smile, imagined I could see my grandmother’s face (which calmed me down), and got back on the topic I was prepared to discuss.

  That night I ate my dinner alone in an edit suite and watched that live shot over and over again. I made a copy on a VHS tape and took it home so I could watch it again. I wanted to study it to see if there was a way to prevent something like that from ever happening again. But the shame has never left me.

 

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