And then I noticed a reporter, somewhat older than me, with slightly disheveled hair, corduroy slacks, and brown shoes that helped him glide through the newsroom. I came in at 3 p.m. each afternoon, and like clockwork, he would sit at his desk by 5:15 p.m. and bang out stories with the typewriter clicking like castanets during Flamingo music.
I didn’t know much, but I knew better not to disturb a journalist on a writing roll.
Within a few days, I met Bill Braun, the World’s court reporter. He was in his 30s, already a legend in the making, and on his way to being inducted into the Oklahoma Journalism Hall of Fame. He was quiet but fierce, disarmingly polite but relentlessly aggressive, and he knew everyone in the local court scene. Lawyers, judges, bailiffs, court reporters, you name it. If Bill’s rolodex were a little black book, he’d have more numbers than Hugh Hefner.
We all had nicknames. Henry was Sarge because of his stint in the Marines. Kemm was Hoss. Sarge gave me the nickname “Boomer” because my name reminded him of the boxing champ Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini, and I also judged amateur and professional boxing matches at the time.
They called Braun, B.B., for obvious reasons. But every now and then, someone would call him Beast because that’s what he was --- a beast without claws or fangs, but a pen.
I’ve stayed in close touch with Sarge and Hoss all these years. They’re not friends; they’re family. We still talk and text on occasion, even when the push and pull of life shrinks the day. They’re my brothers.
Braun, though we touched base on a rare occasion over the years, and we had our longest talk about 18 months ago, after Hoss told me Braun’s Parkinson’s disease was getting worse.
When I called, an aide answered the phone and handed it to him.
“B.B.,” I said, “It’s Boomer.”
“Ray?” the shaky voice replied. “Boomer. How are you, man?”
For the next 20 minutes, I did most of the talking because it was getting harder for him to speak. Parkinson’s can slay even a beast.
I told him how much of an impact he had on my life and career. It took me a long time to understand I could be determined and gracious at the same time, and not every problem needed a sledgehammer to solve. While I’ve never done as well as I should have, I told Braun that his demeanor showed me how to use guile to accomplish what aggression often wouldn’t.
And I thanked him. It wasn’t some “Thanks a lot,” but “Bill, thank you for the example you set. I learned more from you in a year (the time I was in Tulsa) on how to carry and conduct myself than I did over the next decade, and that was by watching you. You need to know what that means to me.”
Bill mustered a thank you, and I said I wanted to talk again. But the next time I called, he wasn’t feeling well.
I never called again.
I hurt when I found out Bruan died in September at the age of 72. My heart sank for another piece of life that’s vanished in the ether. Saying goodbye is always difficult, but saying Thank You can be more so.
I got a chance to thank B.B.
Consider doing the same for others who have made a difference, not because it’s the Holiday season, but because it’s the right thing to do.
Ray Marcano’s column appears on these pages each Sunday. He can be reached at raymarcanoddn@gmal.com