The Miami Herald, Fred Grimm column
Floods, industrial disasters, sewage spills, toxic algae clogging the waterways, riptides sucking tourists out to sea, traffic fatalities, boat wrecks, train derailments, pit bull maulings, shark attacks, pythons slithering about
And all those hurricanes. In pursuit of the big story, I've spent stupendous amounts of the
After near five decades of writing about the disasters that can befall us humans, it's a damn wonder I can summon the courage to get out of bed in the morning.
Of course, that career summary conveniently omits all those boring hours sitting on benumbed buttocks through less-than-scintillating city and county commission meetings, my reporter's notebook in my lap, wondering -- as some ill-informed gadfly delivered a stream-of-consciousness rant about zoning variances -- whether the commissioners on the dais and I were sharing the same homicidal fantasies.
I've witnessed courtroom performances more dramatic than theater. I've written scores of small town sports stories (including a 1969 triple-overtime high school conference championship game that culminated in a riot and me cowering under the scorekeeper's table).
My first byline, 49 years ago this month, appeared in the annual high school football preview issue of a daily newspaper in the
My early attempts at writing might have been unremarkable, but they were apparently more promising than my day job as an advertising salesman. "Well,"
Thus, through incompetence, this career was born.
It has been one long adrenaline rush, covering mass murders, civil-rights marchers in
I've stood atop bales of seized cocaine on a
I've covered
I've covered the decline of king cotton in
All this, really, is a just the long-winded way to say goodbye. This will be my last column.
I'll miss it, the thrill of contributing to the big story in the big newspaper. And, since 1991, commenting on the issues roiling
But still, I hold considerable nostalgia for
I miss the days when stories would just walk in off the street. Like the first day of hunting season, 1969, when a fellow walked through the front door of the
"Thought you might want to take a picture of what I killed this morning," he said. Was that mud or tobacco juice or blood dripping on my desk? But who was I to quibble when a major scoop walks through the front door? I said, "Let me grab my camera."
Besides, he had a shotgun.
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