50 by Avery Corman Page B

wondered if the sudden interest came from school, if he had been playing basketball there, but he had not, nor did he want to now when Doug offered to shoot baskets with him. The Knicks were playing a Saturday afternoon game and Doug arranged for tickets for the three of them. At dinner that night, Doug, the old-timer, talked about previous Knicks teams and their championship years.
    “It was a wonderful time to be writing sports, the line disappeared between being a writer and being a fan. It all became one during the playoffs, the city, the crowds at the Garden, people watching at home and in bars. The last game in the playoff against L.A. in 1970, you’d never forget it. Willis Reed could barely walk and he limped on the court, made his first couple of baskets and L.A. was in shock. When the game was over and we won, people spilled out onto the streets, out of bars, out of apartments, strangers standing around on sidewalks as though they were friends, congratulating each other.”
    Doug caught himself. He was talking as if they were at a campfire.
    “I feel like an old man of the mountain and this is our folklore. But it is, the old Knicks.”
    “I’m glad you got to see it,” Karen commented with affection.
    “I love the way you said, ‘And we won.’ It must have been something,” Andy added.
    You’re something, both of you. He knew that Andy was saying, I can’t play ball, Dad, but I can do this. I can be a fan for you like other kids. Doug put his arms around them and hugged them both. Andy wouldn’t have been comfortable with it alone, but both at the same time, Doug was able to get the hug in. “We’re the new Knicks,” Doug said.
    Reynolds came to New York for a publishers’ conference and passed through the Sports Day offices. He paused to look over Doug’s shoulder at the monitor of his computer while Doug was working on a column about the Westminster Kennel Club dog show. Doug had taken his dog, Harry, to the show as a “researcher,” the column a view of the all-pedigree show as a mutt like Harry might perceive it.
    “It’s nice, Doug,” Reynolds said, “But it doesn’t have anything to do with our guidelines. Two out of twenty-one columns written to our guidelines is not the ratio we’re looking for.”
    “We have different approaches, Robby. You take a reading of pulse, then you respond. I like to—”
    “—wing it. Seat of the pants. A real New York kind of guy.”
    “I am your New York columnist.”
    Robby closed the door of Doug’s office.
    “Doug, I’m telling you the future of this newspaper doesn’t reside exclusively in New York. This is a national publication, and when we feed you survey results to boost our national figures, you don’t do the Sports Day team any good by ignoring them.”
    “I don’t know how accurate those surveys are.”
    “They’re accurate, and it’s not your job to worry about the accuracy. I’ve got people for that. Circulation is up ten thousand. This newspaper is going through the roof. But we don’t want to have recalcitrant columnists. Especially, popular ones. You’ve got to understand the reality, Doug.”
    “The reality is you’re a strong-minded guy with a need to put your stamp on this newspaper.”
    “Only partly true. I’m also very successful. And very smart. You think I’m some dumb cowboy because I wear boots? I made businesses grow in other industries and I’m going to do it here. But I can’t have such an important writer on my paper working against me. So you make up your mind. You can quit. You can turn down a chance to be even bigger than you are in your field, with even more readers, on a paper that keeps getting bigger, with ads to the public featuring you, with a ten percent pay increase. Or you can take some suggestions on subject matter for your column. Once every two weeks you follow the guidelines and write a column on a designated subject. Nobody’s telling you how to write it, but I expect you to work